Your erotic stories

I was at fundraiser at my new husband's workplace. Everyone who was anyone in our small town was there, vying to impress each other with much preening of plumage as the evening wore on. As usual, my husband John had gathered what few young people were in attendance like a pied piper and escaped outside into the warm summer night on the porch, leaving the stilted world of moneyed philanthropists inside. I had noted his exit and attempted to follow, but was intercepted in the hall by a large elderly dame of society who enjoyed nothing more than to recall tales from her long ago youth by the hour.

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What a neat idea, Ted thought. He'd been down Lexington a couple of times a week all semester from his room to his classes at the university and he hadn't even noticed the Chance Café, down on the lower level under a hippy New Age gear store.

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"Come on, Jennifer, give me some," was the standard plea from my husband Duke. Not that I minded making love with him, heck, we'd been together 8 years and had made love countless times in a variety of places. But this was Tiffany's wedding day and we were late for the ceremony. I was dressed in my perfect outfit, with perfect hair and perfect make up. I looked good.

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The phone rang once. I groaned, stirring from dreams as deep as the blue eyes I had been dreaming about. The phone rang twice. I sat up and gave the phone two middle fingers. The phone rang again. "FUCK!" I shouted, lunging myself across the silk sheets to pick the damned thing up.

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I don't know where I got the idea, but whatever possessed me to try it was a godsend. You see, it's not so much that I'm a deviant or anything... but I've always had one little dirty obsession. I love the idea of anal sex. I love the thought of sticking my cock into a girl's tight ass and fucking her until I cum.

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Eventually Alan's contract came to an end and we decided to move to England. South East Asia was suffering further problems and the tourist industry was dead for the time being. His final contract had been quite large and employed a mixture of Australians, Canadian and a couple more Brits. We had all become good friends over the past eighteen months, spending many nights drinking, either in bars or at our house.

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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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