Your erotic stories

I am a very wealthy, single businessman, who made his fortune in high technology. I have an aptitude for computers and it has made me rich; very rich. So rich in fact that I have great difficulty meeting women. They are blinded by my wealth and cannot see me for myself. This has led to a rather solitary lifestyle, which suits me as I'm am forever working.

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If you're driving along the motorway and feel like a break, I would strongly recommend Mudchute Services. They're fairly easy to find, right next to Brown Wood, and you'll find the toilet facilities make a very worthy detour.

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For Evan, wherever you are... It was twenty minutes after James's confession of age that I lay in his arms, my head on his chest. It was a new experience, and all of the new feelings were washing over me. I could not believe that not too long before I had had sexual intercourse with a man. I had always considered myself straight, never had once looked at another man or considered what it would feel like, but now I was in uncharted territory. What did this mean? Was I gay? No, I couldn't be.

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The follwing story is a work of fiction, based on facts from my life. The names of all parties have been changed to protect their "innocence". "Hey Jim, you need anything from Supply while I'm down there?" "Naw, I'm good Marv, thanks anyway." I headed down the hall to the elevators so I could get to Supply. It was Thursday, and I was winding up some details so my weekend wouldn't be interrupted by any calls from the office.

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His name was Roland and he was from Jamaica. I'm guessing he was about 30. He had deep ochre skin, eyes that were almost black, closely-cropped hair, and was tall, lean and very graceful. At one point in his life he'd been a dancer, but was now a set designer for one of the larger theater companies in Amsterdam. He was just a little bit effeminate, and overtly gay.

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Last fall, when I was starting my graduate studies at NYU film school, I found myself sexually frustrated and unhappy with the guys I was meeting. The sex was OK, but nothing really special. I think that's kind of understandable because, after all, we were mostly all in our early 20s and not very experienced. Plus, if I was to be really honest, the guys I met (and I include myself here) were kind of immature and unworldly. We barely knew who we were, let alone capable of thoughtful, meaningful and satisfying sexual relationships.

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I mostly cruised the personals because that's how I got my kicks. If I was feeling sexually frustrated, I would leverage the vast power of the internet for the grist that kept the wheels of my libido turning. Still images, movies, erotica, text; it was all there and in every niche. Like all solitary perverts, I fantasized about having a partner who would fulfill my personal needs. But I was a miserable romantic partner and realized, at my core, I was a lone degenerate.

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I was getting ready for a trip to Washington on business, for work when Bill, a guy I didn't like at all, said at coffee, "If you are in D.C. you have got to go to the Iron Rod." "The what?" I asked, barely listening since all the guy did was bullshit. "The Iron Rod is the best pick-up bar in Washington. You are literally guaranteed to get fucked," he explained.

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The first thing I noticed when I woke up is that I was unable to move anything but my arms. I was lying naked, on my back, strapped down onto a padded leather surface. I couldn't really see what was holding me in place as my head was tilted back quite far by a wide leather strap wrapping around my forehead.

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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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