Your erotic stories

I don't really care much for politics. I'm neither a Democrat nor a Republican. I'm not liberal or conservative. I'm just -- well somewhere between Independent and "I don't give a shit." Therefore some might consider it very strange -- I know that my parents did -- that in early July, 2011, I took a sabbatical from college to work on Republican Colorado Senator June Jepson's presidential campaign. The reason -- I was fascinated by her.

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The first thing he knew after a long deep sleep was a sound. Someone spoke. The words were "Holy shit." murmured quietly but he heard them, and that seemed marvelous for some reason. In that first moment of consciousness his hearing seemed wonderfully powerful.

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I'm your average 49-year-old guy from Indiana sitting on someone's couch in Michigan who I just met only a day ago. Standing in front of me and looking down was someone that I spoke with online only recently and he was unbuttoning his pants and smiling at me as I watched him. I'm average, just short of 6 foot tall and weighing about 175, I run every day.

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It was obvious that both Steve and I were both comfortable with the ground rules for our encounters changing, during our last adventure with Tracy I had encouraged Steve to break our 'no penetration' rule by actually taking charge of his cock and easing it between Tracy's wet swollen lips with my own fingers.

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"Holy shit." I said it out loud, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, mid-step, staring at the picture on my phone. "He's...hot." I scrolled the picture on the screen, increasing the size to get a closer look, noting it was a scan from the back of a book. "Oh, that's right," I thought, "He's a writer." He was definitely hot, for a guy the age of my parents. He had a thin nose and high forehead, dark eyes with fine lines at the corners, and dark hair that fell around his face in waves.

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First of all, Nathan King ruined my life. Let's start with that. I was in business school, like the good little WASP that I was. I was going to be...I don't even know. I was going to wear the good suits, though, send my interns out for my coffee and send them scattering with a look if they got my order wrong (venti non-fat iced chai tea latte, they'd murmur to themselves in fear).

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I slid off my heavy backpack in the shade of a stand of Lodgepole Pine. It was 1980, the summer after I graduated from college. I had put life on hold to hike the Colorado Trail. I had no attachments, no appointments to keep, no place I had to be but on the trail and in the moment.

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Robert Kyle had finally had it. Everyday he allowed his American History class the last five minutes of the period to themselves. And everyday during those last five minutes, the female student sitting directly in front of him would do something to give him a raging hard-on. Dropping a pencil. Re-tying a shoelace. Tossing something in the wastebasket and missing by a mile. All three caused her to have to bend over.

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Usually I can suppress it. I can go months without the need creeping up on me. But when it does, oh boy, you better watch out, 'cause I can't stop myself. And it don't take much to set me off. So I'm at this conference my company puts on once a year during the first week of December. It was my first time being sent as I'm the new kid in my department, but the rep who usually attends took some personal time to help with the delivery and care of his new baby.

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Santa must love me because I've never had such a young, nubile present in all my life. It was the day before Christmas and the sky hung over my house as black as cast iron. A bitter mix of snow and sleet hissed through the leafless trees in my front yard. A foot and a half of snow covered the ground; not much for some parts of the country but here in Olympia, Washington it was quite a shock. Power was out in parts of town, though not at my house, and the schools and many businesses had been closed for several days.

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