Your erotic stories

It was a Christmas for the record books. Twenty-four inches of snow, travel down to a crawl, and flights down to a minimum because of terrorism fears. This was the first year I'd been away from my large extended family. This year, it was just dinner at the house with my husband and his father, who lived in town. It was nice, though. Controllable. And my house was cozy, well-decorated, and warm. A fine dinner, a bottle (or three) of fine wine, a twinkling tree, and a blazing fire had all worked together to make a textbook Christmas night.

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There is a framed, color photograph resting on one of the built-in shelves in the living room of my 5th floor apartment. Everyone who visits me here in downtown Baltimore pauses to pick it up and look. There are nine bare-chested guys in the photo, all in their late teens or early 20s, standing beside each other, outstretched arms over arms, on a bright sunny beach, their backs to the Atlantic surf. They are all thick, hard-muscled and deeply tanned. And all wearing identical fire-engine red swim trunks with the words "Kill Devil Hills Lifeguard Service" emblazoned on the right leg.

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Don't get me wrong; I'd love to visit the States on a holiday, but to have to do it on business is a real chore. I'd been over to Boston once before, about six years ago. Technology meant that it wasn't really necessary anymore, but for some reason the Company Directors decided that I should be out there in person when the new Server went on-line. I travelled over on Sunday so that I could be in the office first thing on Monday morning. It was a relatively relaxed journey – I didn't have to check in until after lunchtime.

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Carrie licked her lips nervously, straightened her top and knocked lightly on the door. She waited for a response, but she couldn't hear anything – had she knocked hard enough or was he just busy? If she knocked again and he had heard her the first time but ignored it then wouldn't he get really annoyed? She paused for a few seconds more, then took her courage in both hands and rapped sharply on the door.

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It was the third week in August and a Wednesday, the slowest day of the week at our mountain resort-retreat and the bosses only day off. It was even slower because a Faith Bible Church group had booked the entire resort, and they weren't doing any extras. They had meetings in the morning, then broke up for sightseeing and shopping trips. Almost no one came in to the Spa for massages and facials, though a few had manicures and pedicures in the Gallery area.

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It had only been a few weeks since Marcus had claimed ownership over Winnie's tight Asian pussy, but it felt like just yesterday that she had become this sex crazed nympho. The things that she would do for this man's beautiful black cock were once unimaginable. And the things she wore out with him in public would make a stripper scream out, "Put some clothes on".

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It was Cathy, my girlfriend, who found me the flat. When my old landlord died, and his son served notice on the tenants, I needed somewhere cheap, and available quickly. Of course, the ideal thing would have been to move in with Cathy. But she shared her parents' old house in Bedford with her sister, and anyway, I'd tried commuting from there into London for a couple of weeks. The 'BedPan line' -- Bedford to St Pancras -- was legendary at the time as not so much a rail route, more a fiendish torture cunningly designed by the operator to drive unwary commuters insane.

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A good friend of mine referred me to this great Italian restaurant in a city about 3 hours from where I lived. I asked him, "What the hell makes this place so special that I would be willing to drive 3 hours?" He told me the service was worth the trip alone, and the food was even better. I took some time to think it over and a few days later I called to make a reservation. The person on the phone asked my age, and if I preferred smoking, non-smoking, or the cigar lounge.

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I was about to retire from my job and was none too happy about it. At sixty-four years old, healthy, vigorous, and suddenly alone due to the passing of my wife a year earlier, I was in no way ready to continue my lonely existence without the distractions of work. My business was sales, and I traveled quite a bit. As the month of my forced retirement approached, I eagerly took any opportunity to go on these road trips. My route was fairly confined and I usually took a Greyhound to make my rounds.

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Jack Hammond was forty years of age, a successful businessman who'd made it big on the internet, and in doing so, had gone into business for himself, working out of his own home which saved him a lot on overhead. He was still considered attractive too, kept himself in reasonably good shape, working out during the day on his treadmill while on the phone doing business. With dark hair, just a touch of grey beginning at the temples, almost emerald green eyes, he'd had more than enough women take an interest in him.

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