Your erotic stories

"M...m....Melons..." My stammered exclamation hung there in the laundry room as the young woman and I stared at each other. I could not for the life of me recall her real name. She was, after all, not my son's girlfriend. If anything, she was a hanger-on, an occasional presence drinking beer or occupying a lawn chair while the boys worked on trucks. All the guys just called her "Melons" because of the balloon like breasts she so proudly paraded in front of her.

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She had shoulder length blond-brown hair that the sun had bleached to almost platinum on the top. Her body was slender with curves that were sweeping rather than dramatic and she had just a slight swell of a belly that added to the allure in the same way that a slightly asymmetrical rose seems more real than one that is perfect. Her eyes were the blue-green of deep water and she had a small impish nose that turned up slightly near the tip like one of those Turkish slippers you see harem girls wear in old Hollywood movies.

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I've always liked massage, especially the sensuous kind. Stroke and caress me and I'm like putty. I had found that the massage part of the activities at massage parlors was lots of fun for me, perhaps more so that the so-called happy ending part. The sexual part always seemed so much like a business transaction. It felt like a contest between seeing how fast the provider could make me finish, and how long I could hold out.

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"All right, that's enough!" Jackie was pissed off with Andy trying to get her to agree to anal sex. He had been pushing to try it almost since they married and wouldn't accept that she found the idea both distasteful and scary. Nothing she had said had stopped him from asking again and again. Now she'd come up with an answer which she expected to settle the matter for once and for all! "I'll tell you what I'll do. Do you want to do a trade?"

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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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Rob entered the bar apprehensively. It was warm and lively. He had never done anything like this before. What was he thinking? He had a very strong urge to return to his room for a quiet evening of reading. But he promised and a promise is a promise. Although he could just tell ... NO! That would not be right.

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It's a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon and we are lying in the park. I have my head in your lap, listening to you reading snippets from a magazine as you lazily stroke my hair. My eyes drift closed and I start to get lost in the sound of your voice, your touch, and I think of what I what I want you to be doing to me. I open my eyes just the slightest bit, focus on the shape of your lips and am mesmerized. Your lips can leave the sweetest kisses, yet elicit such desire as they burn across my body.

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I was in the kitchen cleaning up when you got home from work. I heard you come through the front door, and I tried hard to stay focused on the task at hand and pretend as though I hadn't been waiting for you to come home all day. It was a blatant lie, of course, and my clothing fairly well advertised the fact. After all, who cleans kitchens in flirty, ruffly, short skirts and heels?

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I turned to the right as I reached the sign telling me that the fishing lake where I used to spend so many weekends with my father was only five miles away. I knew that before I would actually arrive to the lake, I would pass the small town -- well, little more than a hamlet -- where I could stop and buy some food, a six-pack of beer and of course some bait and fishing-outfit I had to replace. I had plenty of opportunities to buy these things on the road;

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This was the third time my stupid car had broken down in a fortnight. Maybe it was my fault for going for retro charm over reliability. I have a real soft spot for mini coopers though, having lost my anal cherry in the back of one and so when the time came to buy my own car I instantly went with the one that appealed most when it would have made much more sense to get something that wasn't going to end up in the garage every week.

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