Your erotic stories

As we walk into your room from the coffee shop, I push you hard against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt you but hard enough to get my desires across to you. While pinning your body, I reach down and pull your hands above your head, lacing your fingers and holding them high. I begin kissing at the nape of of your neck, biting it lightly and moving along towards your ear. As I kiss your delicious skin I pause to whisper how sexy you are... How much you turn me on... How much I want to make you cum. Your only response to me is "I hate you" which brings a low laugh from me.

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After that little Halloween incident with my gynecologist, Dr. Markus DeShade and his band of kinky cohorts, he has been exceptionally nice to me. So has his wife Evelyn, although I think her interest is more on the Sapphic side. Tall, good-looking women tend to become attracted to me, as was the case with my German friend, Eva Reichman (see Cat's Discovery).

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I looked at the clock, it was 4:10 on a Friday afternoon and my last client was running late. I ran a massage business and was looking forward to going out for drinks with my friends in the city. Being in this industry I feel the need to constantly look after myself so I am in good shape with a nice toned but not overly muscular body and a brown tan from spending time at the beach.

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Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"

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Karen had spent the first few days following her visit to the massage parlor savoring the memories. No matter what she did, something would cause her to think about Tess and she would be off on another long erotic daydream. It was a good thing she had little on her schedule requiring deep concentration.

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"No, not for over two years." "Any encounters within this period?" The soothing hum of an air conditioner drifts through the office. "...yeah." follows a moment's hesitation in the girl's response. "If you care to say so, roughly, how recently was this?" A rustling of paperwork fills the moment's silence as the young woman averts her gaze.

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It was about 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and everybody was winding down at work. Another long day inside a gray glass and steel skyscraper. My boss stopped by and looked at the paltry pile in my inbox and suggested I take the rest of the day off. Big deal, two extra hours. I had to wait for the train after 5 anyway. Two hours to kill. What to do? I wandered out into the street, slipped into a bookstore for a few minutes and then walked towards the train station. Then I remembered the massage parlor.

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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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"Are you feeling stressed?" "Yes," I muttered to the screen. "Is life getting on top of you?" "Yes again," I sighed. "Well I can help you – with a spiritually uplifting Aromatherapy massage." "Why not?" I asked myself, looking at the screen again before reading on. "Provided by a fully qualified Masseuse ...."

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Andrea and Mitch were enjoying their first real vacation since their honeymoon. It was late afternoon when they began to walk back from the beach, hand in hand. Mitch had a knapsack slung over one bare, sunburnt shoulder. He would blame married life and his desk-job for his complexion and physique before taking personal responsibility. He wasn't terribly out of shape, just a little thicker and a loss of the definition he'd had in college.

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