Your erotic stories

Do I have issues with my wife? No. Do I love my wife? Of course I do. We have been married for awhile and together way longer than that. So as always happens we had become accustomed to a certain way of living. Not that it was bad, but it was predictable. Work all week, me wanting sex during the week and the wife just too tired. Scheduled love time on the weekend.

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Amy's first day working at the library started off with about as much excitement as one would expect. That was fine by her, as she preferred the quiet and the library was a good place to find it. The aisles and bookshelves seemed to go on forever, full of books to discover and quiet places to hide away and read them. The campus library was also the least likely place to run into the kind of boys she wanted to avoid.

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Eleanor Martin sat naked on the toilet seat, waiting for the results from the ovulation test strip. This was the ninth day in a row she had used the kit, and so far she hadn't tested positive. The thirty nine year old housewife was beginning to grow frustrated. She and her Husband Robert had been trying to have a baby for over fifteen years without any success.

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My life is very simple. Clients want someone dead, they pay me, I make the person dead. I would like to tell you I have a code of honor. I would like to tell you I don't kill women or children, but I am not a liar. I have killed women and would have no moral problem with killing a child. The subject has never come up.

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She stands there completely nude, holding the wide black leather collar between her breasts. The buckle is a heavy gauge steel as is the large cold ring affixed to its front which dangles down toward her smooth shaved groin. Her eyes are closed and she can smell the leather mixed with her own scent from the last time she wore this collar several days earlier.

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I stared out of my corner office, and took in the view. The view was some guy in the corner office of the next building, staring right back at me. Inspirational. How had it come to this? When did my life go wrong? I was very successful at my work. I was also very unhappy. The money was great, the hours were not. The business was interesting, the people were abominable. The prestige was a source of pride.

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I have been married for close to eight years. My wife is what some consider a BBW, or a SSBBW, she is 5'11, medium length brown hair and hazel eyes, beautiful breasts that sag just a little, an ass that you want to grab from behind or smack and watch it jiggle, a tummy so soft you can't help but rub it, and thighs that are so thick they are better than any vise. God I love her.

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Warning! This story includes very heavy BDSM, rough sex, anal fucking and other nasty stuff. As usual there is also a romance but it is secondary to the stroke. Another caveat: I don't write with a dictionary or a thesaurus at my side. I use words which are familiar to me---words I use in daily conversation. I am not writing stories for children. If you are the persistent anonymous poster who wishes I would use smaller words so that you can understand them, just give me a zero and move on without comment.

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"OK, what the hell is that?" Eileen asked laughing. "That is our Play Chair," the saleswoman said with a smile, coming up behind them. "It tends to get a reaction from everyone that comes in here." 'Here' was an upscale 'erotic boutique' in Boston. Eileen and Tom were in town for a get-away weekend and decided a visit would provide a nice bit of spice to their romantic weekend. Neither had been to the store before and didn't quite know what to expect.

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My wife and I were still in love after all our 20 years of marriage but as with most couples some of the spark had slowly dropped from the relationship, especially in the sex department. Now that might not be too bad if she'd been a nympho at the start but she'd always been a lot more reserved than I was. She certainly wasn't a prude - we'd had sex in every room in the house, in the yard, on the beach, in the car and a whole bunch more places but it was always 'normal' sex.

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