Your erotic stories

"Her legs look like a road map! Their cover in veins." He tells me angrily. "You use to say it was a road map to paradise." She says hotly. "Yea then I followed that map and ended up in Death Valley. There are places there you could get out of with a GPS and a four wheel drive!" He screams back at her. If you can imagine this is the kind of things I listen to for a living. I get paid to help people get through their marital troubles.

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Warning! This story includes very heavy BDSM, rough sex, anal fucking and other nasty stuff. As usual there is also a romance but it is secondary to the stroke. Another caveat: I don't write with a dictionary or a thesaurus at my side. I use words which are familiar to me---words I use in daily conversation. I am not writing stories for children. If you are the persistent anonymous poster who wishes I would use smaller words so that you can understand them, just give me a zero and move on without comment.

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I was watching a hot, nasty porn tape, dick in hand, having a perfectly good solo time one Saturday night at my new place. I'd lived here just a month after answering an apartment-sharing ad Jimmy had placed. He had a nice, spacious two-bedroom spread in West Hollywood that he needed to share with someone, and the rent was good.

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I am diabolical. Brilliant, but diabolical. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I don't have anyone else to tell now. I mean, why go through all the effort if you're the only one who gets to enjoy it. You see, my plan was perfect and if it wasn't for old Saint Nick, I would have gotten away with it. Well, I guess I should tell you the story first, its long and I don't have much time left now.

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I had both the advantages and curses of being a rock star. I could afford to go anywhere I wanted on the spur of the moment or as the mood hit me, but if a mood hit me that would land me in the tabloids, I'd better be prepared to go to the ends of the earth. The mood had hit me to get the most exotic and total fuck that I could find by the most talented cocksman I could attract. I had been on open exhibition for months and could have had any woman I'd wanted during that time.

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Selina quickly checked herself in the bathroom mirror one last time. She'd been looking forward to tonight's job and her preparations had been meticulous. She smoothed down her knee-length black dress that clung to her, showing off her shapely body to full effect. The low cut neck-line showed off her décolletage, with just a hint of the lacy black basque she was wearing below it. Sheer black stockings and stilettos completed her outfit.

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The identity of the man who purchased the mansion on the hill that rose above any landmarks for a mile around was a mystery to every resident of Langley Street, the street that led motorists and pedestrians alike to the private estate and the foot of its sweeping front drive. As much as rumor could provide, the new owner was a young man in his early twenties, obviously a man who had recently come into good fortune, either by his own merit or by luck.

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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.

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I walked into the truck stop diner and was surprised to lay my eyes on an old truckin' buddy, Hank. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years. We both haul loads Coast to Coast, but rarely cross paths. "So, how you doin' good buddy?" he asked.

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My back was killing me by two o'clock. At eighteen I'm in good shape but, Damn! My sister has a lot of crap! Some how it's become my job to move it all. My dad would help, but at sixty his back doesn't need the strain. And he's working on the family barbecue grill.

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