Your erotic stories

It was 1959 and I was 19 years old. I had left London and had accepted a position as a junior clerk in a large company in the north of England. I found a small, cheap bed-and-breakfast hotel run by Mrs. Johnson, a friendly motherly type, who made me feel instantly at home. I decided to stay there for a couple of weeks until I found a flat to rent. It was Friday and my first night in the city.

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There's nothing more gratifying than watching a man lick his cum off your stocking feet. Especially if he has begged you for the privilege of putting it there in the first place. I love the feeling of power as I look down upon him enthusiastically performing an act that some would consider humiliating. Most men won't even consider eating their own cum, but here mine is greedily lapping up his spend from my nylon encased toes.

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"What the hell do you mean eight hundred bucks?" I practically yelled into the phone. "It's a fucking water pump!" My mechanic gave me some song and dance about having to pull a load of shit off the engine to get to the broken part. "Fuck, dude," I said. "Where the hell am I getting that kind of money?" He gave me some more song and dance.

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My name is Zake. I'm called that because my parents gave me an unpronounceable Ukrainian name, and that was the best fit that came out of kindergarten. It stuck, and it's been hard to get confused with anyone else in the phone book. I'm 34 years old and I'm an instructor for heavy equipment. I also dig vacant lots for homebuilders on the side with my own business.

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Sally was petrified. She sat on the side of the bed slowly pulling the nylon stocking up her leg, she fastened it to the suspender belt and stood up she checked to make sure that they both were the same length before stepping into her skirt. She zipped it up at the back and looked in the mirror. Her face was as white as a sheet and her heart was pumping faster than ever.

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It was her again! She wasn't the only girl in college with long black hair, and there were probably other girls who were taller and slimmer, so perhaps I could have been mistaken. But there was one characteristic that singled her out from all the other girls - she always wore a catsuit!

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You have to understand this: despite my lover's sexuality and beauty, she tends to hide her light under a bushel in public. She rarely wants her physical appearance to be the center of attention. It's a long story as to why this is so, and perhaps that's a story for another time. Suffice it to say that she reminds me of a line from the movie, Moulin Rouge:

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"Reception to Tom, over." The radio on his belt squawked softly, and his friend Gina's voice beckoned to him from his reverie. "This is Tom. Go ahead, Gina, over." "Tom, I have a guest request for an unusual repair, over." "What do I need to bring up, Gina? Over." "I don't really know, Tom. Can you come to the front, please? Over." That was unusual for Gina; she's a great communicator, so it must have been something "Personal" that the guest needed.

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Sunlight in my eyes, burning through the eyelids, hot on the rest of my body, bad case of cotton-mouth, and an overwhelming need to take that nice long first leak of the day. Not the best way to wake up in the world, but not bad by any means. Last night came back slowly, and I recalled I was on the deck where I had curled up with a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream as the party wound down.

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My wife of 40 years has always been reserved when it comes to non traditional sex. That's never stopped me from hoping though. About a year ago, she switched jobs to a project manager for a software firm here in Colorado. She really liked the work as well as the people she worked with. Her boss was a good guy about her age and they hit it off early.

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