Your erotic stories

It was to be a beautiful long weekend George had booked the tickets, the train and the bridal suite at a top Paris hotel. Meeting him under the big clock at Victoria seemed the perfect place, a place where lovers meet, usually first timers, so no one knows how many romances have blossomed from this point.

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Steve had thought that he'd have a quiet Saturday afternoon to himself. The house was empty. His wife had gone shopping with friends, the boys were out with their mates and Kirsty had to go to the library to complete the paper she had to write. She'd hoped not to go, but found she was missing some information at the last minute and so had to make a quick dash.

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Part 1 It was almost 7:30 in the evening as I made my way east on West 53rd toward my hotel when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down. I didn't have an umbrella, of course, because - even though my hotel had complimentary ones - men don't use umbrellas...so they can get wet...because that makes us cool. But, instead of being cool, I decided to get dry and have a drink.

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You Are Not My Father. That was what my daughter Amy said to me. She was right of course, we had not met until she was twelve but much to the amazement of the three of us we got along well from the start. I did all the Dad things and perhaps a few more. I took her out on a to dinner dates on her birthdays, just the two of us. I taught her to drive. I was always dressed and polite when her friends came over.

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Some men do better alone than others. I do better with a healthy female companion who enjoys being active, talking, kissing and touching. However, after "losing" my wife of thirty years to Alzheimer's, three years ago, I found that I was really out of practice as how to approach the "modern woman." I'm healthy, successful and attentive but was not getting anywhere by trying church, "meet and greets," dating sites, bars or hanging out in the produce isles at the super market.

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Brian pushed against the large revolving doors, his laptop case slung over one shoulder. Coming out the other side, he thought the building was even quieter and emptier than normal. The tiny shops on either side of the wide concourse were closed, as was always the case at seven thirty in the morning. Ahead, the escalator hummed as one unused step after other rose to the second floor.

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As I have mentioned in an earlier story ("Teaching Kaci"), I worked as a professor of English at a small but expensive New England college for about thirty years. The college had a mandatory policy of "retirement at 65", but I had decided to take mine about five years before that. My wife had died of cancer some years earlier, and I wanted to spend what remained of my life doing some traveling. I even thought about the idea of moving to Paris if I could get a small apartment.

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One summer afternoon, April Price waited stoically in line at the check stand in the small, upscale supermarket where she bought most of her groceries. The old woman in front of her had a whole cartful, so April passed the time by looking at the covers of the array of fan magazines on display. When all the old woman's purchases had been rung up and bagged and paid for, the checker asked her the question he asked all customers.

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Alright, so I last told you about Becky in Young Jason's Experiences. Becky had received a call from her friend Rhonda when we were together, and that planted the idea in my head that Becky would have some friends possibly as gorgeous as herself. After Becky and I parted ways, I felt so satisfied and I just hoped that she felt the same way. We both agreed that we would have to get together again, and the thought that she had enough fun to want more in the future made me feel great.

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It's odd how you tell one car from another just by sound, but I knew it was Aunt Em when I heard the car pull into the driveway. She's not actually my aunt. She and Mom were college roommates and have been joined-at-the-hip best friends ever since. Her parents stuck her with the name Frances Marie. Everyone calls her Marie except Mom, who calls her Frankie. I couldn't say Aunt Frankie or Aunt Marie when I was young so she was always Aunt Em to me until recently. Now I call her Frankie, the way Mom does.

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