Your erotic stories

"What's this?" I say pulling my long silky black hair up and in a loose bun. "I hope you like shrimp scampi, Ms. Lily," Josh offers. He turns from the stove wearing only an apron and drops to his knees and crawls behind me. It's six-thirty p.m. and my houseslut pushes his tongue the length of the crack of my perfectly-tight bottom all the way to small of my back.

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When I was eighteen a young couple moved in next door. Bruno and Maxine Steinhouse, and their four-year-old son Victor moved to our community from New York. Bruno was a cop and had been named Chief of our small rural northern community police department.

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The air was alive with excitement as the Southwest passenger jet left the tarmac. My older sister, Alana, and I were seated together toward the back, huge grins on our faces as we looked out the window, watching the city lights drop away. It was a red eye flight that we had booked at the last second when we learned that our scheduled flight the next day would have to face a potential delay or cancellation because of a huge winter storm that was rolling in.

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Brian was sipping coffee and taking in the vista of the Long Island Sound from the oversized sun room at the rear of his mansion in Old Field. The room was what he had built the entire house around, and he had cleared out trees and brush in order to afford himself an unobstructed view of the water. There were few things in life that made him as happy as the sight of the water and the ever present smell of the salt air.

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I was worn to a frazzle. My 7-year old twin boys were driving me up the wall now that school was out. "What are we going to do today?" each one asked over and over. Finally their dad took pity on me and took them off my hands for an extended weekend. They left early on Wednesday morning to spend time with Craig's parents. I went back to bed.

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It started on a mate's stag night/bachelor party, - whatever you know a bloke's traditional booze-up before his wedding as. A crowd of us hit the town, crawled the bars and eventually ended up at a lapdancing club, ahem, as you do. . . A good time was had by all, plenty of dances were bought, and the general agreement was what goes on the stag, stays on the stag.

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It had been a rough week. Fighting with the wife had made my night life quite quiet. To top it all off she had decided to go and visit her mother for the weekend. She must have been really pissed off as she told our daughter that she could have one of her college friends spend the night. I wasn't really impressed as I was now responsible for the two of them and all their miscreant behaviors.

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My hands were trembling as I sipped on my chocolate martini. I was fidgeting with the rim of the glass, running my finger around the lip of the martini glass. I kept glancing down at my watch, anxiously waiting for him to arrive. The surprise I had for him was becoming more than I could handle, as I was itching to have my fun.

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I don't know why I did it. Okay, that's a lie, do I know, at least I think I do. First of all, it's fun to be seen as a sex symbol. Not as a porn star, hell no. I'm not a slut. Okay, maybe a wanna-be slut, but I'm a good girl. I didn't go to a Catholic school, but I was raised Catholic and I still believe most of it, okay?

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My friend Marie has always been the kind of girl who caused trouble. You know the type. The one who flirts with sleazy guys she has no intention of bringing home, sometimes for the attention, and sometimes because she's just bored. The girl who wheedles you into doing just one more shot even though you know you've had your limit. The one who tells you that you totally don't look slutty in that dress, and tells you that you should probably shimmy the neckline down a little to show a little bit more cleavage.

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