Your erotic stories

"Fine!" Holly yells, as she collapses onto the couch. "Fine!" Chris yells back, as he goes out the door and slams it, hard. Holly huddles on the couch, grasping a pillow to her chest, sobbing her heart out. They just had their first real fight. She can't believe what he expects from her. How dare he assume she'd just go along with his request with no regard for her feelings on the matter.

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Friday, October 30. 9:30ish. I say "9:30ish", but really I knew it was 9:23 pm, just like it was the last time I pushed back the gauntlet on my glove to check my watch. The TV above the bar said 9:27. God – David was such a flake.

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John glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 6 in the evening, and Gina, his beautiful bride, was expected home shortly. He placed a bookmark in his novel and rose to check on dinner. He could hear the pasta happily bubbling away on the stove. Moving towards the oven, he flicked on the oven light and bent down to look at the pork roast that was slowly cooking its way to perfection. John and his wife had one rule for their marriage: The one who does the cooking gets to control the events of the evening for the same amount of time as it takes that person to make the meal.

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When she came down to greet me at the lobby of her dorm building, nobody -- not the security guards nor the other students nor the people passing by on the streets -- could have guessed what was going on. I was in a suit, she in a sexy (but not slinky) red dress that made the red in her hair pop. They'd have thought we were prepared for a classy night on the town (as classy as college students could afford, I suppose). If they had been paying close enough attention to her knowing smirk and my short, fearful breaths, they would probably have known something else was going on.

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My sexual awakening really began when I finally gave in and revealed to my husband my desire to be submissive. No, not the master/slave scenarios that seem to be so predominant and to my mind borders on abuse. No, not the spank me until I cry and can't sit down for a week activities that would label me a masochist. No, I don't want to be violently raped, even by my own husband in the name of sexual freedom. What I was looking for was to be able to surrender completely to my husband and allow him to have his way with me, over and over again.

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I feel that you reach a certain stage in your life when you feel like, and need, a change. I suppose that is what happened to us. Sally and I had both reached our late forties and our children had flown the nest and left home for college. Our life was reasonably content, we loved each other, we had a nice house and both had good professional jobs which paid well.

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Everything was almost done and boy, was I thankful. It had been such a busy day! You see, I'd moved earlier that day...my first new apartment on my own after my divorce. My phone was already hooked up and my power was on, now all I needed was cable...well, that and a shower. Who knew when they would show up, though.

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On Caitlin's thirtieth birthday, she woke to find a letter on her husband's pillow. "Open at 10 AM," it said. She looked at the clock. It was 8:15. She looked back at the envelope, and considered it. If she opened it now, there was absolutely no way Richard could know. Right? As logical as that seemed, Caitlin didn't trust that. Richard had a way of knowing these things.

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"Come on. Tell me!" "Nooo," April whined as she walked past me, leafing through the plastic wrapped costumes hanging from the wall. "And stop asking me." "Fine," I conceded, turning back and selecting a skimpy school girl outfit from a nearby rack. "How about this one?" "Ummm," she said, eyeing my chosen costume with sceptical reluctance. "That's a little too slutty."

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Now. I stand under the needling hot spray until the water starts to cool, and shut it off, and push the wide glass door open to release billows of steam. Drip and splash across the wide marble floor and wipe a clear circle on the mirror with a thick white towel. Behind me the sun is trying, and failing, to pierce the overcast. Not likely in February.

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