Your erotic stories

Ancient Cures for Modern Problems PART ONE Tim's mouth dropped open. A ghost! A man in white chino pants and a new red Hecadock Junior College sweatshirt yelled instructions to students on the tennis court. He was about forty, six-foot-two, powerful build, blond hair, crewcut.

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"Gentlemen," the commanding voice came from behind them just as they reached the door to the hallway. Turning, they looked at their professor. He motioned them back into the room. "Close the door." They did as they were told and then approached his desk. He sat behind it, his fingers steepled in front of his face as his blue eyes regarded them. No emotion crossed his face.

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Thank you for all the positive comments about the Twins. The first two chapters begin with present-day followed by a flashback, so you might enjoy things a bit more if you read the first two installments. This chapter picks up again at present day. Enjoy!

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Peter Grandon sat moodily in his dorm room staring at his literature textbook and studying for finals. He had read the same passage four times and he still couldn't tell what the paragraph meant. His mind was elsewhere.

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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.

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CHAPTER ONE: ORIENTATION Wesley Bower looked around the campus, more than a little nervous. He was seeing his college campus for the first time since his visit, and now he was having second thoughts. Why did I pick a school so far from everyone I've ever known? he wondered, feeling disconsolate and alone. Well, no use having second thoughts, he decided, stretching his arms, turning to survey the people around him.

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This one's for my twin sister, Chelle. My muse. * From the first second I saw him I knew I wanted him. He had a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, eating from a bowl of cereal as he walked around the pool in his backyard. The baggie board-shorts he wore would dip a little with each step revealing the paler skin of his ass and top of his crack. I kept half an eye on him from the concealment of my sunglasses while I worked.

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From the first second I saw him I knew I wanted him. He had a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, eating from a bowl of cereal as he walked around the pool in his backyard. The baggie board-shorts he wore would dip a little with each step revealing the paler skin of his ass and top of his crack. I kept half an eye on him from the concealment of my sunglasses while I worked.

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I hate camping; I think that it is the stupidest thing ever. Why would people want to go out into the wilderness and with no bathroom, no shower, and no electricity? But despite that my Dad would insist once a year that he and I went out to this obscure little clearing in the woods which wasn't even a real campsite. We would go out pitch a tent; eat fish that he caught in the lake, and sleep on the cold hard ground. 

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As a psychology major, it never ceases to surprise me how deep human loathing can go. Often times the most screwed up ones are ourselves. For every ten people that you meet, eight hate everyone, six hate themselves, but blame everyone else, three loathe themselves with depths unfathomable, and one or two out of those ten will never let you know just how disturbed they really are.

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