Brandy's generous bosoms rose and fell rapidly. She stared at the small screen of her e-reader. This latest in the series of erotic novels by one of her favourite authors held her rapt attention. It was much more risqué than the timid 'fade to black after the first kiss' romances that she had been reading since the age of twelve.
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You walk straight through the hotel reception and head over to the elevators. Pushing the button you wait for it to arrive. You are wearing the tight blue jeans red hoodie that you know I like. Underneath is the black underwear from one of the pictures you sent me when we first started talking to each other.
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"Hey Jim, you enjoying the party?"
I looked up, and saw that it was my host, Bruce, walking up to the couch I was sitting on. I was a co-worker of his sister, and she was constantly bragging about his parties, and that I should come to one with her. I gave in, more out of curiosity than anything, and here I was, sitting on his couch, drinking his mojito, and people watching.
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I hate labels. I don't consider myself gay. Hell, I don't even think of myself as bi, either. Slightly bent? Straight with a slight curve? Fuck if I know because I love sex with women. Really, I do, except I've had a dick or two inside my mouth, too. So, what does that make me? Before Todd, I never thought much about it. Best to think of myself as a horny bastard and leave it at that.
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After my wife died the house was so empty.
Most of the time it was okay. I went to work and didn't think about it. I ate dinner out, came home and watched TV until late. But there was no one to share my bed at night, and the weekends were long and lonely.
In a way it was good, because I started being more friendly to people, just to have someone to talk to. My next door neighbor George, for instance.
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Everyone on Craigslist can't be a creep, right?
His post about introducing a woman to anal sex sounded very sincere. By the use of language, I'd gathered that this man was educated, thoughtful, perhaps even well spoken. If we'd met under other circumstances, we might find ourselves at the same end. But this was so much easier – I know what he wants, he knows what I'd like to try.
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It was always a fantasy of mine to model for an artist. I do not think I really cared where the artwork would go, be it for personal use or to be on display for the world to see. It wasn't the fame or glory that I cared about. There is something exciting about striking a pose for someone to examine you in all your glory and imperfection, capturing your details into another form. Clay, paint, photos, charcoal drawing, all of it excited me.
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David was one of the regulars at my favorite bar. He was one of many people I saw there on a fairly regular basis; we'd occasionally chat about sports or movies or our favorite types of booze. He was a couple years older than me (I was 26 at the time) and, even though I'd never had any sort of sexual or romantic encounters with another guy before, I couldn't help but notice that he was attractive.
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This story is entirely fictional.
*****
She was beautiful. Eighteen years old and stunning with her petite little body and long brown hair, just like her mother. When she was six years old, her mom had taken off with a friend of hers (whom I was always right not to trust) and she never looked back. She never called or asked about our daughter. She was just gone. It broke my heart but I got to keep Lacy.
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Grabbing her small backpack, Amelia stepped down from the bus, still ecstatic that her uncle had offered her the use of his vacant holiday cottage in the coastal resort town. It was the start of the University spring term break. The tangy salt air tasted of freedom as she stopped and sampled the beach view from the bus stop.
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