Your erotic stories

I heard my name being called out from the midst of the teeming horde pressing in on the barriers after customs in New Delhi's Indira Gandhi international airport, and a head and arm waving a sign was bouncing up and down over the tumult. The sign the young man was carrying said "Clifford Jenkins" with "New York" written under it. That was me. But I wasn't being met by anyone that I knew of.

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"You ready to stick that bad boy back in my tight little ass?" Ashley sneered, turning her heads toward me, looking back, as I crawled and knelt obediently behind her outstretched rear end. "You bet I am!" I exclaimed, eagerly positioning myself, ready to target and plunge my readied spear into her open exhaust shaft. I couldn't believe I was in the position, literally speaking, immediately behind her California grade juicy ripe piece. Only a few hours prior, I had finally met Ashley, the anal goddess.

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They had first met in an insurgent camp outside Yogyakarta in the Indonesian jungle, far from their own country of the Philippines. In the Philippines there was little chance that they would have met, especially while the Americans were still there in force, but even in more recent years when the government had been weak and taken up with internal squabbling.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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