Your erotic stories

The old fisherman sat out at the end of the dilapidated dock in his lopsided deck chair. Though it was getting on toward evening the sun was nice and warm. He was fishing really light; a homemade bamboo pole and an old reel he maybe got before he had whiskers. Duck-taped it to the pole and wound it with ten pound test. Fishing flounder didn't take much gear. He had a card of hooks, a tin with some weights and floats and some leader. Minnows in an old milk bottle and a plastic paint bucket for his catch. He had caught some.

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“You know what we need?” Cynthia said slurring her speech slightly. “What’s that?” Sally said looking to her best friend. Cynthia leaned into her friend and lowered her voice, “Some young stud with a fat cock that can go all night on the two of us.” She said grinning. “Yeah, right.” Sally said looking away and dismissing her friend. “I’m serious,” Cynthia said louder leaning back away from Sally, “look at us we’re still hot we could still get some young, hung boy to go for us.”

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It was early spring in DC. While my love life was hardly what I would call "on the skids", it had been lackluster as of late. One would naturally assume that the night club scene would be a meat market. To a great extent, it is. Night after night I went to various spots. My friends had gotten into the habit of telling me during this period that I was too picky or that I just needed a good romp to get out of my funk. I would laugh it off.

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Fred couldn't remember how he got into the city the next morning. In fact when he realised he was in the city he couldn't remember waking up, getting dressed, having breakfast and getting into the car. He even glanced down guiltily to make sure he was dressed. He had gone to the city, he decided, because it was about the time he usually went there. He tried to remember what he usually bought in the hypermarket and in this way he slowly managed to work his way around to the checkout.

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"Seriously, Val, you need to get a hobby or something. It can't be good for you spending so much time alone." Valerie looked sideways at her friend and smiled. "I don't mind spending time by myself, you know that." "I know you say you don't mind, but I still think it can't be good for you." Like a spy resisting interrogation, Lucinda would stubbornly repeat her point over and over until the opposing party cracked and subjected themselves to her will. Valerie had known her long enough to realise this and accepted that it was just part of Lucinda's individual charm.

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I stepped away from the painting and arched my back to relieve the ache. The large canvas required me to stand, but the years and a legacy of arthritis from my father made it difficult. I always managed to become swept up in the brush strokes and the blending of subtle hues, and it wasn’t until I stopped that I knew I‘d been on my feet too long. The coffee was cold, and I poured it back into the pot to re-heat.

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Attending the cocktail reception welcoming the conference attendees was not at all out of the ordinary for me, as I always wanted to check them out before the opening sessions in the hopes that I might find a hot one to hook up with. In my early years of writing I had attended many such conferences as an attendee, for the past few years it had been on their dollar, as a paid speaker. I tried to do one or two of these conferences a year... picking my spots so it would be to a place I enjoyed visiting... and Newport Beach definitely ranked up there on my list of desirable places.

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"I am not going to apologize." He was adamant. He refused to apologize. She was not going to convince him that he owed Patsy an apology, neither was he was going to tell her what really happened. She might explode. "Dad, just call her, alright? She wants you to call. You do not need to use the word, "apology," but you do need to call her. She said you left, just walked out." "Oh, alright, Mary Ann, I'll talk to her later, but I'm busy right now." He thought if he offered a good enough excuse to his daughter, she would hang up and leave him alone.

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Robert Kyle had finally had it. Everyday he allowed his American History class the last five minutes of the period to themselves. And everyday during those last five minutes, the female student sitting directly in front of him would do something to give him a raging hard-on. Dropping a pencil. Re-tying a shoelace. Tossing something in the wastebasket and missing by a mile. All three caused her to have to bend over.

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A pit formed in my stomach. I felt like I had been punched. I stared in disbelief at what I had just read in the paper. Under the obituaries, it was all there: her name, her photo and the details of very full life. The memories came back. She was a part of my past; a good part. I reread her obit. I was alone on my back porch overlooking my garden of colorful flowers, native shrubs, and manicured trees. She had sparked my love for gardening.

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