Your erotic stories

I remember one summer when I went out to the ranch of my friend Amanda's uncle. This was her father's youngest brother, making him around 40 at the time. We had just finished our third year of college and we were borderline ADD from the joy of completing our finals. We drove up on a hot, hot day in late April, and by the time we arrived at the ranch both of us were covered in sweat and dust.

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Gail King, a natural blonde with a figure sculptured perhaps by the sculptor's gardener employed to shape shrubs rather than by the sculptor himself was deposited on rickety jetty on Kismet Island where there was a small roof on four poles for shelter. "Don't worry love," said the deckhand with an unusually soft Aussie accent as she steered the inflatable away from the jetty ready to roar over the reef to return to the mother boat, a rusting tub that looked ready to sink.

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I was concentrating on the road ahead as I drove my 'toy hauler' Motor Home through the stormy weather. The speed limit was 55 but I was only doing 35 because of the weather. I saw something black alongside the road ahead. It appeared to be moving so I lifted my foot off the accelerator. It was someone on the side of the road. I slowed more and saw the person turn to look at me. He was apparently clad in a black garbage bag.

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I sat at my desk and tried to figure out what I wanted to say in the add for the classified section of the paper. My primary need was for a driver, since my eyesight was giving me problems, I didn't feel safe on the road anymore. I looked at what I had written. Driver Wanted Clean license,sometyping or computer skills a plus. Age or sex no factor. $9.00 per hour to start. Call 352 566 3707.

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I felt a flush of relief when I felt the thump of the wheels touching down. The little commuter prop plane had been moaning and groaning for nearly an hour, the passengers lit up by flashes of lightening outside over and over. There was just eight of us on board, plus the attendant. Normally the flight would be full but obviously a lot of folks had canceled. For days the reports of the class 5 hurricane had been head line news, so here I was, feeling stupid.

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Now, it's not what you might think; I'm not talking about that annoying Microsoft Office pop-up. No, I'm talking about the London Clippy, more properly known as a bus conductress. This was long before the Oyster Card method of payment that you wand as you board a bus, through concertina folding doors. Back then there was no door, just an open platform at the back left hand side (e.g. the side facing the pavement). A driver would pull up almost one bus length beyond the painted sign that was attached to a post.

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Tuesday morning I took special care in getting ready for work; knowing it was Jacks usual day to frequent the library. I'd spent the night (like most others that week) dreaming of Jack's sweet seduction and our "date" last week. Scanning the conservative work clothes in my closet I finally settled on the form-fitting black skirt and the soft red sweater. I was so nervous; it took me several tries just to get the seams straight on the backs of my stockings. The morning seemed to take forever to pass and after lunch I'd stood at my office window, lost in fantasies of Jack.

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“Damn, I hate that bitch!” Carl muttered as he walked from the building. Carl was a short, fat and rude person that nobody really liked, they just put up with him. “Friday night, five o’clock and she want every computer counted.” He added looking to his friend Todd. Todd just tilted his head, “Well, it’s her company and she pays us pretty good.” He said thinking that he didn’t mind. He had more time to look at her wonderful, mature body.

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I had been enamored of Danielle, or Dani as everyone called her, since she had been in high school. She was a young beauty –I will describe her in detail in a minute – who had always run with my son's crowd. I, obviously, was old enough to be her father. She dated my son for a brief time, but seemed to play the field through her high school years as the young seem to do these days. She interned her junior year in my graphic design firm and seemed to have an affinity and flare for design.

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I grew up in a very small farming community. It was understood that when kids were old enough to get jobs, we would go to work. At age 14, I started working summer vacations in a grain elevator, a warehouse where area farmers bring their harvested grain to be stored. The harvest lasted from late July until early September, and the daily temperatures were consistently hovering around one hundred degrees.

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