Your erotic stories

"And a ten-inch cock." "You're shitting us now," Oliver said. "Yes, I'm shitting you," Porter answered. "But, really, I would want him to have a nice cock on him." "Well, high on my list is that he has to be willing to take out the trash without being asked to," Adrian interjected.

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It had been a hard week at work and I was looking forward to a relaxing weekend. I called my mate, Darren, and asked him if he fancied a drink on Saturday night so he suggested we have a drink in and I stay over at his place as his parents were away.

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We had become best friends by default. Quincy and I were the only long distance swimmers on our small college swim team and we were dating sisters. Our schedules brought us together. Eventually we roomed together. I am a reserved person and had never pressed for close friendships; Quincy was my first best friend since the third grade. He was more of an extrovert than me so it was he that initiated the conversation with the sisters that led to girlfriends. The girls were also members of the swim team and we were comfortable around each other.

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"My name is Nario. You are Mr. Armstead?" "Yes. I was expecting my uncle." "He could not come. I am his boy." Yes, I'll just bet you are, I thought. But then he clarified, if not enough to make a difference to me. "I am his houseboy. Welcome to Naples, Mr. Armstead." "Call me Harry, Please. Is it far from here to Positano?"

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Wally and I were roommates in college when I realized who I truly was sexually. Before Wally, I had been with girls. Hell, I liked being with girls a lot and loved eating pussy particularly. Hardly the resume of a gay bottom, but maybe the way I lost myself in the act of giving pleasure to women should have been a tip-off to me somehow. There was something submissive about the way in which their pleasure became my pleasure.

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Just like always I can hear the nearest neighbour pour water into something before he shuts the water off. The soft padding of feet floating above my head. I follow the footsteps, wandering beneath him. It's fascinating, how I can hear every move he makes. I know when he goes to work, when he comes home, when he sleeps and when he wakes.

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A week before Christmas, I ducked into the fifth floor men's room. It served as temporary reprieve. The first among twenty or thirty things I could invent to occupy myself while avoiding the remainder of the company Holiday party two floors below. One other occupant was in the room. He barely registered on my eggnog-addled brain. Most years I managed to escape the compulsory merrymaking by being unavoidably detained somewhere else on company business. This year I was unavoidably detained in Los Angeles.

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"Remember, sex onstage is illegal. This isn't fucking Amsterdam. You can jerk yourself off a little, play with the other guys' cocks, but if you cum, it's all over. Got it? No blowing your load. No oral. No penetration of any kind. Not that the other guys'd let you—they're professionals and a lot of them're straight. Got it?"

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To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger. 

His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance. 

In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple. 

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"I think he's signaling to you, sugar." I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room—or even to have three squares a day.

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