Your erotic stories

The music was deafeningly loud; strobes flashed incessantly giving the otherwise dark room a surreal ambiance. My hips gyrated; my feet, clad in black stilettos, moved to an ethereal metallic 'techno' beat. My hands roamed oh so suggestively over my body and lingered as my finger tips cupped and caressed my breasts through a black leather top -- no more than a bra, really; not stitched, but riveted.

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Perhaps it was the coffee. She didn't usually drink the stuff, but it had been a hectic day. Whatever, the fact was, she was having difficulty concentrating. The two prospective clients sat across her desk, the pushy one was rambling on about profits and costs of their new business. She knew she should be paying attention, but she was too distracted by the other client. Tall, where his partner was short, gaunt where the other was stocky.

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It truly was a day to remember. I stepped out onto my pool deck that Saturday afternoon, aiming to bring the water up to the proper level and check the chemical balance. Three neighborhood couples would be at our home that evening to share my locally-famous smoked ribs. I wanted the pool to be crystal clear in case we decided to swim too.

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He stretches himself out, the sheets rustling as he flexes his muscles and lets out a long yawn. Nick smiles at the smooth, warm form resting at his side. Glancing over, he sees her red hair spilling across her face and pillow, her creamy white skin exposed to the air. She moans and moves closer to him, one arm draped across his chest while one leg slides up along his own.

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I notice on the map that there was a tennis court located in a very secluded area. You agree to go. Now either one of us is any good at tennis but it was exercise that we found to be fun, just hitting the ball back and forth. We weren't there long before two young guys show up wanting to use the court. Their names were Dave and Steve; both were in their early 20's. They asked if we wanted to play doubles with a twist, for every point the losers had to take a shot of whiskey.

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Let's start by describing the ladies in this story. Linda is a gorgeous 26 year old blonde. Big blue eyes and full " Angelina Jolie " lips. Petite body with wonderful 34c boobs. Flat stomach and a sexy round firm ass. My wife Sandra is a very stylish and beautiful 39 years old. Dark long hair and sensual brown eyes. Full 36c boobs topped by big round nipples. She is tall with the body of an athlete.

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"30 seconds until this lift is closed," called out the lift attendant as the two skiers made their way through the corral to board. Taking position, they sat down as the seat swung around behind them and shuffled close to one another as they brought down the safety bar. Glancing back, Dean noted that they were the last ones that got on the lift. "I guess this is the last run for the day then," he said, smiling at Beth. "Probably a good thing too given how cold it is, I don't want my dick turning into a popsicle!"

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Mike had never thought of art galleries as a place to meet women. Hell, Mike thought about art galleries as little as possible. The Vallejo/Frazetta exhibit at the Tucson Museum of Fine Arts was a rare exception to the rule. Mike enjoyed fantasy-oriented art, and Vallejo was his favorite artist. There would be paintings by other, lesser-known artists as well. Mike made plans to check out the exhibit.

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Poor Theresa, just divorced, cute and sweet. I had to take pity on her, but not in a pitiful way. I suppose I guessed that her slightly meek nature was by choice rather than nature, as if she chose to be that way because she could make something of it. She was quite short, but she had this amazing smile that made her look ten feet tall – maybe other people didn't notice it, but I did.

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"Here's our room, little brother." Cathy pushed the door to her dorm room open and waved him in with a flourish. "I told you not to call me that here," Matt said. "Give me a little dignity as a prefrosh, please!" He grinned to lessen the sarcasm, hefted his bag, and strode into the room. It was bigger than he assumed, what with the college horror stories of prison-style closets that passed for living quarters. Cathy's room, on the contrary, seemed downright spacious. There were twin double beds, a couch and lounge chair, a pair of desks pushed together, and even a bookshelf to spare.

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