Your erotic stories

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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I can't tell you what finally made me do it. I'd been thinking about it for weeks. At first it was just a wild fantasy, but as time went on, the fantasy turned into possibility, and from there into a plan. I knew my opportunity was going to be during Spring Break, but for the first several days I was stuck--just couldn't make a decision. It was all I could think about and I wasn't getting a lick of work done, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to do anything. Finally, something had to give.

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Work was dragging me down, so I told my boss I was going to take my reports with me and get out of the office for a while. He agreed as long as I filed the reports by the same time as usual. I said I would and took my laptop and cell phone and headed to the park. It was about 10:35 am and the park was quiet except for a guy throwing a Frisbee with his dog. They were just starting out as the man had to practically teach the dog to fetch the Frisbee.

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It had been a good 18 months following the death of my wife when I finally decided to place our house on the market; for being a large 4 bedroom property with over 12 acres of ground it was far to large for me to manage on my own. During our marriage the wife and I split the chores, she looked after the inside and I looked after the exterior and gardens, it was a system which worked very well until my wife became ill, from then on it was a struggle to maintain the standards we had set ourselves.

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Brad Halstead had never heard of the band Fountains of Wayne, but when he heard their song "Stacey's Mom" playing in his teenage daughter's bedroom memories of a wonderful time in his life flooded back. About fifteen years ago Stacey Keen was his best friend. There weren't many kids their age that lived close by, so they gravitated together much of the time. She was something of a tomboy and they played around the neighborhood together in the long, hot summers of their late teenage years. Stacey had short blonde hair and always wore torn jeans, worn tennis shoes and heavy metal t-shirts.

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"Thank god that's over," said Liz as we tidied away the presentation material. "Hey, you were great," I said. "Never missed a beat." And she hadn't. Liz Morton, from head office. Fortyish, maybe ten or twelve years older than me, but slim and attractive in her tailored suit. She smiled. "Nor did you, on the technical queries."

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