Your erotic stories

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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I love touching my pussy. I love the feeling of my most personal effect in my hand. I love bringing myself to orgasm by playing with my pussy. I love the feeling of being in charge of my own happiness. I love feeling my silken gift at my fingertips, and the feeling of intimacy that it provides for me. I've also had to learn to love all of those things. I've come to love them over the last several years, as masturbation is my only true sexual outlet right now.

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So it was New Years eve, the time to party, to celebrate, and with any bit of luck, get laid. And in the past I've had absolutely no problems getting laid on New Years Eve. Sometimes it was because I was lucky, others it was because I lowered my standards, or alcohol lowered them and I got laid. In either case my main goal of having sex has been accomplished on NYE since I turned 18, and I'm now 29. So I guess I am at least guaranteed to get laid once a year.

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The truth is, I want to be hurt. The red plastic cup of beer in my hand is damp and sweating. The bass is pounding so loudly I can feel it vibrating inside my veins. My shirt is sticking to my skin along my spine, my skin tired and dewy and angry. God, I hate my life.

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Elijah I'd been going to hardcore punk shows since I started university three years ago. There were two totally different hardcore scenes in my city -- the river divided the bright shopping centres from the seedy industrial complexes and there was a distinct culture for each side of the bridge.

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It was going to be a long weekend. With Monday as a gazetted public holiday I had three days in which to do nothing, and that's what I intended to do. I was going to just relax, bum around the house, maybe work on the car and maybe play on the internet. I was completely unsuspicious when my mother asked if I had anything planned for the weekend. "Nope," I said happily. "Just one long bludge."

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In those days, I didn't wear underwear. I had long hair down to the small of my back. I was in good shape, lean and muscular, a bike rider with thick legs and a laid-back demeanor. You probably know the type. So a certain kind of woman often responded to me. A certain kind of man, too, although I'd never given that a thought. For my part, here's what I liked in a woman: Natural, sensual. smart. Sexual intellectuals. Open and daring, although even if they weren't, I usually got them there pretty quick.

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I walked home in the glaring sun as sprinklers tinkled on the lawns of our neighbours and sweat seeped slowly into my clothes. I wiped my brow and held the straps of my backpack, beneath which the thin material of my school shirt was nearly saturated. The temperature had risen steadily over the past week and the heat wave was now at its peak.

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"It's only going to be a few guys over to watch the UK Basketball game." I said. "Autumn wants to come over and she is in the mood to play." Becky whispered in my phone. Now my libido went into overdrive. Becky had told me that Autumn had gotten some toys at a naughty wedding shower last week. My dirty mind went straight to Becky, Autumn, me and toys. But I could not tell the guys no.

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