The onset of puberty invariably brings with it the dawning awareness of sexuality, of a childs inherent masculinity or femininity, and the struggle to put that sexuality into proper perspective.
Robert Carlyle was enjoying his Saturday morning; he was lying on his bed with his earphones on listening to some music on his mp3 player.
First off this was just a fantasy until now. I guess I should begin with a little history first. I was 18 years old 63 about 205 lbs with a thick 7 inch cock.I have chosen a Military career and consider myself to be a lifer. I came from a poor background and have worked hard from the age of twelve. When I turned 19 I married the most beautiful woman in the world. She was a petite little thing of about 52 blonde hair and deep green mesmerizing eyes. She had a perky set of grapefruit sized tits and a hard little bubble butt. I know all the stories start out like that.
I whistled with cheerful excitement as I drove down the quiet, suburban road towards the home of my sister. Married with three kids, my sister Melanie had a nice, white-collar existence in a respectable home, though her and her husband were not quite as respectable as they seemed!
Her name was Melanie. Her beauty was legend. Men came from miles around just for the chance to bathe themselves in her graceful aura.
In the kingdom of Loraik, under the tumultuous rule of young King Bedrick, in a remote village of the lush pasture lands, Garett the 20 year old farmhand was having the greatest night of his short life thus far.
My name is Sandra, and my husband Ed and I are 34 years old and live in a nice suburb of Houston with our one year old daughter. Ed is gainfully employed in the banking industry, and although I also had a good job as a systems analyst, I was able to quit when our daughter was born.
The Sisters Savoy they were known as, when they had their nightclub act. They sang and danced and told funny stories about growing up triplets. They were each as beautiful as the other, even though they were never that famous. I broke up the act you see, when mom became pregnant with me. That bulging belly broke the symmetry of the three and they never got back into show biz after that. Susan, my mother, married my dad, a local hardware store owner. Shortly after, Aunt Sylvia wed a rich man, who died when his private plane went down, a few years back. Aunt Sally hitched her wagon to a long distance truck driver, who was seldom in town.
I was the daughter of a couple of drunks. Father
Description: A young versatile university PhD professor is tired of being the object of derision as the pocket protector guy. When offered an opportunity to join a unique company, he takes a chance and enjoys the transition.
Fire is often said to be the one single discovery which led man to rise above the beasts and enabled him to distinguish himself as a ruler of the earth. But to a man standing on the sidewalk in his pajamas and watching a holocaust of orange flame destroying his home and with it everything that he spent his life accumulating, fire is a damnation — an evil invented by the devil for his persecution.
Description: In this humorous attempt at deliberate bad writing your beloved author faces down an irate father while armed only with blazing wit and wet underwear. Or maybe just wet underwear.
There is no denying that all men remember their first time fucking. It is something in the make of men that first time fucking, may it be good or bad; it is etched in our memory for always. In contrast the women usually do not remember their first fucking as much as they remember their first best fucking. In my personal experience, women are also very good in trying to teach and educate their fuckers, in an attempt to make most if not all episodes as memorable as possible. So if she gets a fucking, as satisfying in the morning as she got last night, nobody can blame her for not remembering being nailed and fucked on any one occasion until she had some special reason attached to it for memory.
As I got out of my car my skirt rode up, showing off my shapely legs, which Im told are my best feature. I quickly smoothed my skirt back down, thankful that I was in my driveway and not in the parking lot at work. Stupid skirt, I thought. Still, Im pretty sure it had earned me a couple of raises over the years, so I continued to wear it regularly.
The Eyrie is an aerial palace that serenely floats its rich and pampered inhabitants high in the atmosphere of its home world. But every slave aboard knows the terrible price of any failure to please the Eyrie Lords, whatever outrageous service might be asked. Below the High Eyrie’s gardens and glittering halls is the hell of the Boiler House. The Eyrie is maintained in its aerial position by the unremitting labour of naked girl-slaves working sixteen hours of every day for the rest of their short and pain-filled lives. Lyra is an ex-soldier forced by circumstance to become an overseer in that hell and even her very first shift is enough to make her wish that she had any other choice at all.
I would have to say that Norman is probably my very best friend. We started grade school together, then, graduated from high school together. We attended the same University and both graduated with honors. Neither of us had any brothers or sisters, so one might say that we were as close as brothers. We did everything together, hunting, fishing, partying, and yes, dating.
Me and my ex-husband Chris had recently met an old fuck buddy of his when he was 15 years old . A light skinned homely looking black woman with wide hips and a nice thick ass and thighs. My husband Chris impregnates her and I meet my future relatives
Scott has been in love with Tabitha, the single mother next door, almost since the first day he moved in. The problem is that Tabitha is in love with someone else a married man who has all the right excuses for why hes still with his wife. And then one snowy Christmas Eve…
The following days blended together into a nonstop sex romp. If I wasn’t having sex with Ashley, I was sodomizing Jill. We always fucked in Ashley’s bed, Jill getting off on her daughter’s scent with Ashley’s panties stuffed into her mouth as a gag. Whenever she could, Jill would listen in on Ashley and me screwing, standing on the other side of the door and touching herself. The door would be slightly open, a crack just wide enough for her to see me empty myself into her daughter. Whenever I would spend the night, I would wait for Ashley to fall asleep, then go into Jill’s room and let her suck me off. She would finger her pussy while she rolled my cock in her mouth, savoring the taste of her daughter on me.
My name is Jeremy. I’m 25 years old, and I’ve just returned from a three-month trip to Great Britain. I finished university with a cultural anthropology/linguistics degree and after two years of looking for a job relevant to my training (who the hell hires cultural anthropologists, anyway?), I decided to see the world while I still had the time.
Reverend James Walker had been the minister in the rural community of Woods Fork for the past six years, and both he and his wife, Abby, were highly thought of by the congregation. Standing on the church steps talking to some of his church members, one Sunday after the services were over, he was finding it very difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
The passions and denim that most people only dream about fulfilling are usually kept hidden beneath a veneer of respectability and outwardly normal appearances. Mostly under unique circumstances — on a psychiatrists couch, in a place far from family and acquaintances, on an occasion where alcohol and the relaxed inhibitions of others lend an air of recklessness and experimentation — are those desires ever expressed or experienced.
My thirty-five-year-old wife complained that it was much harder for her to loose the weight and get her figure back. I just liked her large milk filled breasts.
While after the changes wrought by nine eleven, I had grown to hate some airports, I loved to fly, and that was one of the best perks of the somewhat unconventional way I supported myself. I had always had trouble holding down a conventional job, probably a combination of stubbornness and being a smart ass. Whatever the reason, over the years I had found I could create a decent lifestyle for myself without actually holding down a job. Perhaps it was a personality disorder, but I would gladly work seventy or eighty hours per week for myself just to keep from having to work forty hours per week for someone else. So one January morning as I sat in the boarding lounge of United Airlines at LaGuardia, I reflected back on the path that had brought me to this point.