Your erotic stories

"Hello. I'm Mr. Devereux to see Ms. Hill," I said to the receptionist. My voice was clear and authoritative, but not overly aggressive. I was standing in front of her desk, which had the usual assortment of secretarial accoutrements; a large phone, pens, paper, rolodex and computer, which she was busily typing away at.

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Anyways, so I was at work finishing up some end of the day shit after everyone else had gone home for the day. For whatever reason my mind started to drift to my happy places and gradually I became more aroused and less concerned with work. After a few minutes of daydreaming about a beautiful set of ass cheeks spread before me, I decided to sit back and pull out my cock.

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I shifted from one leg to the other impatiently, weighing my chances of escape. What would happen if I worked my way over to a window and forced my way out? No good, because not only were we stuck between stations but we were underground as well. The thought of emerging into the tiny dark space of the tunnel only to be hemmed in by a cold metal train was even worse than the claustrophobia I was starting to suffer where I was.

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750... 751... 752. I stood in front of the door, puffing from the exertion of climbing the stairs. This was it. There wasn't much decoration. No comic clippings, or assignment drop envelopes, or notes. Just a business card in a slot. "Lisa M. Rohdes, Ph.D., Manfred Jamison IV Professor of Finance." For a few seconds I just looked around like an idiot, afraid to knock. I know what it seems like: the male student goes to see the hot teacher and gets all distracted.

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Only one office had lights still on at this hour. The rest of the company had long since gone home on a Friday, but for the young employee the hours drove by with agonizing frustration. Alexa at the age of 18, just graduated from high school and found her first job.

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The name's Michael. I'm an Irish boy from nowhere in particular, and the bright-red ponytail I wear is more than enough proof of that. I dress well enough when I need to; my work wardrobe usually consists of black wingtips, tight-fitting black slacks that are a little loose around the knees to allow for bending, and a dark solid button-down. I'm a relatively fit guy; I bike to work every morning and jog in the evenings.

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I was eighteen, had just moved out of my parents' house after breaking up with my girlfriend of two years. I was not ready to go to college. So against my father's advice I moved to a city far away from my small home town and found a job as a mail boy at a large real estate company, which made it possible for me to rent a small flat and pay for my own car.

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- 1 - My husband Dan is an engineer—and, I strongly suspect, a sex addict. Until recently, these were separate parts of his life. Not that I'm complaining, too much, about Dan's strong libido. He's always been faithful. And he's also a willing student—and budding master—of my body. I may want sex less frequently than he, but I probably get more enjoyment from it than I deserve for my own efforts. Besides, Dan's curiosity and drive definitely keeps things interesting in our bedroom—and sometimes outside of it too!

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I was in my mid thirties, happily married to a man who I considered my best friend and my sexual partner as we both had healthy sexual appetites that filled the nights well and I had the satisfaction in my job to make the days pleasant. I think I am fairly attractive, blonde hair, green eyes and I was pretty trim for my age;

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Abbie scratched her ass and then settled deeper into the worn couch. Crumbs from her pretzels irritated her thighs, but she made no move to brush them off. She nursed the dregs of her diet coke and waited for Phyllis to tell Sierra that Phillip was really her half-brother's cousin, not her twin brother. She snapped up another pretzel and grinned evilly. Phyllis's revenge would be short-lived. Sierra would have the last laugh because Sierra carried Phillip's baby.

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