Your erotic stories

I showered in a trance, my mind buzzing with all that had happened. I was drying my hair when Maria came into my room. “Have you been terribly bored?” she asked. “No…um…not at all,” I replied. “I had a bath and a nap.” “Well we have a few hours before the party…tennis? Swimming?” “Not tennis…I haven’t the energy,” I said.

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Hotel and motel rooms always seem to hold a certain special atmosphere about them: an almost indescribable, but no less undeniable aura of sex. The kinds of sex that permeate these plastic, manicured, temporary lodgings varies as widely as the colours of the spectrum: there is forbidden sex, illicit sex, bad sex, mediocre sex, good sex, great sex, amazing sex, marital sex, extra-marital sex, awkward sex, first-time sex, last-time sex, grudge sex, gentle sex, drunken sex, unwilling sex, ravaging sex, guilt sex, revenge sex, straight sex, gay sex, thrill sex, kinky sex, make-up sex, rough sex, farewell sex, and base, raw, lustful sex.

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I went to a small college in a town about 25 minutes from my parents' town. To save money, I lived with my parents and commuted my junior year. It worked out ok because my girlfriend, Sarah, lived close to my parents' house and went to a local community college, although the half-hour drive every day got to be a chore.

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The next morning after the card party, Cheryl and I were laying in bed and she started to get frisky. Cheryl started rubbing my hardening cock through my panties and telling me how much she loved watching the cock sucking action last night. I told her that she sure seemed to be getting off on the guy-guy thing and I reminded her that I love pussy.

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I found one way to connect with other men looking for some fun was on chat lines on the phone. There were a few that were free although many charged for the service and you could get on and find others interested in the same thing you were interested in. The particular time I'm thinking about started off as many of them did with me getting an invitation to talk with another guy about what it was we were looking for. During the course of the first few minutes it became clear that he was looking for a man to come over and give him a blow job.

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You have me tied down to the bed, my limbs stretched and tightly secured with the silk scarves to each of the bedposts. A fifth scarf is wrapped around my head, covering my eyes, completely blocking out all light. The faint scent of jasmine incense is in the air, combined with the smell of hot melting wax.

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Andrew Weston was not a man to trifle with. Neither was Alison: his stepdaughter. It was as if they had been fashioned from the same cloth and they understood each other perfectly: often trying to outmaneuver each other in a game of one-upmanship. Both were self assured and attractive to look at.

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"Missy... wake up!" "Who... what is it?" "It's me, Officer McDonald. Come on, sweetie, wake up!" "What time is it?" "Shhhh! It's just after three in the morning. Come on, get up." "Why?"

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His name was Roland and he was from Jamaica. I'm guessing he was about 30. He had deep ochre skin, eyes that were almost black, closely-cropped hair, and was tall, lean and very graceful. At one point in his life he'd been a dancer, but was now a set designer for one of the larger theater companies in Amsterdam. He was just a little bit effeminate, and overtly gay.

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It had been a real rough year for my big sister Debra. In the March she had lost her job, then in June our father sadly passed away in his sleep. Then in September she split up from her husband of five years Colin. It had been a pretty rocky marriage at the best of times, I never took to him and always wondered what she saw in the waster. Still my feelings towards him paled in comparison to his family's towards Debra – they hated her with a passion from the first!

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