Your erotic stories

Goodness knows why I have this fetish, but I do have it, so I have to live with it. What is it? Well it's the desire to eat shit. It must be from a dominant female mistress and maybe it's more to do with being totally submissive than it is to do with the actual eating. I think this desire has been with me for a very long time and now I would like to tell you, how I turned desire into reality. I thought it wasn't possible to realise my desire until whilst browsing through a contact magazine I saw a mistress advertising Hard Sports.

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If you're driving along the motorway and feel like a break, I would strongly recommend Mudchute Services. They're fairly easy to find, right next to Brown Wood, and you'll find the toilet facilities make a very worthy detour.

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istanbulnoir's 'good tastes' warning: you know what people go to the toilet for... It was my third visit to my Lady and we had just finished our first fuck of the afternoon and we sat smoking and drinking brandy together on her leopard skin covered sofa, when she asked me 'How kinky are you?' 'That depends on how you define kinky,' I said.

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1 There is something about heat that only we northern Celts can fully appreciate. I hadn't been abroad since my childhood, and the minute I stepped off the plane I was consumed by a bright heat rising from the Cretan rocks that forced me to slow down and take in the quiet beauty of the place.

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"Good thing we left early. We need gas," Angela told her husband, Kurt. He grunted, not happy with the announcement, but taking it in stride. He was nervous. His kid brother was going to propose to his girlfriend tonight, and he'd invited the whole gang out to witness it. So, they were on their way to a posh drinking spot - formal ware required. So, Angela was in a beautiful blue silk evening gown, and Kurt was in a fancy black tie affair he'd had to rent.

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A number of years ago, I placed an ad in the local paper as a free-lance writer offering to write heirloom biographies for a reasonable fee. The idea came to mind after my mother passed away, and I realized how little I really knew of her life. I simply knew her as 'Mom,' and my kids only knew what I passed along to them. My intent was to help families capture the essence of their lives to share with the generations to follow.

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My girlfriend and me are a couple of kinky freaks who like to go what we call "slutting". That's when we find ourselves a foxy young babe or two, usually but not always dykes like us, bring them home, and then get real down and dirty until the wee, wee hours of the morning. One night last week we had picked up this delicious looking young lesbian model at a dyke bar we frequent, a gorgeous African-American knockout with silky mocha-hued skin.

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Kate stared at the clock. This had been a monumentally bad idea. Watching as the hand crept closer and closer, her dread grew with ever minute strike. That's why she should never, ever decide things while in the shower, she concluded. All manner of unreasonable ideas seem possible to her in there. When else would she have thought inviting her psychotic ex to her home would be a good decision? She shook her head.

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I had known Diana for over four years, since my husband came to the university here. We've always been friendly in a casual way, never close. We see each other about once every other month, mostly faculty social events involving our husbands. Mine is a bigshot professor, hers is the dean of the college and though they've become pretty good friends over the years, we've never socialized as a foursome.

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Louise had frequent contact with the hospitals and regular clinics in the area, and beyond. In fact most of her clients were referred by the medical staff at those places, by the more progressive minded staff, anyway. A copy of an old letter from a doctor at Westport General had fallen from a folder onto the corridor and hence and found its way by chance into the hands of one of the hospital's nurses, RN Suzanne (Sue) Meissner, just coming off her afternoon duty as a cardiac nurse. Sue was not connected with the Dr. Smith concerned or his patients, might have thrown the letter away had she seen a waste basket nearby.

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