Your erotic stories

My name is Kay. I'm a 31 year-old, happily un-married middle-class white woman with a marvelous life - except for being addicted to sex. Maybe it's only the risk factor that I'm addicted to. I honestly don't know, but I do know I'll sometimes take awful risks to anonymously and spontaneously fuck total strangers. There, now that I have that part out of the way maybe I can also be honest with the rest of what I want to explain.

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It was a hot night in Rochester but I shivered all the same. There were no cars in the driveway on a sprawling cream colored new-money manse the bordered the Clearey Woods, so I pulled up the parking brake and on battered gray Camry. The thick pine and birch that skirted the side and back of the property kept drawing my eye. If I wasn't very careful, I could die tonight. But if I'd refused, I'd be dead for certain.

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i. Inside the cell, on the top bunk, a heart shaped box of pink mints lay on the naked stained mattress. A note next to the box said, "Be my girl". The guard looked from the note to Kyle's pretty face. Kyle knew he was in trouble. "Welcome to Purgatory, boy," the guard said with a smile fit for Hells' gatekeeper. He slammed the heavy cell door, leaving Kyle to the cruel hands of the twisted God who ruled this place.

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John inserted the key into his front door as quietly as he could. He slipped inside, putting his laptop case down ever so gently, and closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, hello you! There she was, padding barefoot down the stairs. She did not come to him; she stopped three steps up, so that her womanly pubis was level with his mouth, so that he had to look up to her, almost look up her.

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I fought back tears when I saw the spots of blood that heralded the onset of my period. Despite the increased use of fertility drugs, I was not going to be a mother this month. I crawled back into bed with my husband Todd, waking him to cuddle with him. Sunlight shone through the blinds.

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Patrice Mueller couldn't suppress a resigned sigh as she looked around the living room. It wasn't that it was dirty; it was that it looked fine. The whole house looked fine: a tastefully appointed exemplar of a white bread middle class dwelling. It was tidy, warm and cozy without a hint of ostentation.

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It all started with a simple statement. A promise perhaps. They were laying in bed one night during the week after she had just come off of his lap from one of her good girl spankings and rewards she always craved. She looked up at him, a smile across her face and at that moment, he told her that he had something special planned for them this weekend.

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Lori walked into the conference room with confidence, swinging her hips with each step. Her boss, Ryan, gazed at her legs as she strode past him, her heels clicking loudly on the floor. She took a seat next to his, crossing her legs with a rasp of fabrics as her black pencil skirt slid over her nylons. The meeting chairs were leather, cozy, and the large table was glass. Sitting next to Lori, Ryan had an excellent view of her legs and that's the way he liked it.

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"You're late." The steely tone in Amy's voice let Graham know he was in trouble, that was her "Don't-mess-with-me" voice. "I'm sorry, traffic was murder." Amy Welles didn't like people being late, it was one of her Pet Peeves. Graham knew full well it was a flimsy excuse and Amy would call him on it.

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Sometimes, I think he really, truly does understand how to handle me- how to keep our relationship in line the best he can. I've tried to explain the overwhelming need to submit, to be controlled, to be HIS- and he tells me he knows, has always known, what makes me tick. This makes me question why he doesn't employ it more often, take the authority that I am happy to hand him, but too often, we are at odds instead. Nearly every time I have finally given up on his dominant side, he turns around and shocks hell out of me again...

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