Your erotic stories

Dracul finds the kid high up on the fire ladder, outside the familiar window. On the regular spot where the boy can be found almost every night, gazing longingly in through the glass with tired eyes, hidden by the darkness when the lights are on on the inside. He sits there, silently observing the motions of the everyday life.

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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.

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I was always fascinated with oral sex, i'm not sure what started it or why it appealed to me so much but it just does. If I ever started dating a chick and found out she didn't go down that would be it for me. It was a deal breaker she had to suck cock or i wasn't interested. Swallowing wasn't as important but it was preferred. When watching porn my favourite part was the blowjob watching the girl on her knees being fed a thick meaty cock was the epitome of sexy for me.

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I walked into the truck stop diner and was surprised to lay my eyes on an old truckin' buddy, Hank. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years. We both haul loads Coast to Coast, but rarely cross paths. "So, how you doin' good buddy?" he asked.

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My downward spiral into a submissive bottom slut started late in life. I'm still very much in the closet and outwardly I appear as the perfect suburban husband, father, employee and neighbor. I love my wife and family but I recently found a new hobby that I crave with a passion; I can't get enough of my neighbor's big hard cock. It all started innocently enough. I'm an economics professor at UC San Diego and my office is in one of the older buildings on campus.

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This story began a bit over five years ago as I write this, little did I know when I accepted this assignment that my life would be changed forever. United States Marine Sergeant Robert A. Whitson and I would begin rehabilitating him physically and mentally as he learns that the roadside bomb in Afghanistan took only his feet. He is still every bit the man he was prior to his injury. This is our story.

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I was spending the day at my friend Roger’s house, and was planning on staying the night. We spent much of the rainy day in Roger’s back yard, which bordered a rushing swollen drainage stream. Needless to say, we were soaked by late afternoon when Roger’s mom called us in for dinner. His mom made us strip off our wet, muddy clothes in the mud room just off the garage before she let us in the house. She had supplied two large Turkish towels in which to wrap ourselves.

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"Tomorrow. Bring your hands around my sides as I lay enveloped in your lap. Hold me in your hands until tomorrow, one hand cupping my balls, making me vulnerable to your touch, and the other hand possessing my cock closely—and stroke, stroke, stroke. Ahhhhhhh. Still cupping my balls with one hand, move the fingers of the other to my hole and invade and stretch, preparing me for you. Then at the stroke of tomorrow, turn me onto my belly, encase my thighs with your knees, and plunge into me with your firm cock, your palms pushing down on my shoulder blades, and ride me, ride me, r i d e m e . . . Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

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What the...? What the hell is going on over there? There is a dick sticking through a hole in the wall! Here I am in an adult video booth, my own dick in my hand, watching a blonde give a guy a very loving blowjob, and now this.

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Miles stared intently at the Sharpie pen clenched so tightly in his grip that his knuckles were blanched white, at the lined notebook opened to a fresh, new page. It was college ruled, perforated, with exactly thirty-three blue lines running horizontally across each page. He'd studied it with such intensity, such scrutiny, noting every detail about it that his vision was beginning to blur.

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