It was hot and steamy as we arrived at the airport in Brisbane for the long journey home to Boston. This was the end of a month-long campervan vacation in Australia, and I, for one, was overjoyed to be heading back to some normalcy. For an entire month my wife Anne (I call her "the queen") had avoided sex in the campervan, or anywhere else for that matter, since "the children are nearby."  - The irony of her way of thinking will be evident shortly.

There was no point in pretending anymore, Robert’s studies were going to hell in a hand basket. There was also, no point in pretending that he wasn’t enjoying himself. But, and it was proving to be a big but, he was having doubts about the women he met through his adverts.

“Change please, change please.”

The singsong voice pleaded but, without the conviction you might expect from someone, truly desperate. Robert had seen the same guy in his regular spot in Charing Cross Underground for as long as her had been commuting to London. The street beggar never seemed to alter and didn’t look particularly needy. His clothes were of a good standard, hair combed and short and certainly, he wasn’t mal-nourished.

At last, she allowed him to cum, letting his seed spurt into her mouth in almost painful spasms of ejaculation. Her tight grip at the base of his cock released, allowing the pent up seed to pass, so that it shot through his urethra at blast velocity.

Authors note: I hereby acknowledge that the basic storyline and characters of the story below are NOT ORIGINAL. This is a 2000+ year old story from the ancient Egyptian religion, which I have elaborated on and (hopefully) made more erotic.

We, my husband and I, were returning after visiting a relative’s function late at night. The bus was crowded. My husband pushed me inside and instructed me to go at the back thinking it may be less crowded there. He was wrong it was much more crowded and we both got stuck. I was at the back and he was stuck somewhere in the middle.

ELLEN'S STORY:
Although Bill objects to the word, "addicted," that's the best term I can think of to describe his attachment to card games. At the peak of our experiment with open marriage, bi-weekly Friday night poker had become a ritual with him and his friends, held at our home.

On a Saturday late last March, while Bill was out of town on business, I was in a black string-bikini, laying on our cypress dock beneath the late afternoon sun. The dock juts 50 feet out over the lake to our boathouse. The sun's rays rippled through tiers of clouds, reddening the lake.

After a year of our lifestyle, I'm still not sure whether "open marriage" is the right term. When Bill first encouraged me to date others, I found the idea appalling, but now I love this arrangement. Bill hasn't shown any interest in involvement with another woman, so this has been a one-sided affair. What Bill gets out of these dates are the thrills of my telling about my extramarital experiences. I agreed to whatever adventures Bill might dream up as long as these were no threat to our marriage.

People who move to Florida learn to expect visitors from the north. Early this summer, friends whom Bill and I had known in Long Island visited us for three days. Darryl and Rita are the only couple to whom we have confided that Bill and I have an "open marriage."