Your erotic stories

Using a small brush to apply the last of her deep maroon lipstick, Mai checked her work one last time before leaving the bathroom and preparing to head out for the evening. She went over in her head everything she thought she would need, re-verifying for the third time that she had the keys to her apartment and her emergency money safely tucked away in a hidden pocket of her small party purse. She and her two closest friends were making it a girls' night out and going to a club they had never been to before.

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I walked up the sidewalk in the rain towards the lighted porch. The weather matched my mood. I had come home from my office on campus and found a note. "Sorry, I don't think this is going to work our. I've gone back to Tennessee. Karen." I guessed that she had gone back to stay with her aunt. She had left me and I was stunned and angry and depressed and sad-and somehow lighter and freer. But I needed to talk to somebody and that's why I was walking up to Greg and Rosemary's door.

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It was Friday afternoon and I had returned to the hotel suite after finishing with my best friends dress rehearsal for her wedding which was Saturday evening at 6 pm. I had about 4 hours to kill before my husband and I needed to be at the rehearsal dinner. Steve, my husband, was out playing golf with my dad and my brother and wouldn't be back for another at least two, maybe three hours.

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Most secretaries would be fired for wearing a low-cut blouse like hers. Most secretaries wouldn't get away with a tight pencil-skirt and the almost-visible suspenders around her thighs either. Most secretaries, however, aren't married to their bosses – and today is their anniversary. There are flowers on Lana's desk when she comes in, high heels clicking on the oak floor. That gets a smile from her, which isn't always easy this early in the morning; it's still dark outside.

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I am an eighteen year-old, just. My parents are divorced and I live with my dad. We get along well, going to football games together etc. but every now and then his work will mean he's away for a few days, which causes him to feel guilty. "Are you sure you'll be alright Jack?" he'd said looking very concerned. "I'll be fine dad", I assured him.

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It was 1959 and I was 19 years old. I had left London and had accepted a position as a junior clerk in a large company in the north of England. I found a small, cheap bed-and-breakfast hotel run by Mrs. Johnson, a friendly motherly type, who made me feel instantly at home. I decided to stay there for a couple of weeks until I found a flat to rent. It was Friday and my first night in the city.

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In April 2004 my husband announced that his 25 year old secretary was 6 months pregnant and he was leaving me and our two daughters to be with her. Apparently I'd become boring and had put on weight – no longer the slim nymphomaniac that he had married 21 years previously. To say that I was devastated would be somewhat of an understatement. I thought that I'd been as good a mother and wife as I could be while also holding down a career as an accountant with a pretty large clothing company.

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This is a retelling of an experience a very good friend of mine (I'll call her Judith) had 2 years ago before she met the fella that she recently married. I have her permission to retell the story so long as I did not use her name or the names of anyone else connected to this. Her experience was so good that I don't need to embellish it in any way. So here goes ....

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Andrea and I have been friends for almost ten years. We met when she started dating a friend of mine. Andrea was fresh out of high school then and the first thing I noticed were her flawless sized seven and a half feet. Being that we live in Florida, Andrea was always wearing flip flops and showing off her amazing feet. Andrea is a beautiful girl besides just her feet.

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My affair with Stevie; if that's what you want to call it is still going on today. It's not an affair in the conventional sense as there is absolutely no chance that he would ever buy me flowers or take me to a French Restaurant. Nor would I want him to. We are as he quaintly calls it – 'fuck-buddies'. We still occasionally go to the derelict factory on a Friday afternoon and the odd evening after work.

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