Your erotic stories

Kate double-checked her hair in the glass window of Professor Foster's front door. She wasn't sure why, but the 18-year-old wanted to look her best for her teacher. Probably because it was her first day on the job as his babysitter. "Normally, I'm reluctant to do this during the semester," he'd said at the end of his last lecture, "but my wife and I are really in a bind.

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I was just entering second year of college and decided to rent a room instead of going back to residence. It was so noisy there and the food sucked. So I thought finding a room would be better. Checking the Student Housing Office on campus I found a couple of places that seemed interesting. After checking them out, I decided to take the room at Mrs. Johnson's house. Mrs. Johnson, or Mary as she wanted me to call her, was about 60. She had a full time job but needed the extra cash from my rent to make ends meet.

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My job is pretty boring. Most people say that, and most people truly believe it. None of them have to deal with what I do though. I give trumpet lessons at a place called Up the Scale. All day I deal with zit-covered, teenage brats that are taking trumpet lessons at Mommy and Daddy's expense. The worse they play the trumpet, the more they come back. It's like their parents are deaf or something.

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I was in Manila for business for 10 days, and had a lot to accomplish, but didn't know the local culture, or have many local contacts. Through an old school friend, I contacted the Chair of the Industrial Engineering Department of De La Salle University to get a recommendation for a highly professional student who could act as my local liaison for the week.

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It's snowing out and you're in the computer lab locking up at the end of your office hours. Your last student just left. It's dark outside and you're worried about driving your new car in the snow. You're also distracted because your favorite student blew off his study session. You wait until like 8:30, and say "Fuck it, I'm going home." Just then the door swings open and he walks in, covered in snow.

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Cat squirmed on the hard wooden chair and watched the seconds tick by on the clock. 4:55 on Friday afternoon. Five minutes until doomsday. She worried at an almost non-existent hangnail, nibbling it smooth. Was she a glutton for punishment? Had a death wish, perhaps? She smiled ruefully to herself. Why, oh why, was it so hard to get kicked out of school?

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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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I've often asked myself how it is that I came to be so addicted to the worship of women's legs. I've never adequately been able to explain it even to myself. I will say that ever since I was a young boy, the sight of a firm pair of legs, preferably in a skirt, is enough to get my juices flowing, my cock hard, and my mind racing.

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College classes are bad enough without falling behind. Between the sheer volume of classes and my work obligations that barely covered my living expenses, it was inevitable that something would give. Biology became the threatened species of my class load. Mrs. Gail Hannity was my Biology instructor. Smart, precise, and really quite beautiful, it was entirely possible that she was a major contributor to my in-class distraction.

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Joanna was a dedicated career woman. All her life she lived by a set of values taught by her parents; work hard, be successful, and be an independent woman. It was no surprise to anyone that she graduated at the top of her law school. She worked diligently at whatever she did and she became successful in her adult life.

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