Your erotic stories

It was a blistering hot summer day. I had just walked a couple of miles from the auto dealer repair shop where I had left my car for a tune up. Normally it's a pleasant walk but today it was just sweaty. I was nearly home when a voice behind me said, "Oh good, could you help me with this?" I heard her bike come to a stop. It was Kimberly, my neighbor, kitty corner from across the street. I was standing right in front of her house. Kimberly and her husband are a young couple that purchased their first home here several months ago. Kimberly is a grade school teacher.

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Let's start with the boring stuff. My name is Caronne, I'm just over six foot and slim, with almost no boobs but large nipples. I have long brown hair that reaches about halfway down my back and hazel eyes. The following is a true story...

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Ace Hoffman sat in his new used truck and wished with every breath that he hadn't moved from Atlanta three weeks ago.

This happened every time he'd changed cities in the past – Boulder to Baltimore, Baltimore to Atlanta, and now to Lawrence, Kansas. He missed everything he knew – his favorite bars, the great friends he'd left behind, knowing where all the roads go. 

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I don't think I will ever forget that weekend I spent at Meg's. It was the beginning of summer, and I had a couple of days to kill in the city before flying back home. Meg had decided to stay and work for the duration of the summer at the museum, and so she'd rented this small one bedroom apartment downtown. It was the coziest little place you ever saw, and we both had a grand old time decorating it;

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Rachel took one last look at herself in the mirror as she finished getting ready to leave. She and her friends, Molly and Jennifer, were going to the local Renaissance Festival today and Rachel was determined to look her best. It was the first time she was going without her parents and she was determined to flirt and play to her hearts content. She loved how the people who worked the fairs were able to make almost any comment suggestive.

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I think I just might be the best peach picker in Virginia. Well, in Rockingham County at least. And that isn't just me boasting. That's what Brother Jeb said all the time I was picking peaches for him. And Mr. Howell said that to me too. More than once he said that. I've heard both men say that, in the peach business, it's getting the first fruit of the season to market before anyone else does that can mean the difference between a good season and a break-even or bad season.

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I love summer time. Especially the clothes. Naomi was wearing those short shorts over her bikini. You know the type, the ones that would show off the color of her panties if she went for the full-bottom briefs. She even decided to forgo a shirt over her top. I'd pulled on a muscle shirt with my suit and we were off for a day at the beach.

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Summer classes had always been a drag for me. The students were always more captivated by the rays of sunlight crashing through foggy classroom windows than with my explanations on how context was one of the most important aspects to master when translating a literary work. And more often than not the students were as fogged up as the windows were as they fought off the haze of the previous night's partying. Not that I blames them -- there were still parts of my early days attending university that were a blur.

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