Erotic Mystery Stories

The Hunt Completely naked, Shona crouched down so that she could not be seen.  Her fear was so great she could hardly control her bladder.  She could hear voices from down below her, getting nearer, she would have to run. Though she risked being seen, she would have to run and she would have to run fast.  Fear overwhelmed her.  She crouched naked and terrified and in a steady stream she lost control of her bodily functions  The hunters watched her through binoculars and smiled.  That showed fear.  Real fear.  And real fear was just what the wanted. ************* Shona McLeod walked down the Edinburgh street watched admiringly by all the men she passed. Watched mainly from behind as her neat little bum wiggled in the shortest and tightest skirt imaginable. The type of skirt she would never have been allowed to wear in Gullane, that backwater of Scottish prurience; the minister would have had a fit. But Shona was now twenty years old and a student...

Gretchen looked around bemused. What was she doing standing outside her front door. How on earth had she got there? And why was she wearing a strange multicolored costume. She went to put her hand in the pocket of her costume to get out her keys and it came up against warm, bare flesh. She looked again startled. She wasn’t wearing a strange costume. She was stark naked. ***** "Gretchen!" Gretchen looked round flustered. She was in trouble again. The loud crash had alerted Mr. Topolcki to the fact that she had smashed something else. She had taken the job in the store to make money so she could finish her college course and escape to Westmorland. But after her last disaster Mr. Topolcki had given her only one more chance and now she'd blown it. “‘Don’t give that Gretchen a job, guys, she's a disaster', that's what he's told everyone." Gretchen was talking to her flatmate Imogene. She was out of a job and broke again. "If I just had...

The long hot summer of '76. Despite everything we hear about the swinging sixties, sexual liberation didn't even reach the end of the drive up to the door of Loxford Hall, the medium ranked girls public school to which my parents had sent me. Loxford Hall: a big Victorian redbrick building, set in its own grounds, or demesne, in the middle of the Derbyshire hills. Cold, isolated, perhaps romantic in a strange Gothic Horror way. A school typical of finishing schools in 1976. Unheated, cold baths, miserable food, second rate teaching and governed by a group of frustrated harpies keeping order by the use of a host of more than condign punishments. I was sent there at the start of the summer holidays when it would have been expected that we girls would be spending a few happy weeks away from school with their families. But my family was no ordinary family, my parents were separated and my mother had gone to live with 'Uncle' Emil on the Riviera. Father was in the ...