Your erotic stories

As a civilian apprentice working with the British Royal Navy back in the late 1970s, once my exams were out of the way I would spend my summer months working in places like Portsmouth, Plymouth, Newcastle and Glasgow to gain practical experience in the shipyards and naval bases. On my first visit to Plymouth, aged 19, little did I realise that I was about to gain practical experience on a more personal and life-changing level.

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Mr. Peterson, or Mr. P for short, had been my neighbor for more than twenty years. He was in his late sixties but you wouldn't have known it by looking at him. He and I always had a good relationship even though, when I was married, he and my ex-husband seemed to irritate each other at times. His wife had died some years back, before my ex and I had divorced, and he admittedly found himself very lonely and depressed at times. I took it upon myself to go over and provide him with some occasional companionship and just make sure he was doing ok.

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It had been a long day and I was happy to see the line growing short. I love book signings, but I'm usually pretty happy when they wind down to the last few stalwarts and I know I can finally stop being "on". I surveyed the line and only saw five more people and knew the end was in sight. The third to last person handed me the book and said, "Hi Mister M. Will you sign my book?"

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Alison May sat in her classroom, her delicate fingers tapping on the processed plastic-for-wood top of her desk. She had watched thousands of students sit in their rows as she droned the same information to them year after year. She watched them fix their eyes on the clock above the chalkboard, trying to mentally will the hands of the timepiece to move faster. This desperate act of telekinesis was a common one around the world, and she believed that it wasn't wholly unjustified on their part.

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Mrs. Lachlan. Jimmy’s mother. And our neighbourhood’s MILF. You could hear the gasps emerging from every teenage boy (and some grown men) when she glided past. She had the kind of melons you felt like you could wedge yourself between and survive for days in the middle of the ocean. And the kind of mouth you thought could swallow an apple whole, or, alternatively, the kind of mouth you thought you could unload into until you were dizzy and nauseous. She was a real piece of meat. Prime rib.

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My parents had prepared a welcome home party for their Marine Sergeant son coming back from a tour of combat duty. It was a food and booze feast attended by various relatives, neighbors and family friends wanting to hear war stories. As glad as I was to be home among relatives, I had a problem that overshadowed all feelings. I was horny, extremely horny after a year of living in a hostile land, masturbating to keep my sanity.

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CHAPTER 1 Half an hour before dawn the unmelodic noise of raucous Kookaburras awoke Greta and she used a corner of a sheet to dab the light patches of perspiration between her breasts and under her chin before she dropped back to sleep in the cloying warmth of subtropical paradise. Paradise?

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My wife told me there was a family get-together and I needed to attend. I normally hate these affairs and try to slip out early. These people were not my blood relatives and I didn't know too many of them. I arrived on the day in question and found a seat in the pavilion that had been rented. No sooner had I sat down a group of people arrived.

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Chapter 1 Shortly after graduating college at 23 years old I came into a reasonable inheritance. I used the money to pay down my student loans and buy a rundown house in the suburbs. The neighborhood was one of those where most of the houses had families with kids or older couples whose kids had moved away. You know the place; I live on a cul-de-sac across the street from Leave-it-to-Beaver who lived next door to Mary Tyler Moore.

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"Shit! I don't believe it! That's Mrs. Robinson!" Greg gasped as we turned the corner on our way home from the gym were we both worked. "Mrs. Robinson; like in the movie?" I asked. "Not really. I told you about Karen, didn't I?" he continued, "this is her mum," as we walked towards a middle aged, tartly dressed, bottle blonde, woman who was just the right side of being fat. "Oh! Karen!" I grinned as stories of Greg's teenage sexual conquests shot through my mind.

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