Your erotic stories

To be honest, I can’t really pinpoint where my fetish for hairy women began. As a kid, I can remember looking at old photos of Victorian woman in lingerie, and thinking they looked slightly strange with the thick patches of hair in their armpits, and when I did see the occasional woman with hairy pits in real life, I thought it unusual rather than exciting.

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Part of me hates this man, whom I'll call "X" for now. We didn't get along as a couple, which is why we broke up in the first place. I didn't even hate him when we broke up- it was very amicable, the old ‘we're just in very different places right now,' blah blah blah… but very soon after the split, I found myself fantasizing, over and over again, about the sex we used to have. It became totally consuming, to the point that I finally found myself breaking down and calling him on the phone one day.

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Gloria was glad she finally convinced her husband, Gary, to visit their old friends, the Porters in Orlando. Oh, Gary could be an old curmudgeon, sure enough. Everyone knew that. But even he admitted it would be nice to see the Porters again and Gloria was looking forward to seeing the Potters' daughter and son-in-law at the same time. They lived in a nice old home (or so she heard) right on the beach and they would be hosting Gary and Gloria during their stay in Orlando.

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I always liked to leave aerobic class late. My teacher was truly the first women I ever had a crush on. She was a perfect 5'6" with long thick blonde hair she wore in braids and the most perfectly shaped tits. I had had enough fantasizing and I was about to approach her when she walked into the shower room.

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We were talking in the kitchen when his friend came and stood between us. I glanced over at him, but looked back at Jose, a little confused by his insistence that his friend come and hang out with us. Suddenly, his friend, whom he had introduced moments before as Alec, was on his knees in front of me, slipping his fingers sensually along my inner thigh, just above my knee. I was shocked, and immediately moved back while pushing his hand away.

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"What the hell was that," Jake Armstrong said to himself, as he walked passed the closed office door on his way to the copy machine room. The long corridor was empty, as most of the staff was out to lunch, and Jake wondered who could possibly be using the vacant office at this hour. Well whoever it was, they sure as hell were making quite a racket in there. Jake put his ear to the door, listened for a few moments, and then slowly turned the handle and pushed into the supposedly empty office.

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Saturday afternoon on a brisk November day in Calgary. I was into my second month of a six month stay, having come up from Houston for a consulting job in the oil fields. So far, Calgary had been nonstop hard work, and this day was the first break I'd taken. Keith, a foreman with the company I was contracted to, had invited me to watch a hockey game with his girlfriend Danielle and his crew of tough, muscled roustabouts and roughnecks.

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Even as a child Jane had always loved the feel of certain materials against her skin. Her first sexual feeling was caused by her wearing a plastic apron of her mothers. She felt her nipples harden and was worried because she thought she had wet herself as she was wet between her legs.

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There it was, shamelessly hanging out for the whole world to see. Like a big, denim-clad moon, just waiting for some enterprising astronaut to rocket aboard. Carrie bent fully over, kneeling in the vinyl seat and leaning out the passenger car window. Her ass swayed in counterbalance to her waving arm as she shouted goodbyes to her friends on the train platform. Her tight jeans struggled like hell to contain her flesh, but were losing the battle.

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You know how I always watched you, as you walked into my room, still slightly wet on your return from the shower down the hall. My senior year in college, fourth year in the dorm, and I had never seen a boy as beautiful as you, one whose firm pecs taunted me as your cock strained against the work-out shorts you lounged around in, the tip pressing against the fabric, right in front of my face on the days I would look up from reading a book on my bed.

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