Your erotic stories

I'm at a gallery opening, a warm evening, an elegant crowd. I have only a slight acquaintance with the artist, but I promised her I'd be here. I don't see her anywhere, and I don't know any of the people milling around the large abstract paintings. But the wine is decent, and I had nothing better to do, so I'm not unhappy.

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I guess I married a woman who likes to play a bit. She has a good attitude and is always able to laugh at adversity somehow and make the best of things. She is sexually adventuresome and that suits me to a 'T'. In reading a few erotic stories here and there, we quickly realized that everyone has their likes and dislikes.

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I step into the front room and am struck by the immediate sense of anticipation that surrounds me. The doorman notices that I am not a regular attendee and approaches me with a copy of the house rules. I read over them and wonder if I have gotten myself into more than I can handle. Recognizing my apprehension the doorman asks me if I have any questions. Do I? Well, sure a whole list of them, but who will have the time or the inclination to be my personal informant as to the inner workings of this world without judgment?

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She walked the length of the terminal and looked at her watch and then at the arrival/departure display as if it would change anything. As if this futile pacing would make his plane get here any faster, faster or slower, she did not exactly know. And now that she had done it, finally consented to meet him, pushing aside all her misgivings and doubts, she was consumed with a bewildering mix of impatience and uncertainty.

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It was the summer after my senior year in high school, just three months of killing time until the start of college. I had just turned 18, and I had been single for the entire previous schoolyear. Small town, small school, and small dating pool made for an incredibly dull senior year. My girlfriend for the first three years of high school, the girl I lost my virginity to (the only girl I'd ever slept with) was a year older than me and had gone off to college.

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To call the private studio of the Dominatrix a dungeon would, for the fortunate, earn only her contempt. Eschewing the contrivances of male sadomasochistic fantasies, the walls were painted a passionless shade of gray-green, the oak floor polished to the luster of ancient gold, and the sole window decorated with an embroidered ivory curtain, now closed.

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As Lorraine walked up the steps of the mansion for Andrew's one o'clock lesson, she could hear him butchering Beethoven's "Für Elise" in a way so awful it had to be intentional. Sure enough, the musical carnage soon ended in a burst of raucous laughter followed by the sound of several people slamming their hands down on the keyboard—all in all a forced, nasty sound.

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Ever since congress passed the twenty-eighth amendment legalizing prostitution and other sexual services, there has been a rising and more predominant sub-culture of professional and recreational sexual slavery. Whether men and women would sign away their bodies for love or money, the contract was legally binding and would hold up in any court. A number of BDSM dens arose where like-minded people could gather;

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"Got a light?" Melissa looked up as she was putting her lighter and cigarettes back into her small purse. Standing next to her at the bar was another young woman, maybe a couple years older than her own 22 years. The young woman was striking, with shoulder length, slightly curly red hair. Her face was nearly flawless, her lips full and pursed in a slight smile.

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