Your erotic stories

The young man beside her was silent, lost in his own morose thoughts. Ginny concentrated on the icy highway in front of them, a hint of apprehension gripping her as they approached the Eisenhower Tunnel. Even though she had lived in the Rockies for sixteen years and made the drive from Vail to Denver weekly, this particular stretch of Interstate 70, approaching the Continental Divide, never failed to frighten her. Once more she wished she'd brought her husband's four-wheel drive, if only because it sat up higher and gave a better view.

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Bethany put the girls to bed. Then she went downstairs to the living room to watch television. She began to feel bored. It was only eight o'clock, and Mrs Boxwell wasn't expected home until ten or later. She sighed. After flipping through the channels, she put down the remote and went into the kitchen. On the counter she found a set of keys. Curious, she wondered what they were all for. Just eighteen, a senior in high school, Bethany considered herself a good student and always the good girl.

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Even in the midday sun I shivered slightly it was cool and breezy. I walked along the access road after having a flat tire on my truck. “Justin, You have the worst damn luck,” I cussed as I remembered to nearest phone was over 3 miles away. Just as I was giving up hope on flagging a car down a van slowly pulled up. The driver was about 6ft and athletic, myself being 6ft and well built wasn’t worried about “Weirdoes.”

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Acting persons: Cecile Boneuve, 54, opera star; Eva Hordon, 19, student and fan Eva Hordon was a 19-year-old student. She had been born in Budapest but was now attending an exchange term at the university of Verona. Eva was a very pretty and sexy girl. With a size of 1,70 meters she was of medium height. She had a slim body, but was not bony at all. She was rather sportive and had all the curves necessary to have a very sexy appearance.

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I don't really care much for politics. I'm neither a Democrat nor a Republican. I'm not liberal or conservative. I'm just -- well somewhere between Independent and "I don't give a shit." Therefore some might consider it very strange -- I know that my parents did -- that in early July, 2011, I took a sabbatical from college to work on Republican Colorado Senator June Jepson's presidential campaign. The reason -- I was fascinated by her.

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My friend's college required that the students spend at least one summer on campus, and one spring or fall off. He chose the summer after his second year. Early that August, just before I was due to go back to school, I went to visit him. The last night I was there we went out with his friends to a local pizza place. We ate pizza, talked, and drank some beer. My brother's girlfriend Clare was there, and her two roommates Nancy and Susan, as well as a few others.

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"I'm spending the day at the beach," announced Barbara. "You're mad. You'll be the only person there. It's not really warm enough," Sally pointed out. "It will be. I'm going up to Point Revon. The hills block the wind there and the beach will be sunny. I'm not going swimming, just working on my tan. Why don't you come."

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I made it through the week, not an inconsequential accomplishment in that strange year so long ago. 

I made it through Saturday, too. I wrote a little and did laundry and got some physical activity to try to take the edge off the tension I felt rising within me. I was horny and on a whim, I called up the web site of the Washington Blade, the local gay paper. I scanned the ads, and thought back to how things had been when i was just entering middle age.

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There are limitations and opportunities connected to being an attractive older woman. The attractive men my age are generally interested in women half my age. Men half my age are attracted to me, but they're so immature and inexperienced. Sure, a youngster who gets off quickly and gets up again very quickly is great. But an older man who takes his time is usually far more exciting. What's a woman to do?

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For all the times I've walk this street, I never got use to the feeling of being watched when walking it alone. This morning walking back to my apartment, more than merely being watched I felt as if everyone knew what I had done... where I had been the night before. This particular morning the Parisian streets and sidewalks were wet with a slow drizzling rain. It must have been 11h00 already.

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