Your erotic stories

This is a coming of age story of a young man in the 1960s. My father and I never really got along. He was a hard man, few words and worked hard all of his life to provide for his family. He was tough though. When I turned 13 he came to me and told me that he would provide a roof over my head, food on the table and laundry, but if I wanted any thing else that I had to do it for my self.

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I was a regular at a small club that was known to be a "meat market." Women of a certain age, divorced and horny were there often. I was there every Friday night and the occasional scattered evenings throughout the week but mostly on Fridays. I knew who the regulars were and their preferences. I also knew who the witches, the desperate, the players, and the losers were. There was a smattering of women that were there to dance and a smattering of people that did not seem to belong. I was one of those.

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Let me start by saying that I am always willing to step up and admit when I've made a mistake. I also hate being wrong so I have a tendency to avoid situations where those words "I was wrong" would have to escape my mouth. That said, the phrase "This is stupid," kind of became my mantra as my minivan sped along the nearly deserted roads to the lake. It was too late to turn back so I let those cursed words roll around in the back of my mouth.

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This move was a big step for me. After being married for thirty years I finally had my kids raised and was left without a life, neither; personal, professional nor sexual as we'd been living apart in the same house for two years. I finally made the decision to leave and make my own way again. Needless to say, much was my own fault as I tolerated the neglect and did so from personal fears and the loathing to be on my own with two kids, but none the less, as I approached my thirty year anniversary I kept asking myself, "Do you want another thirty years like this?" and the answer came back every time as "fuck no!".

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The vibrator hummed strongly as it parted Julie's swollen lips. "God, that feels great," she thought. Another climax washed over her and shook her from her painted toe nails right up to her bottled blonde hair. "Just a little longer" she smiled and held the plastic vibrating tube tightly against her clit. This time, the climax shook her and her entire bed. Peace washed over her face as she turned the vibrator off. Closing her eyes, she drifted back to sleep.

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On the evening following my 23rd birthday I headed over to Danielle's house. I had met Danielle through my girlfriend, Janie. Actually, my ex-girlfriend. I say my ex-girlfriend because the day before, on my birthday, I drove to Janie's house for my "Happy Birthday rough and wild monkey sex" (my words, not hers). When I got to her house I knocked on the door and it swung open a bit. I poked my head in the door and called out "Hello!" and nobody answered.

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Surfing the net through the "amateurs'" pages, I have been delighted to find a number of sites dedicated to "mature" women - i.e., those over 40. Some of them, admittedly, should have kept their photographs to themselves, but then there are some incredibly attractive and sexy "older" women. Looking at them made me recall my first experience with a woman many years older than I - it happened when I was 33, and the woman was, as she put it, "approaching 50".

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Teenage boy's girl is left unsatisfied, leaving stepfather no choice but to stoke the fire himself. It was an early day for me. I'd left the client's office with a task list and intended on spending the next three or four hours at home, outlining the project. Depending upon the workload, and whether or not the client really needed me to do the work on-site, I'd often cut loose early and take the work home, where I could concentrate uninterrupted for the rest of the afternoon. This started out to be one of those afternoons, but transformed quickly into a day I'd remember for the rest of my life.

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The day that I went to the local food store, my intentions were to pick up a few items that are essential for the survival of a single guy living alone, nothing more. I hate grocery shopping. I'm twenty-three and my latest girl friend had moved out about three months ago, so there were no home cooked meals waiting for me when I got home from work.

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Tony was nervous as he sat at the bar of the Toledo Holiday Inn. "I'll meet you at six," she wrote in her last e-mail to him just the night before. The drink in front of him remained untouched as he waited, although his fingers played with the intricate cuts of the glass from time to time. He glanced at his watch once more and was dismayed at the slow passage of time. It was only five forty-five. "It'll be so good to see you." Tony looked around and saw that the bar and the dining area were beginning to get more crowded.

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