Your erotic stories

I've spent every Friday and Saturday evening over the last three months sitting at a small table near the corner of the stage at the Magic Dancer Club. I have a few drinks and enjoy the show as the various ladies strut their stuff on the big stage. It's a very nice club if you happen to be into exotic dancing. It's an upscale club with an affluent white-collar clientele. The floor is covered with expensive deep-pile carpeting, except in the lobby, which has fancy marble flooring.

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I had sat there at Joey's beachside bar for more than an hour, watching the young man playing in the surf. When I'd first arrived at the bar, both bored and out of sorts, I'd seen him on his surfboard, riding the waves and doing quite well at it. At length, however, I saw him tire of that and come up on the beach and bury the tip of the board into the wet sand, with a strong force that, in itself, would have arrested my attention.

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When I was younger my dad got me a summer job working on Saturdays for Mrs Jones. She was a woman who had a property out by the river and my job was to help her do landscaping, cut back trees, lay pavings etc. The property was a bit run down and it was hard work. Mrs Jones was a bit of a hippie. She lived alone and I guess she must have been divorced because she never wore a wedding ring, even though everyone called her Mrs Jones.

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This true story was written for mature women by a mature woman. I am willing to bet that there are many women out there just like me who are over 60 years old, divorced, widowed or single by choice that just don't think that they are sexually desirable any longer. I am here to tell you that is a lot of hooey. I know this because until my 62nd birthday I felt the same way.

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Part 1 "You WHAT?!" "Honey," he said, his eyes wide and pleading. He put his hands out in front of him, palms down, as if urging me to take it easy, to slow down. But I felt the world suddenly spinning out of control. He tried to grasp my shoulders. "Please... you don't..."

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Tina and Doug looked like the ideal couple. A petite, cute, good looking woman and a tall muscular man, they have been married for four years and each was twenty-nine. As attractive as they were, their sex seemed to fizzle out. There were no extramarital affairs or anything. They loved each other very much. It was just that sex had become rote, almost programmed, boring.

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I'm standing at the registration desk of the hotel we agreed upon, a small bag in my hand. I didn't pack much, as you requested. I don't think I'll need much else, this weekend, do you? The woman returns with my credit card and hands me a slip of paper. "You have a message, ma'am." I open the paper and read:

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Part 2: Burning Girls Sandy's pretty sure that Mum's fucking her best friend. I'm not so sure. My name's Sally. Sandy's my twin sister. They say that whenever twins are born there's a sensible one and a not so sensible one. I'm the sensible one - or at least, that's what I tell myself. She'd disagree. But whoever's the sensible one Sandy's the one that jumps to conclusions. That we can agree on. She's actually pretty good at it, too. Well, most of the time. *****

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My eyes open hesitantly - struggling to adjust to the early morning sun filtering in through the bedroom curtains. I let out a small groan as I reached across the nightstand at the side of the bed in an effort to turn the alarm clock in my direction so that I could see what time it was. I froze in mid-reach when my mind finally processed the fact that I was completely naked and in somebody else's bedroom. It came rushing back to me in a hurry why nearly every muscle in my body was protesting with my every movement. I slowly turned my head, hoping that it had all been a fevered dream.

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Chase wiped the sweat from his brow. Damn, but it was hot in this attic! He had promised to help his neighbor, Mrs. Gumshot, clean out her attic in exchange for her late husband's jazz albums. Mr. Gumshot had been a bandleader and had a massive collection of old jazz hits.

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