A collection of five erotic stories with mixed and varied themes.
Window Dressing by Anya Wassenberg
She walks to work every day through the streets of New York. Somehow she hasn’t ever noticed the basement curio shop before – or the blonde guy who works there. The next day she finds herself lingering in front of the low-level window, from where he has an excellent view right up her short skirt. If she goes back, will he be there? And will she dare to show him more?
The Sex Therapist by Dee Dawning
Since Bobby’s cheating wife left him, he’s been struggling to find his mojo. Gary reckons his friend Loretta might be just the woman to help him get over his shyness around women. On an overnight stay, Loretta shows him her specially decorated bedroom. She takes him in hand and teaches him the fastest way to forget his ex wife. Bobby may be young, but he’s a fast learner.
Educating Master Tom by Kitti Bernetti
Newly widowed, Miss Canning arrives at Harestone Manor with a grave sense of foreboding. She’s to be governess to the young Master Tom – nineteen years old and entirely uneducated in affairs of the flesh. Tempted by fabulous wages and silk dresses, Miss Canning agrees to don the turquoise corset that signals her acceptance. If only she were putting it on for the Lord of the Manor, rather than the feeble young Tom – surely the leering old man would know better how to satisfy a lusty woman.
Thrill Ride by Lynn Lake
The legendary Lolliewood is just a rumour among theme park addicts. So when an old tramp offers her a pass, she’d do anything to get her hands on it, and once she’s there, she’d do anything to find a companion for the night. Because Lolliewood is an adult theme park – a sexual cornucopia of horny thrills and wild erotic rides that she never wants to end.
Rackula by Landon Dixon
Gregor’s luscious girlfriend Daria has promised him a special treat for his eighteenth birthday. Ignoring his father’s warnings, he takes Daria deep into the Romanian forest where the young virgins feast on each other. At the moment of consummation, the shocking sight of Countess Sabrina forces Daria to flee in terror, leaving Gregor to gape at the sight of the evil bloodsucker, naked but for a cape and her bared fangs.
Stories first published in Five Minute Fantasies Three ISBN 9781905170715
And it’s one of those things, just circumstance; I look down just at the right moment as he’s looking up, cell phone in his hand, in mid conversation. But I can see him hesitate as he sees my pink shoes, and while I keep moving, pushing my legs forward, the lean angles of his face, the dark eyes, the platinum-tipped hair that springs in so many different directions from his head, are etched into my mind, where they brew all day at work as I make phone calls and fiddle with papers at my desk.
The next morning I try to assure myself that my interest is purely in antiques, try to stop my pace from quickening as I reach the row of shops and spot the trunk sitting there on the sidewalk again. He’s setting small glass pieces in the windowsill: blue and green, orange and yellow, birds and flowers and butterflies. They catch the sunlight prettily, but I find my gaze wandering away from them. From under unruly brows, his eyes rise up to my leather boots, then higher still to my tailored leather jacket, three-quarter length. Jet black, those eyes meet mine for a split second, but then drop down again just as quickly; down and down to the lower edge of my jacket, looking for the hem of my skirt. Without thinking I move a little closer to the window as my legs open in stride. I see his tongue, licking his lips. I turn my head again, just in time to see it again, just to be sure and feel a shiver just as if that tongue had snaked higher still, up between my thighs.
I’m at work, trying to answer phones and sift through papers with a warm glow between my legs. He’s invaded me that easily, from behind a glass and in a basement store. It’s animal and anti-intellectual, something that pulls at me from the inside and makes me wet just to think of it.
There are forms to print out here; the beige walls of my cubicle stare passively as I make my way to the end of the day, occupying myself with trivialities so most of my brain is free to run over his dark eyes, his pale face, and his tongue, over and over and over. The heat between my legs grows unbearable, and I run to the ladies’ room to stroke myself, oh so quietly, to a gushing orgasm, and still I can’t get his face out of my head.
