Your erotic stories

Brad parked his SUV before a bright yellow building with the words 'Welcome to The Recycling Center' painted in blue on the wall. "Let's get this over with," he grumbled as he climbed the metal steps and entered the cavernous interior. He stood staring in amazement at the hectic scene before him. Rows of people in brown coveralls stood next to moving conveyor belts filled with trash, deftly plucking cans, bottles, foam cartons and other items from them and dropping them down brightly colored chutes.

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Hi there, After dabbling in a few other categories, I decided to return to my favourite genre. Nothing quite beats a brother-sister romance eh? I hope you like this effort. It's also my entry for the Winter Holidays Contest so do leave your votes and comments on the way out. Happy Holidays folks!

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My daughter Faith had a brooding look on her usually sunny face. When she returned home from college for winter break, her mood alternated from surly to morose. My efforts to engage her in conversation failed and I tried every approach I knew as a professional therapist but she refused to open up.

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She lay, elbow on the bed, head propped on her hand looking down at him. It was impossible, and yet it had happened. Here was the living proof lying beside her and the sperm she could feel in her vagina and the bed redolent of their coupling. He was asleep now and she reached out and touched his light brown hair as if to reassure herself that he really was there. Then she touched his penis, still warm, wet and sticky with their mingled fluids.

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One moment, one lapse in concentration, and it was all over. It was my fault. She had just stepped off the kerb and I called out "See this evening." She turned, smiled; there was a screech of tyres as a bus pulling in to stop hit her. The love of my life was dead. I met Clare when I was tutoring in English literature and she a student. I don't know if there is such a thing as love a first sight but it seemed like to me. Six months after first meeting her we were married; she was eighteen and I twenty four.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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