Your erotic stories

It had been a quiet day at my salon this Friday. I run a small salon in a midsized town in the western U.S. I do hair styling of course, manicures and pedicures and some massage. Some of my women clients like a relaxing massage, but since I’m gay, I assure you, it’s strictly professional.

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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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My stomach was churning and a headache was starting to form just above my eyes. Nearly 20 years later, that building still gave me fits of trepidation: Bradford James High School; home of the Fighting Navajos. Of course, here's a tip for the people that name schools and figure out the mascot names: think like a high school kid. Going to school at Bradford James and being called the Navajos is a problem when you're always referred to as the "B J Hoes" by the other schools and kids.

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