Your erotic stories

I have always thought that Betty had a lot of balls to do what she did. Big brass ones. I was at least 20 years younger than Betty and I don't think I had ever exhibited any attraction toward her. She was just another pleasant acquaintance in the workplace. But, like so many of the remarkable women who have graced my life, she knew what she wanted and she had the inner confidence to go for it.

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Joe was thirty-eight and lonely. He was tall, average looking and successful. His problem was judgment. He had given up looking for someone to share with, someone to love and be loved by. How he wanted that. Yet, every relationship he ever had ended when his chosen woman cheated on him. That confused him because he was an attentive lover, a good provider, even-tempered and respectful. Wasn't that what the women wanted?

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Chris yawned and moved to the next section of shelving. A big truck had made for a long night, leaving him and the rest of the night stock crew facing up the store after opening. "Never ending, man," his friend Alan grumbled from the other side of the aisle. "Feels like it." "At least the scenery ain't bad."

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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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September 2003 "Ya got ten bucks Mister?" she asked as she darted in front of me, one of a small group of black clad, pierced and tattooed punkers who'd mysteriously appeared in the neighborhood just days earlier. "Ten bucks? What happened to the fifty cents for squeegeeing my windshield?" I asked with a grin. "Fifty-cents! A rich, hip Miami guy like you," she teased, jiving me as she danced backward as I continued walking.

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I hadn't seen Linda since she and my daughter, Shellie had graduated from high school over four years ago. They had been best friends but had gone to different colleges. They had kept track of each other through email and the phone. I kept track of Linda by accident through chance meetings with her mother. Linda's mother and I would talk and update each other as to our daughter's comings and goings over those four years. In my mind, I still pictured Linda as I last saw her at the High School graduation.

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I haven't always been like this. There was a time, as a younger woman, when I moved through the day without noticing everyone I encountered with the same eye for elements as I do now. Back then, a face was not a porthole to the inside world of men and women. The posture and carriage of a body did not reveal the food consumed, emotional baggage lugged, and the psycho/sexual energy of a personality. However, somewhere along the way, I developed these insights into people that left me feeling somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophet.

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P.J. was feeling good, had an extra spring in her step and glimmer in her eyes. Being in the country always made her feel both thankful and alive. The early afternoon sunlight warmed her arms and legs, bared to it by the sleeveless, form-fitting t-shirt and shorts. Although she felt great, she considered that the next few days might be like watching paint dry. Being out here in the middle of the East Texas pineywoods babysitting a crew of redneck water-well-drillers could possibly be boring beyond description.

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Jack heaved the heavy basket of groceries on to the handlebars of his bike and set off on his delivery run. This was the last of his deliveries this afternoon. Mrs. Kelly's large family ensured that her delivery would always be the largest and the heaviest. He liked going to her place and left it to last so he could linger and talk. Mrs. Kelly was a big jolly woman. "I am sixteen stone," she told him one afternoon when he helped her up the stairs.

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Chapter I She sat; butt tucked in the corner of the armrest and the back of the sofa, eyes wide and prepared for our discussion. Being it was almost bedtime she was attired as usual in a crotch length T-shirt little wispy panties and no bra. Amanda was just 20 days short of being eighteen but still somewhat mentally adolescent for a girl that age.

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