Your erotic stories

I could have sworn she was about my age. I'm 21 now, making me a dedicated observer of girl's asses and legs for the last eight years or so. I can detect the slightly-too-slender look of a hot little piece of jailbait, or the subtle signs of impending cellulite that brand most older women. So as I walked along the beach perhaps 30 feet behind the bikini-clad brunette, I never would have guessed she was old enough to be my mom.

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Carl is the type of black man that white women fantasize about having sex with. He's tall, muscular, very dark skinned, 36 years old with a shaved head and strong African features. I am a tall, slim 48 year old white guy who looks much younger than his age. I met Carl while playing on a local softball team. We quickly became friends and fell into the habit of spending Saturday nights together when neither of us had dates. He would come to my house and we would order pizza and drink beer.

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I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 34th floor. Being country born and bred I had never liked high buildings and I held my breath as I was rushed upwards. I looked in the mirror and straightened my tie, made sure my hair was neat and soon the doors quietly opened and I stepped out into the plush decor of the executive suites.

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We returned from the garden. 'Let's go up to our room. I want you to take me and enjoy me. Telling the story for so long has made me very excited; I want you to take my clothes off and tell me what you want of me.' 'Aren't you at least going to tell me what else happened that evening?' 'All right. We'll go to bed and I'll tell you. It's room seventeen.'

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He disabled the burglar alarm then pushed the metal pick into the door lock at the back of the house; let the tool play across the lock's pin. Too much or too little pressure, too little or too much finesse guaranteed failure. The skill in using a pick is to bounce it in the keyway according to the resistance offered by each pin. Gently coercing the pins into obeying his will, he was sensitive to the sound, the feel of the pick touching each pin.

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"You are a fucking whore!" His eyes blazed as he glared down at me and a reached up to grab his shirt. "Baby, wait it is not what you think...." I started as he shoved me away from him. "You were all over those guys on the dance floor! I saw with my own eyes, I am not fucking blind!" He stalked into the corner of the room and out the exit. I looked around the crowded club, only a few people close had noticed anything and they returned to dancing.

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"Fi! Hold the door!" A screech cuts through the rush hour bustle, and I wince in recognition. Clutching my bag closer, I sink into my seat and stare at the Metro doors, willing them to close. "Fi!" I duck my head. I know she knows I can hear her, but I don't care. I've never made a secret of hating her.

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I can't see anything. I am tied up and I feel helpless. He knows I am scared but excited too. He walks around outside the door. I can hear his foot falls. He has kept me here for a very long time with out a feed. I am hungry and I hunger for him. I can't believe that even so, I still prefer sex over my feed. I laughed at my sick thought and feelings.

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PART ONE After my girlfriend Jenny and I broke up, my social and sex life seemed to go on hold for awhile. I found that I now had lots of time to perfect my masturbation skills. Jenny simply moved on to another boyfriend. I began to see myself as just one more entry in her diary, but that didn't keep me from bringing her sexy body to mind as I lay on my bed in the dark of night and stroked my rigid cock. I usually pictured her in her snug designer jeans, her cute round ass moving seductively in the cleverly tailored denim as she walked ahead of me in the hall at the local community college we both attend.

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At what point does a preference become a fetish? I met Stella at a party. She had arrived with the critic Darian Fellini. Back then, Fellini was one of the art world's big stars. His book -- All the Naked Women -- had just come out, and everyone was talking about it. Was it art criticism? Or was it pornography? As a 19-year-old art student, I didn't really know. And I didn't really care.

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