Your erotic stories

It started out as a fantasy. I'd stumbled across a website that provided an in-depth and intriguing view on the psychology of cuckolding. Originally a 'cuckold' was a man with an unfaithful wife. It was a scornful epithet back in the day. But more recently, it's evolved into a fetish - a fetish often practiced by intellectuals and those looking for more than just the physical parts of being in a relationship.

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My phone buzzed, a message received. "Are you interested in a special offer, this weekend only? Double bondassage?" A couple of months previously I had enjoyed a bondassage session with Rebecca, and the idea of two goddesses brought an immediate throb to the base of my belly. It turned out that R had a colleague visiting for an expo over the weekend, and some teaching was proposed.

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Our small kitchen was a bustle of activity, my own rushed, anxious movements contrasting with Hanna's relaxed calm. She sat down at the small breakfast bar in her fluffy white robe and began to delicately segment her pink grapefruit, a cup of tea gently steaming beside her. As usual however I was running late, standing with a bowl of cornflakes in one hand and a spoon in the other, forcing mouthful after mouthful hurriedly down, all the while trying to avoid milky splashes on my shirt.

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This was way better than what she'd been expecting... Tara had been looking for "something new" for a long time. She had married her childhood sweetheart straight out of college and thought that he was everything she wanted. She assumed marriage was a place to indulge all of her sexual fantasies and that her husband would want to join her in them. He instead became even more reserved. Sex, when she could convince him to, was short, boring, and very vanilla.

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I heard the front door open and close, and my wife came barreling into the living room. I barely had time to take in her petite frame, muscular thighs, and small breasts before she grabbed me by the arm, pulled me up from the couch, and dragged me toward the bedroom. She was dripping with sweat — why on earth would a person go for a run in the middle of the day in August? — and as we passed through the bedroom door she said, "I need you to fuck me right now."

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We were lying on the bed, exhausted, covered from head to toe in sweat, my warmth oozing from you as we kissed. My tongue explored your lips just as my hands explored your naked flesh, your chest rising heavily up and down from the exertion moments before. But it was just the beginning. "We need a shower," you said, your voice thick and your smile wide.

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Hot morning sun blistering one side of my cheek, along with the sound of a shrieking bird outside my window as I lay on my bed woke me up. I scrambled to the floor, forgetting for the moment, in my sleepy state, that it was Sunday and I didn't have to go to work. Looking at the clock on the bedside table I saw that it was eight thirty. I felt like going back to bed but habit got the better of me. Growing up, I had heard my late dad on numerous occasions speak on the virtues of early rising, claiming that persons who liked to sleep late got nowhere in life. I usually got up at around 5:45 to 6:00 am to start preparing for work.

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The muscles in her arm are stronger than they look. Then again, so are the muscles in my thighs. And our tongues. You only find those things out by working them. And we did...a lot. Our lungs, our throats, our lips, eyes, backs, fingers (especially our fingers)...they all got quite the workout. And that was just the first night!

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The bass is hard. The temperature is hot. "Bar in the front, dancing in the middle, pool in the back...thankfully Aussie pubs aren't much different from American bars." I don't really attract that much attention until I open my mouth and order a coke. Then every eye is on the American with the weird accent ordering a decidedly "wimpy" drink. I shake off the stares with a smile as I peel my glasses off.

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QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong === I arrived at my office the next day to find an envelope on my desk with my name written on it in neat, if rather florid, handwriting. It read "Robert" which was slightly odd because everyone at work calls me Rob.

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