Your erotic stories

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it, it was Tas. Tas has come to see why my broadband was not working. A little bit about me first. Let's start with my name. I'm Louisa, but you can call me Lou; everyone does, even Tas. I'm fifty three and have been a widow for three years. Yes my husband died the day after my fiftieth birthday. He had a stroke. We did make love the night before.

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"Go piss off and walk your fucking dog!" My girlfriend shouted at me for coming home drunk late last night. My girlfriend and I share a flat. A new place we recently moved into and a new neighbourhood for us. And as you have gathered, we have, well it's my dog. I had slept most of the day and it was around six o'clock Friday evening. Yeah I know, lazy bastard. Well we both had a few days off work for the move. It was Friday, and we also had the weekend off. I was out with a few mates drinking, chatting, drinking, eyeing up girls, drinking... you know what young men get up to in their early twenties.

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"YOU PRICK! YOU FUCKING PRICK!!!" Kaylee stood frozen in the bedroom door. Her arms were rigid at her side; her fists were clenched as she watched her sister dive off of Kaylee's fiancé's rapidly deflating cock. He laid there, too shocked to move, while her sister tried to hide beneath the sheets.

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I had seen him around the halls a few times, but he had only smiled weakly at me and glanced at the ground. For the longest time I didn't even know his name. I assumed he must be an adjunct professor at my prestigious graduate school; he dressed professional, and his silver hair was a clue to his age bracket. For the life of me, I do not understand why he was so intriguing. He stood about six feet tall, and his body-type was that of a wrestler or rugby player;

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Could I really be doing this? I'm following some guy at a garage to the back room - seriously, the back room - where he is no doubt going to fuck my brains out. I'm watching his muscular ass ripple in his tight jeans, and I'm already unzipping my leather jacket. It was barely holding me in to begin with, and since I don't seem to be wearing anything underneath it, I'm already bouncing free by the time that my surprise lover opens the stock room door. We slip in, I slam the door closed with my foot, and he reaches for me.

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She knew he wanted her. She strode efficiently between the workstations; her eyes never wavered from the door to her office, she walked with purpose and confidence. She acknowledged him, but only in a curt professional manner, she wasn't here to be anyone's friend. His eyes followed her to her office, she knew he watched her and she enjoyed it.

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I was always amazed at how someone from my past unfailingly seemed to turn up on opening nights of exhibitions. It didn't seem to matter which city I was in, some old school friend, long lost family member or an acquaintance from the photography fraternity seemed to find the ads for my openings in the small print and turn up to say hi.

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Anna's parents came from Europe. Her father was a tall blond from Poland and her mother a red-haired beauty from Ireland. Yet poor Anna was stuck with the wrong branch of the DNA. She was six feet and then some in her socks. Her face was plain with a broad forehead, long jaw and beaked nose. Most of her height was in her legs. She wore men's jeans with a 30 inch waist and 36 inch inseam. Her hair was neither blond nor red but a sad mixture resulting in a rough brown. Her height served her well in obtaining a volleyball scholarship to college where she majored in business.

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My name is Alicia. I'm an eighteen year old recent graduate from high school. My eyes are blue but I had to dye my hair blond. I was born blond but my hair turned darker as I grew older so I decided to change it back. My friends all say I'm a pretty girl but sometimes I question their wisdom on that. You may catch me from time to time in front of the mirror making faces, trying to determine whether my nose is too wide or my cheekbones are too high.

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I'm Alicia. I just turned eighteen one month ago. My very best friend, Shelly, is five months older than I. Not only have we been best friends since the fourth grade, we became lovers at the Log Cabin Motel two days after I turned eighteen.

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