Your erotic stories

There's this guy I work with, Jason. We don't actually work together - I'm in accounting, he's in shipping - but we run into each other fairly often, and for a while now we've been having lunch together a few times a week. We're sort of an unlikely pair, really. Jason is 23, I'm pushing 50, he's straight and I'm gay, he's a big sports fan, and I couldn't care less. Although, I do try to keep up on his favorite teams, just to be able to have a decent conversation with him if the subject comes up.

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"Remember, sex onstage is illegal. This isn't fucking Amsterdam. You can jerk yourself off a little, play with the other guys' cocks, but if you cum, it's all over. Got it? No blowing your load. No oral. No penetration of any kind. Not that the other guys'd let you—they're professionals and a lot of them're straight. Got it?"

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All characters in the story are over the age of eighteen. * When I walked into my parents' house, I saw my mom on the phone. Shit, this can't be good. She was staring right at me. "Okay Rhonda, he'll do it. Six okay? It is? Great." I slung my back pack down on the couch. "What?" I asked. I was cautious of everything this woman did.

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Pete is a neighbour from a few doors away; he has always seemed a quiet sort of bloke who I'd spend the odd moment having idle chit chat with when our paths crossed in the street. I didn't know anything about him other than he lived on his own and enjoyed cycling, he could often be seen cycling off on his racing bike with his tight lycra shorts on and bare legs.

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Robby and I had known each other forever, we had grown up together and he was just always there. Our parents were friends and our birthdays were only a few weeks apart. He was like a brother to me. Having grown up together, we shared all of the typical youth experiences. When we were kids we did everything together; played in the woods, went fishing, played baseball together, rode bikes, built forts, and even drank our first beer together which we skillfully lifted from Robby's dad.

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Shelly walked briskly down Bourbon St while I followed close behind. Her fat round ass, encased in a tight, short skirt, swayed from side to side as she deftly navigated through the crowd in her 4" heals. A mass of beads, ranging from small to big, was draped around her neck but they did little to hide her huge, God given breasts.

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It had been three months since the last semen reward I received from that beautiful 27 year old cock. My wife had seen the lust in my eyes for the cock and knew this would become a staple to my diet. That's how I ended up here...on my knees with a cock in each hand.

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France, April 1918 Wars have always existed. From the simple foot soldier on the battlefields to the generals, hundreds of miles away, safe, I have watched. The stench of blood, the rot of fear, the roar of rifles and cannon fire is well known to me. Before the battle, after the skirmish, during the fighting, I watch and I wait. Then I walk through the carnage and set free the suffering, the anguished and the dying. I set their souls, if they even have them or believe in them, free.

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To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger. 

His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance. 

In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple. 

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It was about 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and everybody was winding down at work. Another long day inside a gray glass and steel skyscraper. My boss stopped by and looked at the paltry pile in my inbox and suggested I take the rest of the day off. Big deal, two extra hours. I had to wait for the train after 5 anyway. Two hours to kill. What to do? I wandered out into the street, slipped into a bookstore for a few minutes and then walked towards the train station. Then I remembered the massage parlor.

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