Your erotic stories

Dear Readers, Everything is going according to plan. -Steve For a minute, I couldn't help but stare at him. Shock washed over me, intermixed with hurt, as if a needle full of misery had been injected into my veins. Whatever had been built last night was beginning to crumble all around us. It was like watching the 1871 burning of Chicago and being powerless to stop the devastation as it swept across town.

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I had met a really nice African-American guy named Karl for some hot sex. I was travelling for business and was satisfying my bi desires on these trips. I had met Karl through a gay chat room and we had a great hook-up. We promised to meet up again when I had to visit his city again. (See "My First BBC" for the story of how I hooked up with Karl.) 

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I first met James at a Christmas party my parents were throwing. He was the contractor they had hired to put together the new house they were building as an anniversary gift to each other. It would be a lot bigger than the two stories, three-bedroom house I had grown up in, which meant that there would be plenty of room for either me or my sister if we needed it, which wasn't something I was about to complain about, considering that at twenty four, I was about to run back home with my tail between my legs.

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"Wash up, lazybones, and take those furs to Sir Charles," the tanner ordered. The day's chill turned his breath to a liquor-laden mist. "Sir Charles, Father?" Tanners asked, confused. The tanner rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Oh ye gods, why curse me with such a stupid boy?" He turned to the young man. "The banker, the one whose son you don't like. He's offered three gold for the lot."

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I met Penny and Josh at a hotel bar in Chicago. They were in town for a wedding and I was there on business. Penny was a cute 23 year old redhead with a nice thick curvy body. Josh was a typical 25 year old college grad with an athletic build and a beat up Sox hat on backward.

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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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Sex with my wife had been as hot as ever since my first massage with Alex. I wouldn't say the experience has directly made our sex life any better or worse but I do feel a more confident. My concern that is would alter my sexuality was unfounded. I still found my wife extremely attractive and arousing. My wife has a great body and I look upon it with lust every time I see her. I was comfortable that I wasn't gay; despite having had what one would have to admit was a gay experience.

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The events of this story happened at least thirty years ago. I lived in Virginia at the time in an apartment complex made up of about a dozen buildings of eight apartments each with each two apartments sharing a common stoop. The residents of the building in which I lived were all very nice people and besides myself and another guy were all married couples. Most evenings would find several, if not all of the residents sitting in the front of the building talking, drinking beer or wine and generally having a good time.

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The moonlight creeps in through the window behind me, casting a few shadows across the room. Mixing softly with the candle light being thrown from the flames on the dresser. I lay back on the chaise lounge, naked except for a small smile on my face. My breathing already heavy and labored my fingertip idly plays with my hardening nipple.

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She was sitting at the bar, dressed like a nun compared to the majority of the other women around. It was Vegas, baby, and the outfits ranged from the slutty to the half-naked. The woman I was interested in, and maybe it was the outfit that did it, was all business. Charcoal black suit, white blouse open at the throat, blazer draped over the back of her stool.

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