Your erotic stories

I lay back listening to the sound of my wife hungrily slurping away at my cock, as she did every day when I returned home and pondered how lucky I am. I married Margot, a spoiled daddy's girl from the right part of town used to getting what she wanted. Daddy being, of course, Clifton Meriwether Van Rijn, renowned shipping magnate, whom I had the opportunity to work for as a landscape consultant- a gardener for the less verbally dexterous.

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"Ten full minutes. You gotta lay there, on your back, totally nude. Hands behind your head so you can relax." "Relax, right." How Mike and I wound up in this bizarre, slightly hilarious situation was fueled by very cheap beer and overactive 19 year old hormones. Well, Mike was 19, I was 18, and we'd been buddies since sophomore year of high school. Mike was a bit of a paradox. He was a soccer player who wasn't a jock, a metal head who wasn't a burnout, and a good student who wasn't a nerd.

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We were in the study of Professor Hendrick's house, in the late evening, nearing the end of the tutorial he was conducting. At least I assumed it was nearing the end, because I was very close to coming. We were in a straight chair facing his desk. Professor Hendricks, his hands wrapped around my waist was sitting in the chair; I was sitting on his hard cock—or, rather, fucking myself on his cock in slow risings and fallings and me moaning in tenor to his groaning in baritone.

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The first time I met Mr. Steinberg, I was totally impressed with the way he carried himself. He looked pretty old to me, maybe in his 70's, maybe even older, but I could tell from the way he dressed and spoke and especially with his young physique, that he exuded confidence and self assurance. I don't think he was a body builder by any means, but dressed in casual attire, he stood straight and proud and when he moved around, his agility belied his age, however old he really was. 

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The first thing I know in consciousness is the tickling of your chest hairs on my nose as I breath in and out. Instinctively, I reach up to rub my nose, inadvertantly flicking your nipple as I do. "Hmmmm" you breath out, shifting slightly to wrap your arm around my shoulders. You are so warm that I snuggle closer, running my hand over your chest to find your other nipple, still soft in relaxation. A slight brush of my hand brings it to attention to match it's counterpart.

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Tiredly, I walked up the driveway from my car. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to a relaxed evening and a cold beer or two. I dumped my briefcase and suit jacket in the foyer and shouted, "Honey, I'm home. Where are you?" "In the bathroom," she answered. I walked down the passage and pushed the bathroom door open. Zoë was seated on the toilet, her flimsy g-string around her slim ankles and her sundress hiked up over her wide hips. She looked up at me with an annoyed look in her grey eyes.

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This is an edited version of the original. A comment mentioned that the ending of the original didn't really fit and after reading it a few times, I realized he/she was right and I changed it. I hope you enjoy. "Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything." - Katharine Hepburn, Me: Stories of My Life

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There's this guy I work with, Jason. We don't actually work together - I'm in accounting, he's in shipping - but we run into each other fairly often, and for a while now we've been having lunch together a few times a week. We're sort of an unlikely pair, really. Jason is 23, I'm pushing 50, he's straight and I'm gay, he's a big sports fan, and I couldn't care less. Although, I do try to keep up on his favorite teams, just to be able to have a decent conversation with him if the subject comes up.

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It had been a couple months since my mom and I had that first encounter in the club. Ted came home and didn't suspect anything other than the usually, it seems, since he never suspected that I had been at the club. He and my mom went that next weekend and I stayed home to watch my little sisters. It was annoying, since Anna is 19, so I don't know why I have to get tethered to Macy, the little one.

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Candace punched the button for the elevator with mixed feelings. She was already running fifteen minutes late, and if she didn't make up the time somewhere, she'd be late meeting Jeff. Usually she arranged her day to allow herself an extra twenty minutes to walk up and down the stairs from her 40th floor office, to avoid suffering through an anxiety-filled ride in the express elevator.

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