Your erotic stories

Drew put-in before Dooley Bridge, his goal being to photograph the length of the river through town, marking its changes as it went from rural to urban to estuarine environments in the space of four miles. Being June and approaching the summer solstice in this northern state, the sky began to lighten before five in the morning. Drew had been up since four, having loaded his kayak onto his Subaru the previous evening. His main goal was to be up before the tourists and their jet skis, and he had provided himself a wide buffer.

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PRELUDE Charlotte was in her office with the door locked. She was kneeling on the seat of her executive chair facing the back of it and she was completely naked. Her younger co-worker Brad, also naked, was standing behind her caressing her lovely ass. Normally they would not be totally naked in her office but it was Sunday morning and no one else was there.

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John was a distinguished looking man and ever so friendly. Young Peter was not exactly sure what he did in the hotel but he always seemed to be on his floor when Peter came out of his room or in the foyer when he returned to the hotel after work. John was such a big man, very handsome in a rugged sort of way and always took the opportunity to put his arm around Peter's shoulder or to give his arm a squeeze.

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So like most folks, when something like this happens to them, I never saw it coming. You are probably asking yourself what the "it" is. I'll tell you. What I never saw coming was my formerly straight-laced wife being turned inside-out by a lesbian coworker of mine, and more. But I'm getting ahead of myself, which besides being disorganized probably isn't very helpful or fun for you. Let me start at the beginning.

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Paul's a mate of mine. He's a genuine nice guy and that surprises people when they find he's a mate of mine. Most people think I'm a bit of a bastard, but Paul doesn't mind that. He just says that's who I am. Like I said, a genuine nice guy. Like me, he's in the building trade. Difference is, he's concreter, where I'm a carpenter.

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After a long restful night's sleep in the arms of Salina and Maria, Brigette retreated to her arch room to prepare for the day with her new gift, a wooden cock. Her loving teachers admonished her to practice her poetry and calligraphy by composing around the topic of her first true sexual experience with them the previous night as well as use her new gift. They then retreated to their own chambers to handle their individual morning oblations.

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Long ago, before anyone's grandfather could remember, there had been a war, between wolves and men. The wolves won, not only because they were stronger, faster, and more cunning, but because they did not betray their own kind, as did the men. After the war, a peace was settled, so that man and wolf might live in unity, but only a wolf was allowed to hold the throne, because humans were easily corrupted, and could not be trusted with government.

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I woke in the night and lay in bed next to you listening for whatever it had been that brought me from sleep to consciousness. Around me, the house was quiet, the white noise of night sounds a barely audible suss in the darkness. I knew you were asleep next to me; I could feel the soft warmth of your presence that told me you were still in our bed and hear your soft gentle snores as you breathed slowly and rhythmically.

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I'm close to the end of my life now, and as you reach your twilight years mostly all you have left is memories. Especially since I lost my wife of more than 50 years, Katie, I spend most of my time looking back.: my youth in Nebraska; my brief spell as a college football star; the first time I ever saw Katie, and fell in love with her; and, of course, the War.

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"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff . . ."

The rich, resonating, calming baritone of the La Lectura began to weave Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea for us for perhaps the hundredth time, as we Torcedores settled once more into the rhythm of preparing our bunches of tobacco leaves perfectly for the press. We could not have done our demanding work without La Lectura, the reader who sat on the dais on the cigar factory floor, reading to us, first from the daily press and then from classical works—and sometimes, to our great privilege, reciting poetry to us in perfect rhythm to the set movements of our leaf bundling.

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