Your erotic stories

I tore off one of the phone number slips from the bulletin board post and figured I would at least give it a try. Just the kind of job I was looking for, high pay (for a college kid at least), and didn't sound like a lot of work. I had never been an artist's model, or even really knew what that entailed. I was an engineering student.

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My name is Waylon Fielding and I am married to a wonderful woman, my wife Celine Fielding. I would like to say that my life is perfect, or even good, but after two years of marriage I'm pretty freaking miserable and it's all Celine's fault. Actually, it really isn't her fault; it's her Mother's, the lovely Melissa Harmon.

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I'd not long returned from my morning 8k run and still had an adrenaline buzz so, after checking my e-mails I decided to have a scroll through a couple of my favourite porn sites and have a nice leisurely wank, when there was a knock on my flat door. As I approached the door I rearranged my stiff cock to avoid any embarrassment. When I opened the door halfway to see who the caller was my jaw nearly hit the floor like a Tom & Jerry cartoon.

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I have had a thing for older women since I was a small child, even when I was really young I remember getting extra dirty just so my babysitter would give me baths. Nothing was beyond my young imagination to get naked in front of them, or have them touch me. I never outgrew that stage, in fact I would think it had the opposite effect, I become even more

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Janet and I had been friends and neighbours for years, long before her husband and my wife died. Now we were both in our late seventies yet still very active. Apart from our competitive love of gardening, we served on several village committees together. We met two or three times a week at some function or other.

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Francine too a small sip of her Long Island Iced Tea and glanced around the hotel's small bar. An older couple sat at one of the tables, talking quietly and laughing together. Two men, both in their mid-forties sat at another table talking about football over a pitcher of beer. Another table was occupied by an older woman and a younger man, heads together, whispering into each other's ears. The bartender, a man in his late fifties or very early sixties was hanging glasses in the rack over the bar. Francine was the only other patron.

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One of my father's crudest friends had a saying that he reserved for men he thought were losers with the women. He would say, "That guy couldn't get laid in a whore house with a pocket full of hundred dollar bills." I never thought about that much; I figured I was doing alright with the ladies until I turned forty. Then it dawned on me, I had never had one that truly cared about me. Through my blue collar hard-working, long-hour days, I had a long string who abused my trust, used me and made me pay too much for the attention I got from them.

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“This sort of sucks,” he thought as he worked on his beer. A double major in philosophy and history he didn’t count on how hard it would be to find meaningful work outside of graduate school. He had a stop-gap job that barely paid his meager bills. He moved home with his dad after college due to a total lack of options.

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My story is one that started out as a fantasy and wound up being a reality. I am a middle-aged man living in a south suburb of Chicago, actually in Indiana. My fantasy turned reality centers around a beautiful mature schoolteacher in the early fifties age bracket. She happens to be a wonderful woman who knows exactly what she wants.

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When Jenny and Allen moved in next door I thought they were the ideal couple. They at 32 were about 25 years younger than I, he tall, about 6ft 2in, blonde good looking, she around 5ft 5in slim, a tumble of soft brown curly hair, a face that lit up when she smiled and an effervescent personality; a typical Australian couple.

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