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Steamy-Stories

Steamy-Stories

By: Steamy Stories
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Explicit short stories of intimacy and passion.2003-2022 Biographies & Memoirs Hygiene & Healthy Living Social Sciences
Episodes
  • Michigan Weather and Women: Part 2

    Michigan Weather and Women: Part 2
    Dec 18 2025
    Michigan Weather and Women: Part 2 Dancing, and other forms of sentimentality. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Connected. As we finished the prep work, I asked Wilma about her day with Mary. "She is a good kid but is carrying a lot of anger and shame. We spent most of the day getting in touch with that anger. It takes some people years before they can express their emotions through art; it took her about five minutes. But we had to take some breaks to clean up the paint splatters afterward before they stained." "Oh shit! Sorry about that. I can pay to replace anything that;" "Nothing to apologize for; I asked her to express how she felt, and she did it in the way that felt right to her." "Well, I appreciate your taking the time. I am just her big brother; I feel so lost when it comes to parenting." "Being a parent doesn't mean that you know any more than anyone else, and it certainly doesn't mean that you know any better. For what it's worth, I think you are doing a fine job with your family. I know that you don't have your parents around to say it, but this old woman is mighty proud of who you are and of how you have stepped up for your brother and sisters. They are very lucky to have you." I turned away so that Wilma wouldn't see me getting choked up. I couldn't remember the last time that someone had said they were proud of me. Soon enough, though, it was dinner time, and Erin came into the kitchen with that same look of amusement on her face. "Sorry to bother the chef, but Lane needs some help that only a big brother can provide." When I gave her a quizzical look, she blushed. "It seems like he is going through puberty, which can pose; some new challenges. When I was assessing his ankle, he; well, indicated his interest in me in a way that can be difficult to hide, particularly while wearing sweatpants. It's natural for his body to react that way at that age, and it's nothing for him to feel badly about, but he was mortified. I think he could use a bit of brotherly guidance and understanding." I went to the living room and saw that Lane was curled up on the couch and looked like he was fighting back tears. "How are you doing, Buddy?" He couldn't even look at me he was so embarrassed. "I am so sorry; I just couldn't help it. I don't know why it started to get bigger, and I wanted it to stop, and it wouldn't and then she saw me, and;" he continued as he fought back a sob. "Can we just go home?" "Erin is a doctor. She knows how the human body works and has seen that kind of thing a hundred times. She isn't mad at you or embarrassed. She just feels bad that you feel so bad. This is just part of getting older and growing up. "Did I ever tell you about what happened in Miss Iron's class when I was a freshman? Miss Iron was a bit of a legend among the male students at our local high school. She was the youngest and prettiest teacher, by far, and even though she always dressed professionally, the clothing style had yet to be invented that could fully conceal her bountiful natural endowment. "Well, I liked Miss Irons a lot. She was one of the few teachers who looked past my difficulty with reading and writing. So, I developed a little crush on her, which was fine until the inevitable; hmm, physical demonstration of my crush; happened in class one day, just before she asked me to collect everyone's quizzes. I tried to delay, I tried to ask a friend to do it instead, but eventually, I had to stand up. It took me until my junior year to live that one down." As Lane listened to my story, he turned to face me and his second-hand embarrassment for me helped to push his embarrassment to the side. "So, what happened?" "Miss Irons was lovely and kind like she always was, but I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me or to get hit by a bolt of lightning. Things would have been fine if she hadn't mentioned what happened to the principal, who called Mom. She didn't find the story funny at all." I hadn't thought of the aftermath when I started telling Lane this particular story, but as they say, might as well put it in four-wheel drive and keep going. "Mom was mad?" "By then, Mom was pretty much always angry. I did my best to keep her away from you and the girls when she got that way, but yeah; she was mad." "Are you mad at me?" "No, Bud, I'm not. In a few years, once your embarrassment has died down a little, I will tease you mercilessly about this because that's what brothers do; and maybe threaten to tell your girlfriend, if you fall behind on your chores or homework. But I will never get mad at you for something that you can't control. And I promise that Erin isn't mad at you either." Just then, Mary poked her head in to tell us that dinner was on the table. "Are you safe now, or do you need a few more minutes." "I'm good. Thanks, Dad." After I helped Lane hobble into the dining room, we got down to the business of eating and teasing each other, but not necessarily in...
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  • Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1

    Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1
    Dec 17 2025
    Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1 Love, bastards, and what we leave behind. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Connected. The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake Prologue I have never been much for following instructions or doing what I'm told. In eighth grade, we were assigned to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however, was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my mother. In high school, we had to take an art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so I feel like I came out ahead on that one. In my last year of school, the final mathematics exam asked the following question: Determine the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines. Illustrate fully. While the other students slaved away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of sunflowers with Mrs. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could use a little push. I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson showed my drawing to Mrs. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out. They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade. So, what was my problem, you might ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just outside a village called Good Hart. Chapter 1. It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though, I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing. At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber, I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors, leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort. That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so I wanted to get it done. The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the trees cast long shadows across the laneway. The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without heat for a night during a cold snap. I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman answered...
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  • Miracle On Route 34: Part 3

    Miracle On Route 34: Part 3
    Dec 15 2025
    Miracle On Route 34: Part 3 Being naughty can be a very good thing, if he needs help getting jolly. Based on a post by BiscuitHammer, in 3 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. "Just when I thought it couldn't get better;" Ginny sighed, lost in bliss. "You certainly know what a woman wants." "I aim to please." Santa said cheerfully, putting one arm around her waist and holding her close while he guided the sleigh. "Think we might've sated you for a while?" "Hmm, maybe for a bit, right?" she purred, stretching like a cat before sitting forward and looking down over the earth, lit by clusters of lights that punctuated the darkness of Christmas Eve. It wasn't long before she began to giggle. "Schilling for your thoughts." Santa said, giving her tit a squeeze. "Well, you probably don't remember, but we've met before," she mentioned lightly, turning her head to wink at him. "I sure remember it." "Oh? Do tell." "Well," she said casually, her thoughts drifting back. "I was sixteen and my girlfriends and I were at the mall. We saw you and decided to sit on your lap. So Cari and I were sitting on you at the same time, squirming our asses on you and kept whispering naughty things in your ears, things we wanted to do to you, you know?" Santa didn't respond for several moments. "See?" Ginny said, smirking. "Told you that you didn't remember." "What; was the date of that, Virginia?" he asked warily. "December fifteenth, eight years ago, about seven-thirty pm," she said. "I still have a photo. Why?" "Because I wasn't in your city on December fifteenth eight years ago," he said with reluctance. "I was in Lahina on Maui, judging a naked limbo contest at a luau." She was silent for some time. "You're; you're sure?" Santa nodded. "Oh, God;" Ginny whispered, her eyes distant. "That means that Cari and I were grinding on some creepy mall Santa; oh, shit, I could feel him getting hard and everything!" Ginny scrunched her face up in revulsion and was flapping her arms in horror. "Oh, God. Blah! Blah! Blah!" Santa's roaring laughter echoed through the darkness as his date for the evening struggled to not puke off the side of the sleigh and onto the unsuspecting town below. Silent Runnings. She always kind of assumed that the sleigh made little or no noise when it touched down on a roof. After all, what kept some survivalist gun nut from trying to blow Santa away with his collection of automatic rifles when he heard some noise he couldn't account for? The sleigh glided silently onto the roof, the blades letting out little more than a hiss and the patter of the reindeer's hooves barely audible. Santa leapt out lightly and assisted her in exiting the sleigh before grinning at her. "Now, I won't be long, just hang tight and stay near the sleigh, if you're within the Gellar Field, you'll keep warm, alright?" Ginny raised an eyebrow in his direction, nonplussed. "Um, 'excuse me? I'm here with Santa Fucking Claus on Christmas Motherfucking Eve. How many times can a girl say that? If you think for one second I'm not delivering presents with you, then you're even more stupid that Krampus. I'm coming." Santa seemed hesitant. "Virginia, I've been at this since Proto-Hittite times, one way or another. I'm kind of an expert and I don't want you to hurt;" "Oh, get real," she snorted, pushing past him toward the chimney. She was glad to note that the 'Gellar Field', whatever the hell that was, seemed to be keeping her warm at this distance. "If your fat ass can fit down a chimney with that huge bag, so can mine." She clambered over the lip of the chimney and eased herself down inside it. Santa watched silently as she wriggled out of sight. There was no noise for several seconds. Finally Ginny spoke, her voice coming up the flue. "Okay, kinda stuck here, with my nose pressed into my own asshole. Little help?" Santa chuckled lightly and reached for a can of grease. Piloting a Ginny. "You're getting better at this, I must say," Santa remarked as he rummaged through his bag of presents while Ginny guided the sleigh. "Last person who drove the sleigh for me, the reindeer resisted a lot. They like you." "Oh?" Ginny replied, twisting the reins slightly and veering the sleigh team southwest. "Who was she?" Santa cleared his throat. "Actually, it was Krampus. Well, he was Pete back then, and it was over six hundred years ago." It took Ginny a moment to recover from her shock and concentrate on guiding the sleigh. Fortunately, the reindeer seemed to know where they were going. "Six hundred;" "Yup," Santa confirmed. "The Belgian monks were still getting the recipe for Stella Artois right the last time one of my kids helped me out." "But what about all your wives you were telling me about?" she asked. "They must've been in the sleigh before." Santa shrugged. "Yeah, people have been in it, I've taken them places, but you and Pete are the only two who have ever helped me on Christmas Eve." She felt herself grow warm, and for once it wasn't ...
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