Your erotic stories

Here’s a true story. They’re the best ­ I find reading about actual events even more exciting than reading fantasies. This all happened just before my 19th birthday. It may have been what sparked my interest in beautiful woman and all the things they do. I was living about half of each year at home with my parents in a large town in the West Midlands (England). I had a girlfriend, studying at university in Manchester, and I had a few casual girlfriends in my home town.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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I am not sure what motivated me. Was I just sick of guys my age? After all, they were immature. And especially, so I have been told, sexually immature. As a sophomore in college, I had only slept with four guys. Well, that is been fucked by four guys, I have fooled around with many others. In that time though I had never had a guy bring me to orgasm. Take a typical night with the last guy I fucked, Johnnie.

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It was Cathy, my girlfriend, who found me the flat. When my old landlord died, and his son served notice on the tenants, I needed somewhere cheap, and available quickly. Of course, the ideal thing would have been to move in with Cathy. But she shared her parents' old house in Bedford with her sister, and anyway, I'd tried commuting from there into London for a couple of weeks. The 'BedPan line' -- Bedford to St Pancras -- was legendary at the time as not so much a rail route, more a fiendish torture cunningly designed by the operator to drive unwary commuters insane.

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The last of our friends leave, which leaves us alone in her room and the entire house. I sit nervously next to her on the bed, and drink some of my beer. The only thing I can think about is what happened last night. I'm too embarrassed to bring it up, but she does it for me.

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When I was a kid my best mate was Dean Kelly. As so happens with these things, our mothers got to know each other when they would pick Dean and I up from school, and they too became friends. I would stay over at the Kelly's place and Dean would often stay over at our place. The Kelly's had a pool and so summers were always more fun at Dean's house! Dean and I were on the same touch football team as well and so our families started to go on outings with each other, such as picnics, hikes, football and cricket matches, and the occasional camping trip.

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I was working late in the audio lab when Nora, my best friend came up behind me. I had my headphones on so I didn't get any warning. She looked over my shoulder at the monitor. When she put her hand on my shoulder, I was so startled that I quickly turned it off. Too late, she had seen what I was doing and I knew my secret was out. So the long explanation began. I couldn't just tell her I was clearing background noise in a recording I had made because the video was on the screen along with the audio.

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I have always thought that Betty had a lot of balls to do what she did. Big brass ones. I was at least 20 years younger than Betty and I don't think I had ever exhibited any attraction toward her. She was just another pleasant acquaintance in the workplace. But, like so many of the remarkable women who have graced my life, she knew what she wanted and she had the inner confidence to go for it.

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I was Acting Head Copy Chief in a big ad agency. Acting, because I was not a full time employee, but a freelancer, as they call self-employed contractors in the ad business. Things were booming and the agency was stretched. With the typical lack of loyalty and 'sell yourself to the highest bidder' attitude of that crazy business, job jumping was rife and good employees were on a merry-go-round of moving from agency to agency. Hence the agency's need for an 'Acting Head Copy Chief.'

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Gordon Fields sipped his Scotch and leaned back in his comfortable chair. Despite his occupation, he wasn't a "tough guy" or a "man of the streets". He had grown up in a nice home and he enjoyed the finer things in life. Now that he was off for a while, he had time to enjoy those things. He could indulge in good food and a fine Cuban cigar. He could have a drink or two and enjoy the company of a beautiful woman without the concern of how it would affect his performance.

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