Your erotic stories

When my computer software company started a coed softball team I decided to sign up, figuring it would be a good way to socialize with other employees. As it turns out, not many people signed up, so one of the younger people filled out the team with a bunch of her friends. When I turned up at the first game, there were a bunch of 20 somethings, a few 30 somethings, and me, a mid 40s something. Since I am a fairly fit mid 40s, I didn't stand out too much.

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He saw her across the room and he felt his cock stand to immediate attention. She was wearing a minimal black dress with a cleavage so deep it threatened to spill her tits out the moment she leant forward. Her tongue licked her blood red lips as she smiled at him and he let his eyes take in the sight before him. She had shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes that were framed by long, dark eye lashes. Her dress clung to her every curve, showing off a flat stomach and deliciously feminine hips.

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"Hi ya," I jumped at the unexpected voice and fought not to drop the drink I was holding. "What the fuck!" I gasped. Just as I lost my fight, and watched as my beer spilled out on the lawn. I glanced towards where the voice had come from, the next door neighbours garden. What I saw increased my shock immensely. Standing in the garden, now laughing softly at me, was a stunning blonde haired young woman. She was wearing just a small red thong and nothing else, which gave me a good look at her body.

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It started early Sunday morning on Memorial Day weekend when I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. We were renting a beach house in the Outer Banks and I was really thirsty from the veggie pizza we had for dinner. I slipped out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I heard the living room TV on and assumed the two girls had come back late from their meet up with the boys they earlier teased at the beach, watched some TV and had left it on.

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It had been a warm afternoon. The sun had shone all the time and the wine had been consumed in quantities. Combined with the heat, it had stirred Mary's body with a vague awareness, a pleasant feeling of sexual desire. A slight ache which craved pacifying, the feel of a thick cock inside her, though there was no hurry. Among the meaningless chatter of guests, the distant laughter, Mary remembered her younger days when she would relieve her aching loins with deft fingers. Memories of lying in the sun, holding her soft, plump genitals, squeezing them gently until the honey began to flow.

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Today is her birthday and Tim has waited a long time for this surprise. He intends to make this a birthday to remember. All day long he has been planning and preparing things for their special night. The picnic basket is packed with a lovely bottle of wine, cheese, crackers, fruit and her favorite chocolates. Tim remembered the chocolates, the little smooth ones that melt so delicately in your mouth.

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Aaron moaned, head rolling from side to side on his pillow. His jaw was tightly clenched, as were his fists. He thought hazily that he must be bruising the soft, perfect pear curves of her hips, but he couldn't help it. He was dying. His cock was wedged tight in the hot clench of her no-longer virgin cunt and she was riding him, tits bouncing prettily, long red corkscrew curls springing and sliding over her lightly freckled shoulders. Her mouth was a lush rose bed of pleasure, lips wet and parted on harsh, hard, eager moans.

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The thought of his lips on her clit sent a buzz through her belly and up her spine -- like sexual thoughts had intoxicated her mind when she was a teenager. But she was no longer a teenager. Professor Sherry looked in the mirror in the restroom before she walked back to her class. She didn't look 40. She definitely didn't feel 40. Her palms pushed down against her pert breasts covered in her deep purple blouse.

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It was as I was returning from a trip up to Manchester that I saw the sign: 'Stewartby Park Prestige Hotel'. I vaguely remembered hearing that the old place had been converted, some years after she died, but it hadn't really hit home to me until that moment. Before I'd even realised it I'd swung the car between the gate posts and started up that familiar wide, sweeping gravel drive, framed by rhododendron bushes. After a few hundred yards I rounded a corner and saw again the huge, sprawling former stately home I'd last set eyes on more than 30 years earlier, its crooked Tudor chimneys silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

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Maxwell Anderson Jr., or Max to most of his friends, had waited years to be allowed to attend his parent's annual Mardi Gras party. It was considered by many in their social circles to be the grandest party of the season. Max's mother, Edwina Anderson, was born and raised in New Orleans, and left when she married Maxwell Sr. so he could take a position that ultimately led to his running his own law firm. Edwina, like so many other wives of wealthy and successful husbands, was a 'bored housewife' who did charity work, worked out, and drank too much.

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