Erotic Stories

mike

They met in the laundry room.
In the bowels of the big old apartment building where Jack lived was a laundry room which housed five washing machines and five dryers, all of which cost $1 to run but were far less efficient than taking your clothes to the laundromat across the street. But nonetheless there he was, folding his boxers.

Now, when you live in an apartment building you tend to “see” a lot of people but not to “meet” a lot of people. Jack lived in a place populated by familiar strangers, people he saw every day but didn’t know the name of. One of these people was the girl he referred to as “The Dyke.”
Now, Jack didn’t mean that in a derogatory way, by any means. She was a hard-core butch dyke, and he was sure she would tell him such if he asked. She stood about 5’1″, a tiny thing who seemed to attain at least 4 more inches with sheer attitude. Unfortunately that still left her at 5’5″. Her buzz-cut hair was so short, it looked like blonde peach fuzz on her pink head, except for two little fringes of a Chelsea girl that came down like little golden antennae in the front. She had a baby face, cherubic cheeks and cupid bow lips, but had a constant glare of toughness. Her wardrobe was made up of polo shirts, wife beaters, baggy jeans and work pants. She was almost always wearing work boots and a thick wallet chain that hung from her back pocket to her belt and jingled when she walked.

Jack always smiled at her in the hallway and she always gave him a noncommittal nod. There was something refreshing about people who wore their identity so openly. She was who she was, a butch little baby dyke who could kick your ass. “What was he?” he wondered. A complicated mixed-up guy who worked too much and occasionally wrote smut and posted it on the internet. A guy who had some very interesting sex and thought about it way too much. A kinky geek. “How would one wear that as an identify?” he wondered. “Walk around with a pocket protector full of vibrators?”

One day when Jack was in the aforementioned laundry room folding his boxers “The Dyke” walked in and started a few loads of her aforementioned polo shirts and wife-beaters. She got everything started, and then sat on top of an empty dryer and pulled out an battered book without giving Jack a second look.

Jack looked at the worn cover and raised his eyebrow while folding.

“Nietzsche, huh?” he commented awkwardly above the rumbling sloshing background noise of the room.

She scowled at him over the book.

“Yeah, so?”

“Looks like you’ve read it a few times,” he said carefully.

She put the book down and looked him up and down, then shrugged, finding him harmless. “I just work in a used book store, so all my books look like this. Have you read this?”

“Beyond Good and Evil? Yeah, in college. I remember liking it and being all pumped up with the ideas. Morality without religion and all that. Then again, when you’re 20, you’re pumped up by any new idea.”

She smirked. “I’m 20.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, enjoy then. I’m 30… there’s no getting me pumped up.”

She put down the book and smirked again with the same crooked half-smile. “That’s not that old, come on.”

“I guess not. Anyway, enjoy.” Jack said, taking the last of his load out of the dryer and folding it.

“Is that a Clash shirt?” she asked hopping off the dryer and walking over.

“Yeah.” Jack said with a grin. His collection of tshirts was one of his prides.

She raised an eyebrow in approval.

“My name’s Mike, what’s up?” she said with a smirk and a measuring look in her eyes.

“I’m Jack. 2E. Mike, hmm?”

She shrugged. “That’s my name.”

“Anyhow, I got to go put this stuff away. I guess I’ll see you around.” He picked up his basket, exchanged smiles with her and left.

“Be careful washing that shirt, I might swipe it!” she called from down the hall.

*

More laundry room conversations would follow. She told Jack about the bookstore she worked in, he told her about his job at a big magazine. It was nice to have a friend in the building. Jack liked Mike a lot, she reminded him of the people he grew up with. Smart, into good music, politically active and intense. Very unlike most of the people he knew these days.

The fourth time they met down, there it was sort of planned. She was waiting for him when he got there and seemed to be guarding his usual washing machine.

“Hey, Jackie boy. You’re late. That old lady from the fourth floor came by, and I had to stare her down. She was gonna take your machine.” Mike was dressed in a thin ribbed-cotton wife-beater and a pair of baggy cargo pants. She sat on top of the dryer with a worn paperback in her hands. An iPod laid on the counter next to her.

“Thanks, I’m sure she’s telling her cats all about it right now. She’d bring it up at the board meeting, but the apartment board banned her after her 100th complaint about “coloreds” roaming the halls at night.”

“Damn, if I knew that, I would have roughed her up.”

Jack laughed, putting his basket of clothes down and picking up her MP3 player.

“Patti Smith? I approve.” Jack said, putting the small white device down next to Mike’s leg.

“Yeah, I get in this thing where I need to listen to a song over and over again. Right now it is ‘Because the Night’, I love her lyrics.”

Jack chuckled a little. “She has amazing lyrics. She’s a poet, more than a rocker… but most of the lyrics for that one were written by somebody else. You want pure Patti, you got to listen to Horses… ‘Angel looks down at him and says, Oh, pretty boy, can’t you show me nothing but surrender?’”

She raises an eyebrow. “Well, who wrote ‘Because the Night?’ then?”

“Bruce Springsteen.”

She cut her eyes at him and hopped off the dryer. “Bullshit.”

Jack pushed a mound of clothes into the washing machine and then started inserting quarters into the machine.

“Look it up. They were in studios next to each other and Bruce had this song that wasn’t right for his album and so he gave it to Patti. She changed the lyrics a little and put it on her album.”

She nodded in bewilderment. “Very cool.”

“You know what my favorite Smith lyric is?” Jack asked, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing anything under the think shirt and that her nipples were large and just slightly hard.

“You spare the child and spoil the rod; I have not sold my soul to god.”

Mike worded the lyrics as he said them, knowing them by heart.

That washing session was a little more intense then usual.

*

Walking up the stairs a little past midnight on Friday Jack bumped into a very different Mike. She was all smiles and a bit drunk. She laughed when she saw him and then came up to him and poked him in the chest with her finger.

“We’ve been talking about rock and roll and folding our boxer shorts for a couple of weeks now and you’ve never hit on me once.”

Jack fumbled for words. “Well, I kind of thought, I mean…”

“I know what you thought, you see me and you think you have me figured out.” she said smirking her tough little smirk.

She kept walking and he kept moving back until his back was against the wall.

“I mean it seemed like you liked…” he stammered and she moved in and kissed him on the lips. She was fast and strong and she totally caught him off guard, even though she was standing on her toes. As she kissed him and reaching up and grabbing his dick.

“I know what you thought, but maybe I’m a little more complicated. Maybe I like all kinds of things. Maybe right now I like you.”

“Apparently,” he said as she stoked him through his pants. Then she took his hand and she pulled it to her pants and pressed it against something long and hard against her leg. “The question is… how open minded are you?”

“Is that…” he started, but wasn’t sure what to ask.

“A big fake dick? Yes. You caught me on my way home from a club… and I like to pack when I go to this club… unfortunately nobody was game. I think you might be a fun diversion for the night. What do you say, Jack?” She continued to stroke him through his pants and she noticed he didn’t get any less hard as she continued to press his hand against her strap-on.

He kissed her back. For some reason he expected her lips to be hard, but they were soft like most girls he had kissed. She pushed him harder against the wall and he smiled. He pushed her back suddenly and turned her around so he was pressing her against the wall. When her back hit her eyes closed for a minute and she bit her lip. little and grabbed hold of her cock.

“I’m game,” he said, moving his other hand up to roughly cup one of her barely there breasts. She laughed into his kisses and whispered, “We will see.”

 Backroom

When I pushed her against the bookshelf and kissed her neck and pressed myself hard against her, she didn’t seem surprised. When will I learn to read women better?

There are hot days where you get the itch. I tried doing something about it that morning, but I was almost late for work so that half started dalliance made my day even worse. At work at the bookstore we didn’t get one customer, so I was sent in the back with Lucy to unpack boxes and catalog.

She was my type. She had always been my type. Why didn’t I figure out sooner that I was her type?

I pulled up her dress, so easy with that loose soft cotton. Up, up until it was all the way to her tits. She held it there while I pulled the cups of her bra down just enough so that her thick nipples stuck out.

She was an inch taller then me and sort of awkward with her thin waist and big hips. She was sort of butch, I guess, even in a dress. Too tall, shoulders a little broad. She was a “field hockey girl” if that makes any sense. Tall, a little thick, a little too well built for some men’s tastes. I wanted her from the get go. She was an R. Crumb wet dream and I had her against the back room’s nonfiction shelf and her face was getting lost as I squeezed her tits together and sucked on each dark brownish nipple.

Is it a power thing to want to make a girl come? It’s the thing that gets me off the hardest. And god damn I wanted to make her come. I wanted to see that calm face I saw everyday turn red and those eyes get lost and her sweet mouth try to bite back moans.

My hand was on her little pouch of a stomach and then into her plain cotton underwear and then my fingers were spreading out in warm soft curls.

“Oh, fuck…” she mumbled, sounding drunk.

She had light brown hair, short and curly and parted in the middle. Light green eyes and she never wore makeup. She was perfect. All day in the heat and the half hard haze I was in I noticed her looking at me. She smiled at me. She bumped into me four or five times as we passed in the cramped back room, her round ass against my crotch more then once.

I should have gotten the hint, but I just don’t get women a lot of the time. I always “think” they are coming on to me, but I’m never sure.

“Damn, it’s hot.” I said an hour before I threw her against the bookshelf. She nodded and wiped her face and the bit of chest exposed my her low cut dress.

“Yeah… you want to get something cold with me later on?” she asked, trying to be casual.

I eyed her. We had never really went out, even to lunch in a friendly coworker way, in the six month I worked there. I smiled dumbly.

“Like ‘coworker’s getting a drink’ or like…”

She punched me on the arm. “Like what ever… like a date even, if you want.”

I smiled really wide and nodded. “A date with you? Hell yeah.”

“What does that mean? Hell yeah?” she was smiling brightly and blushing a little.

“It means I’ve been crushing hard on you for a couple of months now. But I get nervous asking someone I work with out.. it can be all weird if they say no.”

After that she bumped into me even more. Unpacking books and moving boxes became sweaty flirtation. After an hour I couldn’t take it, at that brings us to were we were…

She fumbled with my belt, then my zipper and then she let out a sigh when she reached in and grabbed my hardness. She smiled at me, a wolfish look on her face. Hungry and biting her lip. I watched those eyes as my finger slipped between her lips, wet with her, and softly rubbed against the side of her clit. She winced with pleasure, her breath caught and her hand squeezed me tighter.

She moved down, letting my hand slip out of her underwear and she pulled my pants down a little, just enough to let my cock slip out.

Now, I had been hot and horny all day, not to mention flirting with her for the last hour. I was on edge. She wasn’t playing around, she jerked me roughly and licked the tip of my cock with her warm wet tongue. She wet the tip and then sucked me in. My knees almost gave as it felt like my brain was being dipped in hot butter. She knew what she was doing.

She sucked half of me in and then 3/4, her teeth dragging across the head and then the warmth of her mouth over me again.

“Wait… I’m pretty close already…” I said feeling a little silly being so fast, but that was the kind of day it was.

I saw her smile as she kept sucking. She looked up at me and I was lost. I wondered if she felt the same way I did, did she like that I was under her control right now?

She flooded her mouth with saliva and her lips and tongue slid faster and wetter against my cock. My hands clenched as she kept going. I tried to warn her, “I’m.. slow down..” I pleaded, but she would have none of that. She sped up, holding the base of my cock with one hand and letting her other drift down to play with herself.

She moaned against me as she looked up pleading and that was it. The itch that built all day was finally scratched and I came, shooting again and again into her. She never slowed, she swallowed it all.

As she stood up, I sank to my knees panting.

“Holy shit.. that was…” I said, leaning against her leg. She smiled down at me, one hand holding up her dress as the fingers of her other worked under her panties.

I stayed there on my knees in front of her, watching her fingers move under her panties for a minute. Looking up at her, hair was in her face, her mouth was open. I kissed her inner thigh, I bit the warm flesh. I moved up, dragging my lips against her skin. She puller the wet cotton aside and I ran my tongue along the wet soft hair and then slipped it into the salty sweet slit.

She braced herself against the wall and pull hard against her panties, pulling them farther to the side. She let two fingers open her lips for me and I saw the soft inner lips glistening.

I sucked at each little lip. I let my tongue glide around her clit, which was very large and very hard and swollen. She grabbed my hair with her free hand and let out a gasp. I circled her clit hood, just grazing the pinkness that peaked out. She let out a little cry every time I made contact. I moved one hand up her thigh and licked two fingers. It was very easy to slip them into her. She was wetter then any girl I’d ever been with.

She was whimpering now, a little too loud. She was past being discrete. I pushed my two fingers in farther and started licking around her clit faster and then sucking on it. She started breathing hard and fast in time with my finger fucking. She clenched her fist in my hair and her thighs on my hand and came hard.

We heard the bells of the front door of the store just then and in seconds her dress was back down and my pants were zipped and we were apart, though hot sweaty and bright red faced.

Want

We were going out for drinks. That was all. Just to see if we were both alright. This was after our break up and after the crying.

We eyed the subway signs as they passed the window. All the numbers going up. Our hands found each others, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Somehow we didn’t stand when the stop that would take us to drinks came. Somehow we were back at my apartment again.

The kissing was furious, contagious, biting, hungry. My hands on her, noticing the changes, how she was thinner, how she was a little more aggressive now, like she was showing off. Trying to prove she wasn’t that little girl anymore.

I needed a lot of things all at once and sitting next to her on the couch I wasn’t getting any of them fast enough. I pushed her down, pulled at the buttons of her jeans and slapped her hands away, though I wasn’t sure if she was trying to stop me or help me. I pulled her denim, along with her panties, down to her knees and held her down as my mouth found her cunt.

She tasted the same. It made me hard the same way.

There was short coarse hair where there used to be smooth skin. It annoyed me. I wanted what I wanted and that meant I wanted a bare pussy. This wasn’t acceptable.

I took her by the hair and dragged her to the bed. I said nothing. I just stripped her and put her hands and feet in the nylon cuffs I always tucked just under the mattress. I remember the first time I put her in them, a long time ago. I pulled the straps through the buckles and her legs spread open for me.

I stood and looked at her. She was mine for a while. Her eyes were unfocused from want. She tried to hide her head behind her shoulder, suddenly embarrassed.

From my drawer I took my clippers. Little electric ones I used for my sideburns. I took off the guard so it was just bare metal against her. I turned it on and lifted it so she could see it. Time to say no. Time to bargain or stop me. She just gasped and watched me, wide eyed.

I held her down, made quick work of it. I couldn’t get exactly what I wanted, smooth bare skin, but it was close enough for the time being. I thought about getting my razor, but I was too wild to take my time.

I unstrapped her and pushed her off the bed, out into the hall, then the bathroom. Showered quickly with her. Soaped up the now almost hairless pussy as she pouted and eyed me.

Then I took her back to my bed and pushed her legs back up in the air and ate her out properly. Then I fucked her properly. I fucked her until she said the things she said she wouldn’t say and left a huge wet mess on my sheets.

In the end those huge eyes were watching me, unsure of exactly what happened. Then we slept, clinging to each other like we clung on to the past.

In the morning we were going to have to try and let both go.

Crush on my French professor

I thought I’d take a shot at sparking your imagination with a tiny confession – I have a huge and inappropriate crush on my French professor. I know he’s married, but I still have dreams about him bending me over his desk. My pronunciation is terrible. Maybe that’s why I fantasize about showing up in his office and beg for his help.

Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall and roguishly handsome I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.

I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.

I wanted to speak French though, I truly did. All the Moliere and Guy de Maupassant, Zola, Proust! I could read them well enough, but my tongue fumbled out loud. I listened to Gainsbourg and tried to will my mouth to find all those nuanced touches. My lips just couldn’t do it.

In class he wouldn’t yell at me or even try to help me much. When called on he would simply shake his head and call on someone else.

“Répétez après moi; Tes yeux, j’en rêve jour et nuit,” he demanded.

I tried oh how I tried, but what came out was too soft, too vague for him. He brushed his hand in the air as if to brush me away.

One day I came to his office after class and holding my books in my lap and looking down I begged him for help. He sat back in his chair and measured me. He said nothing.

I tried again, in my stumbling French.
“Um, s’il vous plaît aidez-moi,” I said, shaking a bit.

“Fermer la porte,” he said and rose from his chair.

When I walked back to his desk he paces a bit, looking me up and down as he rubbed his chin. I stood near his desk and he walked up behind me, forcing me to lean against his desk.

There was something imposing about him. He was brilliant and intense and he made me feel small, stupid, and innocent.

“French is like a woman, a complicated woman. You must coax her, seduce her, but must be forceful, but can not force her, no?” He said looking down at me from behind me.

I looked forward, putting my books on the table.

“You go to her with no confidence. You stumble because you fear. What do you fear?” he says moving in, putting one strong hand on my hip.

“Are you this way in all things?” he whispered into my ear, “it is not good to think too much, to try too hard to force things, in language, in love, in bed, no?”

I swallowed.

“You come here for my help, but the wall you face is your own and I can not help you. I think you know that. I can not make your tongue behave. I can not make your fears go away. Then why do you come here?” he demanded into my ear.

He smelled of smoke and some fading cologne. It was all very real. I pressed back against him.

“Perhaps you come to me like in the movies to beg for a good grade despite your inability?” he said with a laugh.

I let out a sound of sorrow. I little meek whimper. He moved away from me.

“I came because I want to speak French. I want to so badly, but I just can’t-”

He cut her off, “you won’t! We can do anything. You have a mouth, you have a tongue, you stop yourself from this,” he said roughly, averting his eyes from me.

“I just need more time. Over the summer I can maybe sit with a coach-” she started.

“But again you want to pass. You want me to give you a grade so you can go on and try to learn in the summer? I should do this why?” he was angry now and my body awoke with fear.

“I-” I started, but my throat dried.

“You want a better grade than what you deserve,” he said, then walking to me he took my wrists in his hands.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I…” I felt heat in my face, then in my eyes, then wetness down my cheek.

“I want a grade I don’t deserve,” I said, more because he told me to than it being true.

“And you’ve come here to beg for it,” he continued.

“Yes,” I hissed and I started to sob.

“Pathétique,” he spat in a whisper.

“You want to beg, then do it. I have no time to dawdle,” he said, the word seeming strange with his accent.

He let me go and I felt to my knees.

“P-p-please, Monsieur, can you-um-help me with my grade,” I begged, grovelling at his feet.

He folded your arms.

“Oh, help you with your grade? Why yes, I can help you by telling you now, it is an F. F for fail. In French perhaps E for échouer?” he said chuckling at his own joke.

“Monsieur, please!” I begged.

He smiled down at me, “Oh, doux ma petite fille, do you not see the cinema? Now that you beg you have to offer your sweet mouth. You have to offer me ‘anything I want’ and tell me you will ‘do anything’ for my help,” he said laughing cruelly.

I sobbed, but I knew then that he’s seen the desire in my eyes in class. I wanted to leave, to deny him but the thought of offering myself to him suddenly crept into my veins. The dirtiness of it, of him using my as I cried, was suddenly palpable and soon I was as wet between my legs as on my cheeks.

“I-I will do anything Monsieur,” I said looking up at him.

“Ah, oui précieuse mon oiseau,” he said holding out his hand to help me up.

I stood and he turned me around slowly and put his hand on my back.

“Now you pull up your pretty skirt and pull down your little culotte and maybe I will think about it, no?”

Then I was bending over. His pens and stapler and pack of Gitanes pressing up against my breasts and my face and I reached back and pulled up my pleated skirt. I pulled down my panties.

“Ah, oui,” he said to himself.

Then I felt his rough hands on my thighs. My toes curled in my shoes as I looked down at the dark wood of his desk and spread my fingers out on the desk and waited.

His hand left for a moment and came back wet and then his finger was slipping between my lips. Then he knew how wet I was, how much I wanted to be a dirty girl fucking my French teacher. Then his thick finger slipped inside of me and I gasped.

“Taisez,” he growled and then I felt him move and suddenly his mouth was on my sex.

He licked and groaned as he did. His tounge slipped over my clit and my back arched, then it slipped into me, then up and then just the tip of his tongue slid over my ass and I jumped.

He laughed and stood and slapped my ass once. My legs straightened at that and I raised my ass for him. He let out an approving laugh at that.

“Le chat likes that,” he said spanking me again, harder.

I did. I did I did.

He hit me again and I braced my body. He spanked me again and again and I was on my tippy toed and every strike went right to my clit. He hit me again and again and I covered my mouth.

Then I heard his belt buckle and I froze. I didn’t know if I wanted his belt or his cock more. I didn’t know which was coming.

Then I heard his zipper. His pants falling to the floor. His wet fingers pushed into me; one, two, three made me feel stretched and burning. Then I was empty for a moment, then his cock.

It was thick, it was so hot, my mind started reeling. Then he grabbed my hips and fucked me. He fucked me like someone playing with a rag doll. I was just a tooy for him to get off with. I was just another little slut who came into his office to fuck him for a better grade.
“S’agenouiller sur le sol,” he said roughly, turning me around, pushing me down.

Then his cock was in my mouth, salty and covered in my pussy. I sucked it. I sucked it and stroked it and rubbed it against my cheek and licked it up and down and pulled on it and licked and sucked his balls, wanting all of him. Then he pushed it back in my mouth. He fucked my mouth. He fucked my mouth until I heard him grunting and groaning and I knew in that moment he was mine.

Then that white hot moment, the dirtiest moment, my knees burned on the floor as he shot his come into my mouth. Again and again until I couldn’t breath.

Then I was on the floor.

I laid there on my side and watched as he pulled up his pants as he panted. He bucked his belt. He walked away, around the desk and I heard him sit down.

“You get a C,” he said calmly.

“Anything more and there might be questions,” he explained.

“I have work,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

I stood after a moment. I didn’t look back at him. I carefully slipped into the hall and ran to the restroom.

That summer I went to Paris.