Your erotic stories

I have mentioned in other stories I have written here that I worked for many years as an English professor at a small but expensive New England college. I retired at the age of 65 as a result of the college's policy of mandatory retirement—a stupid idea in an age when most people live longer than they did in the past and most retain their brain capacity. I continued to live in the same town and the same house that my late wife and I had occupied for 30 years.

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Dan had never been to this place before. Fox Lake was not really one of his favorite places to play. But this bar was interesting enough. Situated right on the lake, Wokini's was typical of lake bars the country over. Darkened windows, bright neon lights flashing 'Budweiser,' 'Lite' and 'Southern Comfort.' The smell of stale beer and fried food permeated the air, as did cheap cologne. What brought Dan here were not the rave reviews from Metromix, but rather the fact that Donna Morgan frequented this place as a source of young men to satisfy her nasty debauchery. Dan thought, 'What's good for Mrs. Morgan may be good for other married sluts.'

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My first two years out of high school, I attended a community college, and worked as a delivery driver for a well-known pizza delivery chain we'll call "Checkers" to protect the innocent. It was a pretty good job. Most of the drivers were needed in the evening so it didn't interfere with classes. You got paid a salary, tips and commission (to pay for gas) which averaged more than $8.00 an hour when minimum wage was closer to $4.00.

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'Old Vinyl Classics – The station that brings you the greatest hits of the 60s, 70s and...' The old car stereo in my car crackled as I turned it off and parked my car alongside the curb. Once again I was in a familiar part of town; it was a place where I had parked my car many times during the past two years or so. Once again, I was on my way to band rehearsal, and again I was running a bit late, as was the case more often than not. To be honest, I really didn't care that much. A few months ago, things had been different.

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The bar was quite noisy with groups of people meeting after work to relay the day's events. There was a football game on the TV screens which was attracting loud groups of men, all with their opinion on how their team was performing. Jan sat in a booth towards the back of the bar on her own. She was contemplating life – it had not been a good day. She had been late for work, had lost a big contract and had been given a hard time by her boss.

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My name is Adam. I've been living alone for the past ten years. Had a few live-in ladies during that time but on my own the last year. I mostly visited Senior Centers scouting for those lonely ladies that hang out at such places. Had a coupe of hot ones... guess they figured it might be the last fucking they were going to get so they give it their all.

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My lessons had been going very well with Ms. Candy for quite some time. My skills "tickling the ivories" had even improved somewhat too. Good thing too, because my mother was always very interested to hear how I was doing with the piano lessons. Ms. Candy was going to be touring Europe for a month. Being a kind soul, she had arranged for her sister, Ms. Honey, to give me lessons in her absence. On the way over to her house, I couldn’t help but wonder how much Ms. Honey would be like her sister.

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So finally we meet. God, you are even more radiant and exuding that perfume that I only have heard about so far. Your Irish eyes crinkle and sparkle with mischief as you smile at me, taking in my gauche nervousness. "Nervous, boy?" you ask me teasingly. I try and laugh it off, blushing furiously.

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My mother-in-law continually amazes me. She is always alert to any opportunity for sex. We are sitting at the dinner table tonight. Ruth, my mother-in-law, a very young sixty five, is sitting next to me, with my wife, Beth across from us. Ruth says to Beth, “I don’t see that salad dressing you had last time, the French vinaigrette type.” Beth says, “I have some in the refrigerator. I’ll be right back.”

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Miranda Warren watched her friend K.C. West pace back and forth in the coffee shop in which she worked. She could tell that the attractive young blonde was nervous. K.C. had no reason to be. She was the pretty young blonde with the vivacious personality. If anyone should be nervous, it should have been her other friend, Casey Carter. How often does a 40-year old insurance broker get to go on a date with a 21-year old blonde model type?

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