Your erotic stories

I stood in formation in the hot, stuffy gymnasium: at ease, but hard as hell. The third local official of the day was basically reiterating everything the previous two had said: how proud everyone was of us, that we'd done good work, etcetera, etcetera. I knew I shouldn't feel so fucking ready to get the fuck out of there, but I'd just spent the last thirteen months, seven weeks and four days, thousands and thousands of miles away from the woman of my dreams.

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I had been in bed for over an hour, tossing and turning. My body was hot, and even though the windows were open, I couldn't seem to cool down. There was an insistent ache between my legs that I couldn't ignore. Earlier this evening, my roommate Daphne, came barging into our dorm room, smiling widely. She had a date with a water polo player and wanted my help getting ready. Batting her lashes at me, she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and pouted prettily.

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This story was so much fun, I had to share it with someone. It's a true story that happened to me this past week. I had some friends (two guys from back east) come in town for the week and I was going to show them around. There were a couple of events going on, so we had plenty to do and kept busy all week. Well, as the week came to a close, we decided to spend the penultimate night burning the town down.

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As the school year progressed Dana felt happier than she had in a long time. She knew that a large part of this was her very satisfying affair with Jack. She also loved the way her body looked and felt as a result of her regular workouts in the pool and weight room. To keep herself busy she also kept in regular contact with the swim coaches and helped some of the other boys on the team make summer training plans.

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Having worked as a rep in the hair care products industry for a couple of years you might imagine that I've met and seen a number of interesting people. I found salon owners to be, for the most part, pretty bright and some very charismatic. One particular customer of mine was a couple who owned a top rate full service salon in Lansing.

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Part of me hates this man, whom I'll call "X" for now. We didn't get along as a couple, which is why we broke up in the first place. I didn't even hate him when we broke up- it was very amicable, the old ‘we're just in very different places right now,' blah blah blah… but very soon after the split, I found myself fantasizing, over and over again, about the sex we used to have. It became totally consuming, to the point that I finally found myself breaking down and calling him on the phone one day.

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I stepped out of the shower, grabbed a soft fluffy towel and dried myself off. I had just completed all the womanly tasks that a woman needs to do when she's about to go out with her boyfriend, the usual shaving of legs, underarms and pussy. Shane was coming to take me out to lunch, it was our third date, and I had decided today was the day I was going to fuck him.

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During my speech she had caught my eye, a blonde bombshell in the front row. Was it just me, or was she licking her lips at me? Her massive cleavage spilled out of her white, unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt like two giant balls of vanilla candy... I could nearly see straight up her oh-so-short, classy, black miniskirt... Did I catch a glimpse of some sky-blue panties? Or even half of a pussy lip or two peeking out from behind the fabric? I nearly forgot what I was saying in my speech...

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Never really contemplating being with another woman in the past, for some reason the last few months Samantha, who much preferred to be called Sam, found herself looking at more girl on girl porn, reading lesbian erotica, and carefully scrutinizing, and in a way secretly admiring, the women that displayed themselves in the pages of her husband's Playboy. Being a tall long legged strawberry blonde, Sam was successful at keeping herself in shape, and sometime imagined herself in one of those "Sexy Moms' types of photo shoot the magazine sometimes displays.

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I couldn't complain about the view, that was for sure. Maggie and I sat hip-to-hip on a fleece jacket we'd spread on the ground to protect us from the tickly grass. It was June, and the groundskeepers apparently hadn't concerned themselves with mowing the grass around the field lately. I was in shorts and she was in a skirt, and we'd been going batty with the itching of the grass until Maggie had dug the fleece out of Max's gym bag.

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