Your erotic stories

I love him to death. I really do. He's a wonderful husband, and the greatest dad in the world. I've been working so many hours and running back and forth to Chicago that he has had to practically becum the full time dad and part time mom. I regret the time I spend away but I'm becoming more and more successful, more and more renowned and I don't want to lose this. I've faded into the background for much too long; it's time for me to make my mark in the world.

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I was surprised when the offer came to manage the new clinic down the valley. I liked the idea, I had managed the wellness clinic for an HMO for years. Then came some shuffles and moves, a marriage, a tragedy? Circumstance, like happens in life? Back to being a single coming up on middle aged woman, living alone in a house that is too big, and working as just a Doctor on staff at the clinic.

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When I left the big city I had lots of good reasons. I hated having neighbors twenty feet from my bedroom. I hated that there was always machine noise; from cars, TV's, sirens, brakes, and leaf blowers. I liked that if I wanted something it was close. I hated that whatever it was I wanted I had to stand in line to get it. I was in my mid fifties and figured I'd spent at least a year in line! I got lucky. I came into some unexpected money. I decided that all the reading and work I'd done on me deserved a reward.

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I was about to retire from my job and was none too happy about it. At sixty-four years old, healthy, vigorous, and suddenly alone due to the passing of my wife a year earlier, I was in no way ready to continue my lonely existence without the distractions of work. My business was sales, and I traveled quite a bit. As the month of my forced retirement approached, I eagerly took any opportunity to go on these road trips. My route was fairly confined and I usually took a Greyhound to make my rounds.

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He knew someone was watching when he heard her gasp. He opened his eyes to see Denise Fuller, his best friend's mother, staring with her hand covering her mouth. His hand stopped moving on his hard cock. They made eye contact, and he froze in terror. "I--" she began, her eyes returning to his cock. Then she turned and left the room without another word. He felt panic spread through him as he yanked up his underwear and tried to figure out what to do.

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It has been about a year since my husband, Art, passed away. Often, I think of his generous nature that brought much happiness in to my life and my friend Rose's life. Specifically, he encouraged us to share our lives with younger men. I dare say that few men are as magnanimous as Art. I'm Myrna, 53 years old, 5 ft 10 in, 130 lb, blue eyes, and brown hair; I was named after my granny's favorite actress, Myrna Loy. I am an elementary school teacher.

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The events in this story happened a few years ago when I was 26 years old and living in Washington DC where I had moved to take up a new job. It was my first time living by myself. I had always had room-mates since finishing grad school a few years earlier. But now, partly because I felt I was ready to be my own man, and partly because I didn't want to go looking for room-mates in a new city, I decided to get a place for myself, a nice little apartment in a high-rise not too far from downtown.

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This account of some of the events in my life was written as requested by the love of my life, my soul mate, my sister Abby. Here it is 1972 and I am living in Mobile, Alabama. Not sure how I ended up here but it seemed like a nice place to settle after drifting for a few months. I am enrolled in college and have made a few friends. With my injuries and scars from Viet Nam I am a little shy around people. I lost an eye and I wear a black patch over it.

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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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