Your erotic stories

The next day, Sunday we got up like nothing happened, Annie never mentioned anything about the previous evening. Pulling ourselves out of bed we made our way down to breakfast and ate with only a few words shared between us. I was in my boxers and Annie wore nothing but a small, white, spaghetti strap cotton top. She had showered and while most girls would have put something on after cleaning up in the morning Annie clearly was not like most girls. I couldn't take my eyes from her spectacular little heart shaped naked ass each time she bent or reached for something.

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There are words that I don't like. There are phrases that don't sit right with me either and never have. I don't like the word cunt. I like the word pussy. I'd like to take a vacation and spend a week eating pussy. I've never wanted to spend one minute eating cunt. The two words "pussy whipped" bother me. First it's the connotation. "Pussy Whipped" means that a man has allowed a woman to get total control over his actions. He's been emasculated, not with a knife, with words and manipulation. There are other words and phrases that I don't like, but those give you the idea.

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The July afternoon was hot and brilliant, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky as she stood in the doorway, looking out into her backyard. She was alone with her thoughts, which were now just so much kindling for the summer weather that always made her feel lusty. Holding a cold, sweating glass of lemonade, she was on her way out to sit in a lounge chair when he crossed her mind and she felt her legs get a little weak.

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My wife Joan is 62 years old. She is a doctor and a dancer; her lifelong devotion to the art has kept her slim and strong, with great vitality, despite thinning skin, age spots and thickening around the middle. I am passionately drawn to her, find her very attractive, love her with a depth I never knew was possible, and want to fuck her often. (All you young people out there, just because we're old it doesn't mean we're dead.

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Five years ago my wife Sue and I left behind the dark, dank climate and the economic and political doom and gloom of England in search of a new life in the beautiful, peaceful and sunny Languedoc region of the South of France. Both of us are keenly interested in good food, cooking, and enjoying the odd glass or three of wine.

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Several years ago, my wife and I vacationed in Europe for two weeks. I knew that Europeans tend to be more casual about nudity and sex than Americans are, but I was still unprepared (as was my wife) when we decided to visit a spa (called "bad") in Germany. We took a tram up the side of a steep hill to the top and looked down over a beautiful view and a large pool with an even larger deck. "Oh my God," my wife exclaimed as she saw that almost all of the women were lying topless on the deck or soaking that way in the pool.

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It was hot, hot and sweaty, far too hot for housework and in fact just the sort of day to take advantage of Adam's new six foot tall privacy fencing and do a spot of nude sunbathing on the lawn. Nikki needed to top up her tan anyway for when they went on holiday next month, so it wasn't as if she'd be wasting the day.

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"Hello, you must be Shayne. I'm Mr. Caldwell's boy, Jerome. Come on in. I'll take your bag to your room. He's out beyond the great room, in the pool. Go on back." With that welcome, I entered the world of Ted Caldwell, retired supposed master spy, the man I'd been sent to the New Jersey shore to interview over the weekend for Spy magazine.

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10. Sometime in late July, the first year. My hair splayed out around me as the trickling flow of the stream lifted and carried it. Soothed by the water, my body warmed in the desert sun. I held Tom's hand and squeezed with love. We had been lying in the creek for nearly half an hour, letting our tired bodies come back to themselves after fucking so so hard.

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There were silky red thongs, lacy black bikinis, pearl white strings and soft blue french cuts. There couldn't be a more beautiful collection of lacy panties and bras anywhere. I had just returned to my apartment building from getting my morning coffee and was going upstairs, when my pretty neighbor from across the hall passed me with her laundry. Being the polite guy that I am, I smiled and said "good morning" and she replied "hi" back. As we passed I peeked around my shoulder and got a glimpse of the treasures in her basket.

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