Your erotic stories

Two years ago when I first became a full-time student at the state university's city campus I was fortunate enough to find a part-time job, one that I still have to this day. Twenty hours a week I work in a small family run pastry shop called the Donut King. While the amount of money I earn there is modest, it is a much needed supplement to my student loan and savings.

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"Then go fuck yourself!" I yelled as I stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door. I was fuming. How dare Matt accuse me of "dragging him away on holiday"? I'd done no such thing. Our holiday in France was supposed to be fun for both of us. Huh! Not likely! Matt had done nothing but complain; he didn't like the food, the beer was too expensive, he couldn't get a Wi-Fi connection. Whinge, whinge, whinge!

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Susan looked back over the numbers as she sipped her coffee. In the background, chatty morning talk radio spoke of sports and sex positions and someone laughed. There is always laughter on morning talk radio. Something is always funny. But Susan couldn't enjoy it, because there was no time to laugh. She was crunching her businesses' numbers.

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I was drawn from a deep sleep by my wife, Sarah, as my heavy eyes tried to pull me into reality. "What? What?" I managed woozily. My wife's nudging stopped and she said, "Someone's pounding on the door." I glanced at the clock, the only light in the pitch-black bedroom.

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Feeling that deep thrill, that slow burn that seems to consume, that long deep obsession with being worshiped. I have him on his knees now, he is complacent, docile....he is submissive. It was not always this way. We began with a completely old fashioned relationship, with no power exchange. We were blind to the Ecstasy of submission, innocent of the line between pleasure and pain.

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You greet me with a nod and a glance. I know I have to obey your instructions and walk into your room silently. I stand there as you walked around me, touching my clothes, a single finger tracing my form. Standing face to face, you grab the collar of my shirt and, expressionless, you rip it open and shred it from my body.

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"What a conniving bitch" was all I could think. When I had turned eighteen in June my foster mother could have kicked me to the curb but she hadn't. Relief first struck me then suspicion. My foster mother wasn't exactly Mother Theresa, there had to be a catch. It wasn't obvious at first what was really going on. The condition for my remaining was simple, I had to pay my way. Plus she would need a little for rent. No problem.

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Terrance Madison looked around the crowded ballroom, hoping for a glimpse of her, not seeing her anywhere. For a brief moment, all his old insecurities came flooding back to him. Terrance pushed them back down -- way, way down, because there was no logical reason to have them any more. At 43, he looked great -- better than he had some 25 years earlier.

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"So?" Jason asked as he rolled up at the bottom of the drive on his mountain bike. Robert held up his phone, showing the message from his older brother with two specifically capitalized words in an otherwise innocuous message — care package. "Sweet. Let's roll." The pair set out on the gravel road, riding even deeper into the middle of nowhere. Living out in the country certainly had its disadvantages, but there were a few things that helped offset the boredom and inconvenience. One of them was the lack of prying eyes.

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The first guy showed up at 7:30am. I was still in bed so it took me a few minutes to get up, get dressed and get to the door. I pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and went to stop the ringing of the doorbell, wondering who in the hell would be ringing it in the first place. I told myself that if it was my cousin, Kathy, I wouldn't knock her off the front stoop. She had a habit of showing up at odd times but never this early.

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