Your erotic stories

On Monday I appeared for work. There I met Denise, the secretary/paralegal who was also Ron's sister. Denise was thirty-five with long brown hair that reached her ass, a curvy figure, impressive chest, and killer legs. Her round wide round face featured large green eyes, a prominent jaw, and a large mouth with full lips.

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Michael Halversun has a hard time recounting his memories, even now that he is safe in the small book laden office of his therapist. The twenty year old is filled with guilt, his voice wavering as he speaks into the tape recorder and his therapist sits across from him, listening to his tale. His upbringing told him that adultery was a great sin, and his masculinity told him that it was his fault. Whether either of those things were true really didn't matter any more to him. Michael had been raped.

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After several weeks of flirting and sharing sexual fantasies on Lit, the Massachusetts lawyer had become obsessed with the sexy young nursing assistant from the deep South. They had shared one of his deepest fantasies, the fantasy of having his ass opened by a strong, firm yet gentle woman. The more they discussed it, the more his urge to live out the fantasy intensified.

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I see you heading home, I already know where you live, I have been watching you, I follow you. You are distracted as you turn into your building and I follow you up to your apartment. My pulse quickens as I watch you open your door, I catch up, step quickly in behind you and close the door. You turn and look at me... a tall blonde has followed you into your apartment and your mind can't quite grasp what that means.

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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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I looked at the time, I was getting excited because I knew I was almost off work and soon would be coming home to you. I had called you letting you know I'd be home in a few hours, so you had plenty of time to bathe and do your thing. You sounded so good and yummy it was very difficult to concentrate on work. I hate it when two hours seems like ten, but that only happens when there's somewhere else I'd rather be, and where I wanted to be was with you.

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The place is not what I expected. The atmosphere is bright, glitzy, with an overall techno feel that seems almost cold. I had expected something warmer, more ... nurturing, feminine, I guess, from a place that caters exclusively to women. I wonder if this appeals to the butch types, and then laugh at myself for indulging in stereotypes. What do I know, anyway - it's my first time in a "girl bar".

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