Your erotic stories

It started with a simple question. "What does swinging mean?" I asked. I sat at my computer on a Saturday morning wearing sweats and a wrinkled T-shirt. My husband, Bill, was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. "What?" he asked, a surprised set of eyebrows poked over the top of the folded black and white page.

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Devaro was sharing a tavern wench with his newly married friend Mario. As a soldier, Devaro was the firm-bodied handsome young man that had never had trouble with women. Even the foolish wench he shared with his friend seemed to favor him as he spread her legs wide over the small bed and brought his strong fingers to her openly moist vagina, touching her in circulatory motions until she began to moan, even with her opened mouth firmly over Mario's groin, as Mario held the back of her neck, demanding she suck him harder.

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My wife and I had been lying in bed talking after a round of great sex. When I say great sex, I mean great sex, which is what we usually have. On rare days, its no sex at all. A bad day is good sex, and on good days it's spectacular sex. This had been a normal day, which is to mean it was great. "Mmm, I love you, honey," I murmured as she rolled off me. "I love you, too," she answered. "I also lust you." I laughed at that.

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