Your erotic stories

Every man should have a hobby. Some guys like to collect stamps. Others climb mountains, scuba dive or garden. Me? My hobby is fucking old women. And like any worthwhile hobby, you've got to put the time in to make it worthwhile. I mean, if mountain climbing is your hobby, you know it's about more than standing on the peak of the mountain. It's preparation and the rigor of the challenge. Hell, you could have a helicopter take you to the mountaintop if that was all it was about.

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"You know, the scene where Clark Gable carries Vivian Leigh up the stairs." They were at dinner, discussing everything from work to politics. Now it was movies. The conversation had just taken an interesting turn. "I'm not sure which one you mean." "You know," she said. "If you've seen the movie, you know. Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs after they've quarreled. Rhett had gotten drunk earlier. He threatens her, then he carries her up the stairs. The next time you see Scarlett she's waking up, stretching, with a smile on her face."

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It was evening and he was sitting at the kitchen table, barefooted, in jeans and a t-shirt, reading the paper. I was off puttering around, doing I don't remember what, while Don was absorbed in the news. Suddenly, I had a strong urge to do one of those things that really turns me on once in a while. I went to our room and put on my short bathrobe. Then I went to the kitchen and stood next to Don until he looked up at me curiously. "Honey," I said, "I'm in the mood to get a really good spanking."

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"Told you I'd come visit you tonight," Arthur Preston whispered as he slid under the sheet and slid next to his granddaughter Lisa, and although the single bed made for cramped quarters, as Lisa's grandfather moved against the skinny teen the snug fit suited the frisky senior citizen just fine. "What if Mom or Dad come in?" Lisa asked as he felt her grandfather's hand on her shoulder. "They won't," he assured his granddaughter, who made no move to stop his hand as it came off of her shoulder and moved toward her breast.

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The week had been pure hell. Work was driving me up a wall, and I was beginning to fear that I would soon lose it. I had enough stress to supply the eastern seaboard for life. Anyway, it was Friday night, and I wanted to put the week behind me. I picked up dinner on the way home, and fought my way through the evening traffic.

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I always thought that Jessica had a beautiful body, although I tried my best to pretend not to notice. I was 24 then, and she was 21. We'd met at church 5 years earlier, and had been best friends from the beginning. Jess was one of those "comfortable with her body" people, which made it difficult for me to pretend I wasn't attracted to her on some level.

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I didn't know if it was the unseasonal heat or the heavy work we'd done that day or Jake's scary stories or Miguel's empty bed that kept me awake in the dormitory that night, but I had nervous energy to spare. I would doze, but I'd wake up with a start and look over at Miguel's bed, the emptiness of it now explained, and then I'd check all of the other beds to see in guys were there. And sometimes they weren't, and then I'd speculate.

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He had seen her sad before but, in the year they had been together he had never seen this. His heart broke as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She looked so delicate. Her hair hung in ringlets around her face, going from red to black as they made their way down her back and over her supple chest. Her big, dark brown eyes were full of tears and bloodshot though she refused to let them spill over.

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“Gentleman, you have never, ever seen a magic trick like this. Porn meets illusion.” Fuck David Blaine. And the over-hyped, under-achieving shit that he peddles as magic. Sure, the street magic stuff is okay, but there’s no fucking magic in standing on a pole. Or in a freakin’ box. For Christ’s sake.

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Ellen Brophy was grateful for the ringing of the telephone, because it jarred her out of her melancholy reverie. She’d been thinking about Jack again, and how much she missed him, and that was never good. She picked up the phone and answered dully, “Hello.” “Mom?” It was Ellen’s daughter, Robin. “Mom, are you OK? You don’t sound so good.” “I’m awright,” Ellen said, although she knew she wasn’t. “Mom, you’ve been thinking about Daddy again, haven’t you,” Robin said in a tone that was half accusatory and half sympathetic.

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