Your erotic stories

My favorite teacher was my math teacher, Mrs. Gibson. She was in her late thirties, a wife and a mom, but man, was she sexy! She had long full blonde hair, a pretty face, was average in height, and had big tits. Like most of the teachers she dressed casual more than she dressed up, but whatever she wore, it was hard to hide her hot body. I wasn't much of a math student, and since I had math my last class of the day, I spent most of the period staring at Mrs. Gibson and having fantasies about her.

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Chapter One "Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the first one to go. He promised me. He's really screwed it up, he has." Sadie, jarred by the tone of Jan's voice, sat up on her haunches and nosed her head into her new mistress's hand. Without even realizing she'd done it, Jan stroked Sadie's head and behind an ear. Reassured, Sadie gave an "I wasn't really worried" yawn and settled back on the ground beside the folding chair Jan was sitting on.

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For the past three years, completely unbeknown to my husband Tom and my three beautiful kids, I have been working in a massage parlor called the Pink Lady. While I'm not proud of being a 'rub & tug' girl, Tom has repeatedly refused to let me get a regular job even when money is tight.

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I think I just might be the best peach picker in Virginia. Well, in Rockingham County at least. And that isn't just me boasting. That's what Brother Jeb said all the time I was picking peaches for him. And Mr. Howell said that to me too. More than once he said that. I've heard both men say that, in the peach business, it's getting the first fruit of the season to market before anyone else does that can mean the difference between a good season and a break-even or bad season.

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"So, you think you might be OK, now? A different perspective, I hope?" "Yes, yes, thank you, . . . You know I haven't gotten your name. I feel so . . ." "No need to, son. You can just call me Dingle. And I won't be seeing you up here again, I do hope." "Umm. I kinda hoped that—"

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I was standing in the small room, in front of a curtained window. Paul's hot breath on the back of my neck was doing little to dispel the tension that was tying me in knots, even though that's exactly what we were here for. The room was pretty dreary really; just this curtained window and a padded massage table behind us against the wall. Tired paint on the walls, scruffed tiled floor and ceiling, as if men before us had been walking the ceiling and dragged across the floor, which, for all I knew, was exactly what had caused the scruffing.

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Ahh, the days of drifting down to the square after lunch and sitting around ogling the local Turkish Cypriot men and letting them ogle me until I got that certain look from one I fancied and took him up to my Lawrence Durrell-rented villa and let him vigorously, joyously, and noisily fuck my brains out on a lounger under the sun on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.

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For some time Dwight had told me that when the time came, when I'd reached eighteen, and if I was still interested, he'd take me to the Candy Shop for the first time. I tried to tell him that he would be candy enough for me, but Dwight was an honorable man. That's the only reason why we ever needed to discuss the Candy Shop at all.

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Unlike a lot of stories in this site that I'm sure are total fiction, this one is mostly true. The names and parts of the story have been fictionalized. I've been a trucker for 20 years now and recently had a sexual experience I'd like to share. Long distance trucking is a solitary life and there isn't much sex when the little lady is thousands of miles away back home.

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Ok I feel like I have to share this story with someone. My name is Sue, well Susan at work. I'm a senior level manager in business and used to juggling multiple projects daily. Yes it's a busy job but I enjoy it although it doesn't leave much time for a personal life. It's one of the sacrifices I had to make to get where I am.

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