Your erotic stories

The thought of his lips on her clit sent a buzz through her belly and up her spine -- like sexual thoughts had intoxicated her mind when she was a teenager. But she was no longer a teenager. Professor Sherry looked in the mirror in the restroom before she walked back to her class. She didn't look 40. She definitely didn't feel 40. Her palms pushed down against her pert breasts covered in her deep purple blouse.

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It was as I was returning from a trip up to Manchester that I saw the sign: 'Stewartby Park Prestige Hotel'. I vaguely remembered hearing that the old place had been converted, some years after she died, but it hadn't really hit home to me until that moment. Before I'd even realised it I'd swung the car between the gate posts and started up that familiar wide, sweeping gravel drive, framed by rhododendron bushes. After a few hundred yards I rounded a corner and saw again the huge, sprawling former stately home I'd last set eyes on more than 30 years earlier, its crooked Tudor chimneys silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

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The air conditioner kept the tractor cab to the same comfort level as my living room in spite of the ninety-five degrees of searing, July heat. I hit the hydraulics to raise the cultivator, made the turn, and lined back up on the next eight rows of soybeans. Another tap on the hydraulic lever caused the gleaming sweeps to bite into the rich, black, Illinois soil. It used to be hotter and harder work, but I liked it more when my ears were filled with the sound of the tractor exhaust instead of the local radio station, and when I could smell the freshly turned dirt and herbal scent of the weeds.

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The old fisherman sat out at the end of the dilapidated dock in his lopsided deck chair. Though it was getting on toward evening the sun was nice and warm. He was fishing really light; a homemade bamboo pole and an old reel he maybe got before he had whiskers. Duck-taped it to the pole and wound it with ten pound test. Fishing flounder didn't take much gear. He had a card of hooks, a tin with some weights and floats and some leader. Minnows in an old milk bottle and a plastic paint bucket for his catch. He had caught some.

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A pit formed in my stomach. I felt like I had been punched. I stared in disbelief at what I had just read in the paper. Under the obituaries, it was all there: her name, her photo and the details of very full life. The memories came back. She was a part of my past; a good part. I reread her obit. I was alone on my back porch overlooking my garden of colorful flowers, native shrubs, and manicured trees. She had sparked my love for gardening.

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I had met Mandy on numerous occasions previously. She was a good looking lady, about 58 years old. She had shoulder length blonde hair (probably dyed) and a nice figure for someone her age – not perfect but given that she was nearly 60 then more than acceptable. She had a nice face – her eyes were wide and sparkly, nice smile. She had crows feet at the sides of her eyes and her face now showed signs of her age – wrinkles here and there that actually looked pretty good on her.

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I suppose after awhile we usually know whether a relationship is going to last a long time, or maybe even forever. After a few months of going out with Caroline, I knew in my heart that we weren't destined for the long haul. Even though Caroline was a good looking girl, I wasn't too concerned. At the ripe old age of twenty four, I'd no intention of settling down unless Miss World came knocking on my door, and that wasn't likely.

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It started with a plate full of food. It was no different than the plate full I had eaten the night before, or the night before that. In fact it was no different than any dinner I had eaten for the last fifteen to twenty years of my life. What made the food in front of me repugnant was... laughter. I could hear it echoing in my ears even as I looked down at the food.

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Travelling for work is not as much fun as it used to be. All those airports, those sleepless journeys, being up to speed on most movies and Discovery Channel documentaries is no substitute for a regular life. Constantly hopping from hotel to hotel, albeit with grander and grander rooms then suites as the work and career progressed. Learning to pack for a week in a walk-on bag and still look smart every day - an unwished for skill but essential nonetheless.

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I was thirty when it happened. I fell in love. She was perfect. She was everything I could have ever wanted in a mate; beautiful, smart, funny. She wasn't bitter though she did have quite a temper. She was determined and goal oriented. She had a cute face and a banging body, though she didn't realize she had either. That was probably because she was young. She was very young, and she was my student. I guess I need to start at the beginning. My name is Kenneth Ellerson. I teach higher math, and coach JV and Varsity Girls basketball at a coastal Georgia high school.

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