Your erotic stories

I am probably the most typical white guy in America. 31 years old, married for 4 years, with a two year old kid and obsessed with sex. I can't help it. I want to kiss, lick and suck pussy. I want to bury my face in big, firm but soft mounds of breasts. I want to breathe in the mixed aroma between her legs of pussy and ass before I slowly drag my tongue from asshole to clit. I want her to do the same to me- but now I'm dreaming and this is a true story so I'll stick to the facts.

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I am nervous as I walk up the stairwell. The sound of my shoes scuffing each stair reflects off the dingy once-white walls of the narrow hallway like an insistent warning, telling me to turn around and walk away with every step. Yet I continue, pursuing my chosen course with the same timid determination that has carried me through this day. Ever since I came out to my car and found the note tucked underneath my wiper blade.

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She is at the sink, rinsing the last of the dishes from lunch, lost in the reverie of thought, she barely hears the squeak of the front door as it opens and closes in the front room. She feels a soft breath at her back of her neck, next a nibble and a kiss. Attempting to turn around to kiss her husband hello, she is stopped and a blindfold covers her eyes.

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"Pick up your seating assignment at the front table, please," said the young man in the white shirt and black slacks. The badge on his chest proclaimed his name to be Chad. Hazel was sure his nickname in high school was probably "Pizza Face" or something similar. The poor guy really needed a dermatologist, or one of those miracle creams they sell on television for severe acne. As Hazel approached the table, Chad smiled brightly at her.

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I couldn't believe this was the guy I'd be working with. I stopped in my tracks at the doorway and furrowed my brows at the script. TWINK: [Needs to be expressive, bubbly, seductive, cute] The description listed all of the stereotypical roles of a twink, but this guy sitting beside Dave—or should I say on the same couch as Dave, as they were by no means near each other—was anything but. Dave insists upon introducing his actors in his house beforehand, to sort of break the ice in a relaxed atmosphere (instead of an awkward first meeting on set).

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I was born into a working class family that was always struggling to pay the bills. My three siblings and I never had any luxuries. Mom and Dad divorced when I was five, and Dad disappeared. We all worked at part time jobs; there was no talk of me going to college. But in my case something extraordinary happened when Dad's wiggly little tadpole met up with Mom's so porous membrane—as Emeril would say, "BAM": a perfect combination of genes, DNA, or whatever produced a female of exceptional beauty.

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Every time I tried to bring up a Valentines Day date with Chris, somehow we ended up not discussing it. It wasn't that he changed the subject, not at all, but somehow I would look back ten minutes later and realize that we didn't talk about it. It was very sneaky of him, perhaps. Or maybe he just happened to be pretty scatterbrained lately.

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He met her at a regional training conference being held at a well known, North Florida resort. A number of attendees had taken the resort van to a restaurant a few miles away from the main conference center. He was sitting at the small restaurant bar having a drink; she came up and took the seat next to him and started a conversation. From his perspective, she was not the type of woman he would pursue or attempt to seduce.

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The gentle breeze from the sea stirred small grains of white sand and tickled the tiny hairs on Alice's brown skin. It also ruffled her fine, blonde pubic hairs and she opened her thighs slightly to enjoy the sensation more. Lying naked on a French beach in warm, late summer sunshine was proving to be one of the most enjoyable experiences so far of her backpacking holiday with her boyfriend Tom, who now lay on his towel dozing alongside her.

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This move was a big step for me. After being married for thirty years I finally had my kids raised and was left without a life, neither; personal, professional nor sexual as we'd been living apart in the same house for two years. I finally made the decision to leave and make my own way again. Needless to say, much was my own fault as I tolerated the neglect and did so from personal fears and the loathing to be on my own with two kids, but none the less, as I approached my thirty year anniversary I kept asking myself, "Do you want another thirty years like this?" and the answer came back every time as "fuck no!".

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