Your erotic stories

Mum put the telephone down and turning to me said, "Do you realize you haven't seen Aunt Emma for nearly two years?" "Is it that long?" I asked, glancing up from the book I was reading. "Yes, and she wonders why, she thinks she might have done something to offend you; has she?" "No, I just haven't got around to visiting her and it's a damned long trek out there -- the far flung outposts of..."

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My career as a body painter has introduced me to some interesting people. Call them characters, if you must. But, understandably, a person willing to have their naked body turned into a canvas is going to be somewhat...extroverted. I've always thought exhibitionist was a cruel description for my subjects. In fact, if I do my job correctly the public should not know that the subject is naked.

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Five foot two, light brown hair, hazel eyes. That was Dawn. She was also one hundred twenty pounds, firm bodied, and shapely. A bit of a tomboy, she refused to shave her legs or pussy, but with really fine hair it didn't matter. We were out on my boat; The Dancer. It was mid-August, nicely hot on Puget Sound, and we were on a light reach heading for Quartermaster Harbor. The wind was only a couple knots and boat speed was half that.

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Allen Clarke was a tall, handsome man of twenty-one. He was a very sexually adventurous person. From the age of sixteen he had done just about everything a guy could do to enjoy the erotic world of sex.

Threesomes, foursomes and even orgies had been done. There was even an evening with transsexual. Of course, it was a very beautiful and effeminate TS and he was the male in the act. In fact, the sex driven lad was up for anything that involved consenting adults.

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Tom was sitting in coach seat 23B, the middle seat. The seats on either side of his were empty, for now. The passengers were streaming onto the plane in that herky-jerky hurry-up-and-wait mambo that is repeated a million times a day on every flight to everywhere. As each passenger approached, Tom silently evaluated them and put them into one of two categories.

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Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I parked my car in front of the towering mansion. This was the house of my client, and I was nervous. Sure, I had entertained many men, especially at bachelor parties, but I've never had a wealthy client. And by the looks of this beautiful residence, this guy had to be very wealthy. I exited the car and walked to the house, my stiletto heels making very audible clicking noises as I walked. I stopped at the iron gate and pushed the button below the little speaker. It made a loud 'buzz' and then I heard static.

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One Friday morning, mid-November, I was surprised to receive a call from Ben. With his new job in the City, I never usually heard from him during the day, and rarely saw him except at the weekends. "Hi Ali," he said, sounding very anxious. "Are you free to talk?" I looked around, intrigued, a little worried, but there was no one in earshot. "Yes. What's up?"

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Jenna Merriweather couldn't understand why she was so nervous as she opened the gate to let herself into the neighbors yard. Old Mrs. Jourdan had been a recluse and when she left her house to relatives, they had left the eight-foot cedar fence up around the property. Jenna had never really seen the Jourdan house and she was surprised to see a fresh coat of dark green paint that matched the curtains covering every window.

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We were sitting down on the only couch available. Marco’s knees were bent, with his right ankle resting atop his left knee. I was further to left and facing him when I straightened my leg and that’s pretty much all it took. Searching for a place to rest my weary feet, instead, I encountered the inside of his firm jean-clad thigh. Indeed, quite by chance, I stretched my calf by pointing my heel and that drew my toes back over the delectable curve of his crotch.

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I couldn't believe it after 20 years of marriage and a man supporting me, I was single again and holding down a job. I'm the executive personal assistant for the president of a nonprofit organization. At 43 years old I was still a good-looking woman but wasn't feeling it. My so-called loving husband and provider had left me for a twenty-year girl, who "made him feel like he hadn't in years".

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