Your erotic stories

I could hardly believe the words that had just come from my wife's mouth. "Now, you two kiss..." Kate and I looked at each other as though we were waiting for Erika to tell us she was joking. Her silence, and the look she was giving us told us she wasn't. So, as my wife of 10 years watched intently, I leaned in to kiss Kate.

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It was Friday at Two and I had Jack on top of me again. I could feel his large demanding penis filling my pussy, drawing the juices out of my flesh on each slight withdrawal, and then pressing down tight into my ever wetter channel. I know that I should be tired of all this and that I should be glancing at the watch on the wrist of the arm which was stretched around his neck, but Jack was such an expert.

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I was sitting backwards on one of the chairs in my tenant's kitchen, watching him cover an easel with bold strokes of varying shades of green. Sean had moved into the basement suite in late August, and we'd hit it off right away. He was a nice boy, 22 years old, a couple years older than my own son, who was also away at university.

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I hear a knock on the door, looking at the time; I see that you're late. I let you stand outside for an extra minute to let you think that I have gone. I see you through the spy-hole and see that you're impatiently waiting. Looking at your watch, you knock again and after another minute you sigh, drop your head and turn to walk away. I let you get out of sight, and I open the door and flip the night latch out so the door closes on it, but does not shut. You turn to see the door open, and you walk back to my room.

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Guy comes into a bar and orders a beer. Bartender gives him a draft beer and says, "Hey Buddy, you don't look so good, you OK?" Guy says, "I have the world's worst hangover. I tried Alka-seltzer; I tried a Bromo, aspirin. Nothing works." Bartender says, "Let me give you a tip. Whenever I have a real bad hangover, I have my wife give me a blow-job. Cures the hangover every time."

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Average, that's pretty much how I saw myself. Brown hair, brown eyes, busty for sure, but could stand to either lose 20 pounds or grow 4 inches. Nothing particularly remarkable about me but what I lack in the supermodel, standard cutesy looks department, I probably make up for in personality. Great. Just how every woman wants to be described: "she's not really pretty, but she's got a great personality!" Whatever.

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Linda and I had been seeing each other for at least 7 or 8 months with a little time out while she dated someone else semi-seriously for a while. It didn't last, though. We usually saw each other on Saturday nights. I tried to take her to dinner or to a show or something, but she really didn't want to go anywhere. As she once said, sitting on my couch sipping her Pinsch and water, "I'm right where I want to be."

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Santa must love me because I've never had such a young, nubile present in all my life. It was the day before Christmas and the sky hung over my house as black as cast iron. A bitter mix of snow and sleet hissed through the leafless trees in my front yard. A foot and a half of snow covered the ground; not much for some parts of the country but here in Olympia, Washington it was quite a shock. Power was out in parts of town, though not at my house, and the schools and many businesses had been closed for several days.

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I sat at the counter, sipping my coffee while being mesmerized by the waitress serving the customers in the restaurant. Having caught the red eye from New York, I arrived rather early and being able to catch a little sleep on the plane, felt refreshed, even with the time difference.

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"Are we sure we want to sell the house? It's in a great location and it should be scarfed right up. There won't be second thoughts to be had about it. Sales in Mystic are booming." Daren Peters was standing at a window at the back of the house, taking a break with a cup of coffee, while his older sister, Peggy, chattered on as she continued packing boxes to send back to California.

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