The first thing you should know is that my English isn't that good. It's much better now, after a long arduous period of reading the same old "English for Dummies" book I found in one of the rooms inside a waste basket but, back then, I could barely make myself understood when I was forced to actually speak with the tourists and couldn't just nod my way thro...
It was the end of a long, hard day – the third of a five-day conference in a foreign city, a long way from home, a long way from where I wanted to be. I let the door to my hotel room swing shut behind me as I fired up the air-con, grabbed a cigarette from the packet in my pocket, and flopped into a chair by the window. I'd left the lights off – there was not...
If you believe in fate, this all started about a week ago. Allison was a rider, as in horses. She did those jumps and what not. I guess I just knew her from band though. A flautist, horse back rider, and the lucky recipient of two broken arms. The full arm casts that covered both arms disabled her from bending her elbows and so her range of arm motion and fu...
To: A.M. From: "TonyZee" Subject: Re: Re: Literotica Feedback Dear A.M., I am not in the habit, because I have not had a great deal of interest, in corresponding with Literotica readers who write me—good, bad, or indifferent—about the meager stories I've contributed to the site. My intent has never been to "meet" someone through my stories—hence me pseud...
I "Drink it" Those more innocent times seem impossibly remote now that they have gone for ever. It astonishes me to reflect that it was actually less than a year ago that a sudden loud knocking heralded the unexpected late-night appearance of a policeman on my doorstep. This is an event that would terrify me if it happened today, but in those days I was st...
II Todd Wakeman was on the telephone in his office, his fingers drumming away loudly on the desk; both Somerfield and MacIntyre could see he was agitated. He was trying to talk with someone, anyone at the Julliard School after listening to one of the clinical art therapists on the ward. She had heard the music earlier and watched from the corridor, and she...
Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission. Previously: our narrator has met a mysterious goth girl at an art gallery. The girl seduces him and they engage in an anonymous coupling in the gallery's washroom. *** The lunchroom is uncharacteristically empty. The writers and graphic artists are either snug in their cu...
He lay on the white sheeted bed, relaxed, in his robe, hands behind his head. She knelt at the foot of the bed, legs wide, back straight, hands resting on her thighs, eyes downcast, but stealing peeks at him from beneath her lashes. She was naked, wet, and ready, like she always was for him. And now she was waiting for his permission. He almost seemed to be...
What was I supposed to do? I mean, what could I have done? The day started out normal enough. I reluctantly crawled out of bed, turned off the damn alarm, then jumped in the shower. When I emerged I still didn't feel quite awake, but I proceeded to brush out my hair, throw on some clothes, brew a cup of coffee, and find my keys. I was going to be late to wor...
A war camp is a noisy place- everyone seems to feel compelled to call out to one another at the tops of their voices, and the clash of arms and rhythmic pounding of men's boots and their call and response as they pass at all hours, seem to fill the world. Women's voices too- laughing, sobbing, gasping- girls with soft little hands that pluck at her like gent...