Your erotic stories

The boy had no real name. He was the tanner's get, below even the whore's runts, responsible for soaking the hides in urine. The tanner called the child "Boy," long after the boy had left childhood behind. The town was large enough that most forgot to which tannery the young man belonged; everyone called him "the tanner's boy" for so long that it became his moniker.

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I was tightly surrounded on the subway train by four young toughs, and I had a cock up my heretofore heterosexual ass. How could this have happened to me?

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and my wife, Florence, and I had taken a taxi downtown to Lacey's Department Store. We needed a new bedspread as the old one was getting pretty threadbare.

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It started innocently enough: We were sitting in his living room drinking wine and Danny was telling me about his high school wrestling team and how he won forty-eight straight matches. His eyes wore a glazed-over expression as he talked about his glory days. "...and out of those forty-eight matches, I pinned thirty-one of my opponents in under a minute in the first round!" he declared, triumphantly.

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"You are behaving like a spoilt brat, Gareth."

"Am I really? Perhaps I have good grounds," Gareth retaliated as he continued to pace.

"Getting a new Anaesthetist is hardly the end of the world. You managed before Ed and you manage when on shift with the others."

"Managing and working well are two different things entirely, Shirley."

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Let me first introduce myself. My name is Marcus Sinclair McManus. I am twenty-five years old, single and I live in Los Angeles. I work in advertising for a relatively small, but very successful and profitable agency called Sinclair McManus, which I also happen to own. I became the sole owner of this agency, founded by my parents Andrew McManus and Jennifer Sinclair, some three years ago, at the tender age of twenty-two, when both my parents were killed outright in a truly horrible automobile crash.

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I'm not always in the mood to have sex with other men, but when I get in the mood, it hits me pretty hard. I'm a thirty-one year old guy living in Norristown, Pennsylvania, and as far as all my friends know, I'm a straight guy. I love women, but sometimes I really want the feelings that only another man can give me.

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It started with my first job after leaving school, as an assistant gardener-cum-handyman at a local stately house. I was interviewed by a rather handsome man in his fifties called Clive, and we seemed to hit it off right away, and I figured that must have helped me get the job. It seemed the ideal way to get a foothold into the whole gardening/landscaping industry, and after my first couple of days I knew I'd really landed on my feet. 

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I had been working temporarily in the DC area near the Pentagon for a few weeks. While there is an excellent mass transit system in the city, the apartment I was living in was far enough away from the Metro stations that it would take almost as much time commuting to the nearest station as it took me to go ahead and drive into work.

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Pelle, or as I called him, "Baby face", looked so lovely now. He was eighteen, a year younger than me, but his looks made me think otherwise sometimes. So sweet but such a slut for being fucked by me. Those innocent blue eyes that made me quiver. That head full of sexy sleek dirty blonde hair I loved to run my fingers through. I couldn't keep my eyes off of his slightly thin and 5' 7" body.

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I don't even know where to begin. It's such a hard story to tell, and I'm afraid that it doesn't show me in the best light. 

I guess I should start by telling you about myself. I'm a happily married man, 47 years old, 6-2, 190 pounds. Maybe not the best looking guy, but I keep myself in shape and I work out every day. Grey hair, blue eyes, nice smile. 

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