All Chapters of Erotic Tales: Love, Lust and Romance: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

There you go,” Joe said, and in nearly the same instant, the television flickered on. A peppy blonde was onscreen swearing that “you at home” could make a gourmet meal with everyday ingredients found in a typical kitchen. I couldn’t pay attention to her delec- table spread, however, because my eyes were currently feasting on the sliver of fuchsia satin that was peekingout of the waistband of Joe’s jeans.Joe was on his hands and knees, with his head buried behind the set, as he explained that a couple of cables had popped loose. I blinked my eyes, wondering if I was dreaming. Nope—still there. Those were undeniably panties. No man’s underwear could be that shiny and sleek and pink.Joe’s a strong, six-foot-two guy who plays rugby onthe weekends. His well-muscled frame is the epitome of masculinity, and was the number-one reason I couldn’t take my eyes off of him when we’d met a few weeks ago. But the fact that he had this kinky secret—this softer, sensual side—thrilled me in an i

he air smells clean and sharp like minerals, tastes like new snow eaten from a mitten. I can hear carsup on the road above the river, but we are alone down here in the alders and scrub. Wet ferns are brushing my fingertips. I touch them back, wanting. Always wanting. My breath is coming out in little puffs while he fingers my zipper and reaches down the back of my jeans to squeeze my ass. The breeze is cool, but the sun is warm on my face and heats a little triangle on my chest that is exposed when my boy pulls off my jacket and reaches up inside my silk thermal shirt to pinch a hard nipple. The moss is bright green. The leaves are gold, bronze and yellow. A little snow has dusted the distant hills. It could be autumn, or maybe it’s winter or early spring. I don’t care. It’s not raining. I am outside and the river issinging as it curls around the bend and froths and pools against basalt boulders.We were driving along scouting for wild mushrooms, singing along to the radio, drinki

It was the fourth time we’d had sex. Each time before, when we were done, she rushed to cover her breasts with the blankets as I reached over to turn on the night- stand lamp and to get my after-sex cigarette and the ashtray. I’d finish my cigarette and head to the bathroom.When I returned, her men’s tank top was back on.The first time we were together, I begged for her breasts to come out and play. Her luscious, hot-as-hell DDDs. It was obvious that she was not going to free them on her own, but her protest was weak, a “No,” that whispered, Keep working me and I’ll give in. I want to give in.She didn’t like her breasts because they “weren’t butch,” she said. Because they presented her curvy female body to everyone she met.COME TO THE LIGHT195Oh, but they were butch. Sade just didn’t think the words butch and breasts belonged together. I, however, thought they were a match made in heaven.It’s no secret that I’m a breast woman. But butch breasts are a special type. Breasts b

I looked up just as she parted her lips with the tip of her tongue, meeting another pair of lips. Even through the crimson darkness I could tell it was hard, deep, hot. My ultimate butch-on-butch fantasy coming to life. I had felt them moving on top of me—knew it was inevitable and was quite pleased it was happening so soon—sensed its fruition just in time to catch that first glimpse of my own personal goddess-sent, ambrosia-dripping dream. As the intensity of the kiss mounted, their fingers—working individually, then in tandem, then separately again—increased the intensity with which they fucked my cunt. They stretched me wider as the two pairs of lips worked each other over and two pairs of hands heightened my already sensi- tive sense of touch. Surprised by each new movement, varying changes in tempo, one pressing harder here, the other lighter there, switching my entire body into high alert with their notable differences, their shared passions—growing even more fervent as we built

Jesse seethed as she scanned the nearly empty parking garage. Her ride, a bubbly working mother named Gail, had promised to wait the fifteen minutes it would take Jessie to send off that one last crucial email. She had finished in ten, yet by the time she had stepped off the elevator and into the garage there was no Gail. Only two cars remained. It was as though at six o’clock all eight floors of the T&E building just vanished in some apocalyptic sci-fi moment. Slipping her hand into her pocket, Jessie rubbed the now useless transit pass that normally got her home at the end of the day. She’d thought she was doing a good thing by giving up her car to take public transit. The change worked out beautifully: sitting for twenty minutes with her iPod and a book was by far preferable to the crunch of gridlock. Then the buses and ferries went on strike and she was stuck begging rides to and from her apartment on the opposite side of the harbor. She was digging for her cell phone and tryin