Your erotic stories

While I was working in an empty apartment today a painter showed up to prep the walls. He was in his mid to late twenties. Short spikish dark hair with sideburns and a goatee. His lightly tanned muscular arms were covered in tattoos. He had a sleeveless shirt and loose boardshorts on, with leather flip flops.

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It was a Wednesday night, which was two for one rental night at the local adult video store. I picked out a couple of European titles from my favorite director. His films usually featured exotic locales, stunning eastern European babes, and lots of anal. I brought the empty cases up to the till, and the clerk moved over to the drawer where the actual DVDs were stored and retrieved them. I completed the transaction in the usual fashion; minimal words, averted gaze, the slightest tinge of embarrassment for being in the shop in the first place. 

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"Hey, look at that," Ronda nudged Jerry. "I told you we could set the clock by him." The bank's loan officer and new accounts clerk, whose desks were set side by side in the bank branch's lobby, were leaning into each other and marking the rapid progress of the senior teller to the exit door.

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Thinking back on it, I still ask myself, 'Did I really do that?' Let me explain. I owned a small house on the north side of Indianapolis, Indiana. Being young, I think I was 23 at the time, I took on a roommate to help me make ends meet. I knew that over a few years my income would rise to let me comfortably make my house payment, until then, leasing a room seemed to really make sense.

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He had hoped that by taking a long, hot shower that he would somehow be able to shake off, or at the very least reduce, that dreadful feeling of shame that had overcome him that night, but as was to be expected — it did not. He still felt dirty and had only found that feeling getting worse and worse by the second.

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I breathed on my new chromed nametag and polished it on my sleeve. I had been promoted: Sergeant Lincoln Lovel. I attached it to my blue uniform shirt, checked myself out one more time in the mirror, and walked outside to the police car in my driveway. Life is good. My utility belt gleamed, newly polished; my buttons all glittered; even my service pistol shone like it was gold-plated. And I had sergeant's stripes on my sleeves!

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I'd struck out again. It was Friday night and after happy hour with some friends from work, I'd gone to a local club in search of hooking up with a cutie. As had become my fate lately, I had no takers and was gonna be left to feed the hog alone again. I'm a decent looking guy, with a good job, and what I'd always considered to be an OK personality, but my luck with the ladies had been miserable for several months.

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For those who read my first story, "Giving it Up," this is the lead in. These events were my first excursion into the dark side of my sexuality. If you have read the previous story you will know that I was a virgin when it happened just a couple of years ago. What happens in this current story, over 20 years ago, is all true until the end. There is one point where fantasy takes over when reality ends.

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Brandon leaned over the low, padded cubicle wall and winked at Colleen and told her she was looking mighty fine today. Then, as he turned and moved down the corridor between the cubicles, a large, apparently heavy file box under his arm, he barely missed running into Rhonda, and gave her a cheery hello and a big smile before going on his way.

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Several months after I had parted from Jeff and a few weeks after my experience with Lionel (recounted in Chapter 15) three things happened virtually simultaneously. Firstly my wife, in a regular phone call with our daughter, told her that her lover was ill and being taken to hospital. I was not sorry for him, indeed I hoped that he would soon be dead, but I was sorry to think of the anxiety it would cause her. The second thing that happened gave me a shock.

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