Your erotic stories

I had not been a widow long when I met my first lover and love instructor. However as good as Don was he was not a complete lover because he was sometimes limited in the erection department. He was ill and this ailment some times kept him from becoming fully erect. But he was still very good and he brought me a long way up the sexual latter. When this happened; this story I am about to tell you I was ready for it because I was being taught that sex and lust were simply fun and love could come later.

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The phone woke me from a focused stupor as my secretary let me know a call was on the line. Talking to whomever it was on the phone, anyone, would be a welcome relief from reading through the boring minutiae of the commercial pre-lease agreement in my hands. "Paul Sturner on the phone for you, Max." Paul Sturner? Now there was a blast from the past. Paul and I had worked together in the mid 90s when he was still running a large construction concern in midtown.

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It wasn't until that very moment that the full gravity of the nation's economic downturn hit Lisa Ross. The newly hired Vice-President of marketing at an upstart South Florida publishing company, the previous handful of jobs Lisa had, air travel (usually first class) had been the mode of choice. Now she found herself seated and staring out the window of an Amtrak train as she prepared to embark from Miami to Washington, D.C. for a weekend conference.

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The parking lot was empty, but that was nothing unusual at six in the morning. Justin rolled up and parked on the far edge of the gravel lot, letting out a yawn. He'd stayed up a little late studying, but he wasn't going to miss the opportunity his father was finally providing. Besides, it was a welcome distraction from the lack of sex resulting from dumping his cheating girlfriend a couple weeks earlier.

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I was feeling good because I had gotten off early from work. I was the assistant manager of a shoe store in a mall and I worked a very irregular schedule. I had worked four hours today, and at one o'clock I was off for the day. I was driving home, and on the seat beside me was a small paper bag with a gift in it for my wife, Linda. Light blue nylon stockings. They were really a present for both of us because I liked stockings and my wife liked wearing them for me. A perfect match.

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"Excuse me, sir. Could you spare a dollar or two? I haven't eaten in two days," Carey pleaded. The tall good looking and well dressed man about to enter the Starbuck's stopped to check out the much smaller woman speaking to him. She was petite, maybe five-four to his six-six stature. She was dirty but otherwise looked cute with brunette hair and blue eyes. "You look too young to be on your own," Tory Rider stated.

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I was a college freshman going to a school about 200 miles from home in the North western part of Michigan. The college did not allow freshman to have a car on campus, so anytime that I wanted to go home for the weekend I either had to find a ride home with another student or hitchhike. This spring weekend in particular I decided at the last minute to hitch hike to my home located in rural southeast Michigan.

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My wife Joan is 62 years old. She is a doctor and a dancer; her lifelong devotion to the art has kept her slim and strong, with great vitality, despite thinning skin, age spots and thickening around the middle. I am passionately drawn to her, find her very attractive, love her with a depth I never knew was possible, and want to fuck her often. (All you young people out there, just because we're old it doesn't mean we're dead.

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'Christmas is a time for togetherness and compassion. It's not a time to be on your own, not if you have a choice.' That was what my wife Julie had written in her letter to me, and I couldn't disagree; which made it even more of a kick in the guts that this Christmas she was going to be over 3,000 miles away, in fucking Afghanistan. I didn't agree with British involvement in the Afghan conflict, and deep down I could tell Jules didn't either.

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I received a certified letter requesting my presence at the law offices of Wiggins & Sloan in Albuquerque, New Mexico for the following Monday. I had no idea why a lawyer would want to meet with me, but I cleared my schedule for the day to attend. The day of the meeting I arrived and was asked to wait until Andrew Sloan was available. The pretty receptionist offered me coffee, but I declined, butterflies flitting around my stomach at the idea of this type of meeting.

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