Your erotic stories

Heavy rain hammered loudly on the roof of our porch. Strong winds whipped through the mesh screening, blowing the heat of the summer day quickly away. The wind pushed raindrops through the screen, vaporizing the droplets into a fine, refreshing mist. The random lighting strikes that brilliantly lit the night-time sky were quickly followed by deafening claps of thunder. The room was pitch black, interrupted only by the persistent flashes of bright white light. Being out in the elements, experiencing the power of mother nature was intensely stimulating.

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The sky started clouding over as I found the cafe called 'Chances Are' down on Santa Monica Boulevard and pulled in. In 1974, I was nineteen, and had found a man in a swinger's ad magazine, and was here to meet him.

Inside, it was different than any other restaurant I frequented. The clientele was all men, not a woman in sight. I felt a shiver of guilt and fear as I waded into these unknown waters, looking around for a man in a black suede jacket with a large red book. That would be Gary. 

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I want Daddy to sit in his chair, with the paper, reading. I want him to look up, and see me on my hands and knees, my tail butt-plug deep in my ass, brushing my thighs. A cute pair of ears on my head, and the collar and tag around my neck... and nothing else on. I settle at your feet, and rest my nose against your thigh.

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Trixie lurched through the door, heels clack-clacking on the laminate flooring as she stumbled. Failing to realise the racket she had just created, she turned and carefully shut the door, just in case her boyfriend, Gary, had gone to bed already. He had let her borrow his keys just case she came home really late, as he had an early start the next morning – a weekend away with the boys.

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I got home late one night from my usual cardio session at the gym. Working out had got me sweaty and horny, so I raced home, glancing to be sure the DVD was still on the passenger seat, something I had grabbed from the gay section at the porn shop I worked at, before leaving for the day.

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Brad Halstead had never heard of the band Fountains of Wayne, but when he heard their song "Stacey's Mom" playing in his teenage daughter's bedroom memories of a wonderful time in his life flooded back. About fifteen years ago Stacey Keen was his best friend. There weren't many kids their age that lived close by, so they gravitated together much of the time. She was something of a tomboy and they played around the neighborhood together in the long, hot summers of their late teenage years. Stacey had short blonde hair and always wore torn jeans, worn tennis shoes and heavy metal t-shirts.

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Tyler and Johnson walked into the holding cells as soon as they had their orders. There, in the largest cell, Tyler saw her as she stood proudly with hands on hips. She was gorgeous, there was no doubt. Certainly the hottest, and youngest, enemy agent he had ever seen. He certainly wasn't about to complain about this assignment, or the manner in which he was instructed to carry it out.

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I was in Chicago for a couple of days of business meetings which usually also means a couple of days of extreme boredom in the meetings and being too tired to do much afterwards. Thankfully my company put me up in a nice hotel just across from the convention hall we were meeting in so after I'd finished for the day I figured I'd stop at the hotel bar for a beer or two before going back to my room. I was just leaving the hall when I heard a woman's voice call my name. I didn't recognize the voice and figured she must be calling to someone else when I felt a hand on my arm and the same voice said, "If you're not Dave I'm going to feel very silly".

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It was in 1967 that I originally developed a life long affinity for silk. This was due in part to two people that my affinity was preserved for the rest of my life. I'm not sure why, but the love and appeal for the feel of it is ingrained within me now.

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My affair with Stevie; if that's what you want to call it is still going on today. It's not an affair in the conventional sense as there is absolutely no chance that he would ever buy me flowers or take me to a French Restaurant. Nor would I want him to. We are as he quaintly calls it – 'fuck-buddies'. We still occasionally go to the derelict factory on a Friday afternoon and the odd evening after work.

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