Your erotic stories

“You have a two o’clock meeting with the regional developer’s association. There’s the briefing on the smart growth legislation they’re interested in,” Cathy informed me as I slowly flipped through the contents of my inbox, which always seemed overwhelmingly full on each of my visits back to my district. “I’m assuming they’re against it,” I sarcastically replied.

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Anne Evans looked across at her daughter Kathy, sitting at the other end of the couch. "Anything that you actually want to watch on TV?" she asked. Kathy raised her eyes from her magazine and shook her head. "Not for me, Mom. Switch it off if you want." Anne rummaged for the remote and switched off the TV, then picked up her photography magazine again. She sat for a while, aware that Kathy was getting increasingly fidgety. Eventually Kathy took a deep breath.

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"Please, come in." Candice smiled, she opened the door wide stepping back to let the men into her house. "How long do you think this is going to take?" she asked politely. "Maybe a few days, but it shouldn't really be more than two." One of them replied, smiling. She looked at his crisp, navy work shirt, it said 'Bud'. He was quite handsome, maybe in his late thirties.

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Three of us were sitting together in the company cafeteria having lunch. Because all three of us are married men the conversations usually were about sports, politics, money or occasionally, sex. If one of our offspring had done something noteworthy we allowed a little time for parental bragging. All three of us were in the age group where our offspring were either out-of-the-house at college or out-of-the-house married and gone.

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Harry stood outside of the shop shivering in the cold as he nonchalantly peeked in the windows building up the courage to enter the store. Acting as if her were waiting for someone he would wander away from the windows, glance at his watch and then wander back to the windows trying to decide exactly what he wanted to buy. Unfortunately, each time he saw a few interesting items, the window would begin to fog from his breath so he'd back out toward the street, look up and down the sidewalk and then glance at his watch.

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I live alone in my own apartment in the suburbs. Most of my time is spent working long hours so that doesn't give me much time keeping my place in order. I thought it might be a good idea to get myself a housekeeper or at the very least someone just to clean up and keep the place in somewhat of an orderly fashion.

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Several pictures of her were tucked into the sides of the mirror over his dresser. Most were school pictures, and one was of the two of them together, their arms wrapped around each other, both of them smiling at the camera. My hand, holding the brush that I had picked up from amidst the clutter on his dresser, stopped in mid-air as I peered at those pictures.

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He looked across again. It was definitely Mrs Jackson - Rhonda - from the house next door. Divorced, kids off at summer camp, and looking red hot in her short summer dress. She looked uncomfortable, too, because the trucker had obviously had too much to drink and was pawing at her. Jerry turned to his friends who were playing pool.

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The young man beside her was silent, lost in his own morose thoughts. Ginny concentrated on the icy highway in front of them, a hint of apprehension gripping her as they approached the Eisenhower Tunnel. Even though she had lived in the Rockies for sixteen years and made the drive from Vail to Denver weekly, this particular stretch of Interstate 70, approaching the Continental Divide, never failed to frighten her. Once more she wished she'd brought her husband's four-wheel drive, if only because it sat up higher and gave a better view.

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I walked down the hill on the west side Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, crossing the C and O canal, and stopped outside the window of a small women's boutique. The window displays indicated a variety of fine clothing and accessory items, immaculately arranged and appointed, so I entered. A small bell attached to the door jingled, announcing a visitor.

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