Your erotic stories

"Fuck is that the time, I have to go" he said pushing back the sheet and climbing quickly out of the hotel bed. "Why, what's the hurry?" I asked sitting up my full tits flopping around all over the place. "Oh bugger," he said as he caught his fingernails on the bathroom door. "I er, um, promised my son I would pop in this evening." "What for, it'll be very late?"

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"What do you think of him," I asked, pointing to an older man with a combover. "He looks like he won't spit on our food." "Ugh, I hope not. He looks like the kind to talk about his grandkids to us for twenty minutes and then forget to take our order."

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I named him Frank, as in Frankfurter, because he was a schnauzer, and as kids, we called them frankfurter dogs. It had been 2 weeks since I found him huddled out by the trash cans, shaking in the cold night air. I brought him into the garage, which was a lot warmer than the 15 degrees it was supposed to reach, held him in a towel to stop his shivers. I had a few cans left over from when my brother stopped by with his dog, Mangy, and Frank went at it greedily.

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I am a 34 year old divorced woman. I have recently moved from the small town where I spent my whole life to a larger city, to re-start my life. My ex-husband had little or no interest in sex. Sometimes it would be months between feeble attempts. There was never anything interesting or creative. No oral, or anal, which I was craving.

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As I woke up, slowly feeling my senses come back to me, a slight fuzzy light hitting my eyes, a slow ringing in my ears, a bit of a parched throat, I tried to get a sense of my bearings. I hate mornings like this. So discombobulated in those first few moments, needing to piece together the details of last night. Clearly I had had to much to drink, clearly I was a bit hungover.

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I guess I did it on purpose though I'm not really sure I knew it at the time. If I think about it long and hard, I'm almost certain it wasn't my idea at all, but I'm not so certain you'd agree with me on that one. There again, I doubt you're complaining one way or the other since either way you still got your way. Okay, we both got our way, but that's not the point either.

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Spots of dappled sunlight streamed through the trees and danced and twirled on the pavement as I waited for her outside the building. She was always late, frantically trying to keep up with her life. Not that I would ever want her life, I snorted to myself. Immediately regretting the thought, I focussed on the distant rush of traffic echoing softly through what had to be the last quiet street in Brisbane's central business district.

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Twice during the short night, she had woken in terror and struggled in his arms. Each time he had held her tightly comforting her, his calm voice reassuring her that no one would harm her again. Nuzzling and petting her until she slept once more, it took more will power than he knew he possessed not to take her each time she woke and his hands travelled over her lithe, supple body soothing her fears.

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"So, you think you might be OK, now? A different perspective, I hope?" "Yes, yes, thank you, . . . You know I haven't gotten your name. I feel so . . ." "No need to, son. You can just call me Dingle. And I won't be seeing you up here again, I do hope." "Umm. I kinda hoped that—"

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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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