Your erotic stories

Eighteen-year-old Kristina entered the Dean's office. The busty blonde was wearing her school uniform which consisted of a white blouse, which was currently unbuttoned enough to show her ample cleavage, a short skirt and her white knee-high socks with black shoes. "Miss Mitchell, please come in and have a seat." said Dean Whitmore.

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He'd dared her, and he shouldn't have. For months they'd chatted, trading stories and making each other hot and bothered (and much more) dozens of times. Finally, one afternoon, Dee had opened her mail to find a message from Jas. Expecting an opening gambit for that night's chat session, she'd instead read:

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You're downstairs reading when I call to you from the bedroom. "Honey, could you come up here for a second? I need your help with something." You put down your book, mildly annoyed at being interrupted, and walk up the stairs. "What's up, Doll?" you ask as you come around the corner into the room and stop dead in your tracks, mouth open slack jawed at the site in front of you.

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Alison. What can I say about Alison? She was eighteen, nearly nineteen actually, quite lovely, platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, excellent figure and, to top it off, she possessed a natural sexual allure that automatically turned heads. Any male coming in range of her sensual aura was instantly drawn to her, irrespective of age, girlfriends or wives. It wasn't her fault. It was just that indefinable something she had.

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My wife and I were still in love after all our 20 years of marriage but as with most couples some of the spark had slowly dropped from the relationship, especially in the sex department. Now that might not be too bad if she'd been a nympho at the start but she'd always been a lot more reserved than I was. She certainly wasn't a prude - we'd had sex in every room in the house, in the yard, on the beach, in the car and a whole bunch more places but it was always 'normal' sex.

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I shifted my computer bag on my shoulder as I hustled down the corridor. I hated being late, especially when it was my own presentation. I was cutting it close, very close, and at these things audience reviews were everything. The last thing I wanted to hear from my manager was that my reviews sucked because they were preoccupied by my tardiness.

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I had graduated and ventured out into that scary void known to college students as "the real world." My reaction was similar to others in my situation: "Now what?" After pondering this question for a good amount of time, I realized that six months had gone by and I was still working at one of the campus bookstores, promoted from temp to shipping clerk. Eventually, I realized that it had almost been a year and I still didn't have an answer.

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As we were driving down the highway I heard a moan and wondering what Beth was up to now I looked over just in time to watch her unbutton the last button on her blouse. Beth had her eyes closed and she was slowly moving her finger back and forth on her tummy by the bottom of her slightly open blouse.

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My name is Michael - family and friends call me Mike. At that time I considered myself an unremarkable 23 year-old, English WASP with a degree in psychology and a post-graduate certificate in education. I was working through my last summer before starting teaching in a secondary school near my old home town. I was brought up with the 'protestant work ethic' and had always had a job of some description as I went through my further and higher education.

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The day started off like any other Saturday: I woke up, nursing a little hangover, walked into my kitchen and made some coffee. It was a bright day outside and somewhere around 10 o'clock. I slowly got dressed and made myself a little breakfast, picked up my laptop and set off sending some emails I'd neglected the day before. That went on for about an hour or two when there was a sudden knock on the door. I looked up, perplexed, and slowly walked to the door, hearing the knocking again.

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