Your erotic stories

Sunday Morning in early March. I joined the regulars for coffee after a disappointing Saturday night; I hate to be part of a closing crowd, and so I'd left the Paradise Bar with fifteen minutes to go before the bitter end. It's my age, I suppose. As fine as I know myself to be at thirty-five, I just don't feel like competing at singles bars any more. So there I was, listening to the morning-after banter about the night before: Who did, who didn't, who got lucky, who got away.

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Each year they swept in, families of various sizes and ages from across the world. They came from the snow swept regions down to the tropics. Families came every year, looking for fun in the sun and to escape the cold winter season. I lived and worked in Aruba and enjoyed life here. The people of the island were tolerant and open minded.

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Dear Jenny: You asked for my story of way back then: how did I survive, how did I find strength and acceptance? How did I find love? Yes, I'll tell you, Jenny. You've a right to know, and from what you've written to me about your life now, you need to know.

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The alarm clock's music filled the room at 4am and Liz reached over to shut it off. She was tired. As the years passed she grew more and more tired. She was 52 years old, a little heavier, a little softer, a little more mellow...and yes, a little more tired. She stood, tugging at the sheets and quilt as she made the bed. She would strip them this weekend and do the laundry. Same as every Saturday.

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I heard Sarah's dad yell before I even pushed the doorbell. "Sarah! Your little friend's here!" He must have heard me walk up the porch. I stood up a little straighter and smiled, waiting for him to open the door. Not that he would have noticed my posture or expression anyway - he was blind - but whenever I was at Sarah's I always wanted to look my best.

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I was driving down to Knoxville Tennessee to help my best friend move back up to Michigan. I had a six pack cooler filled with five bottles of Aquafina water and crushed ice sitting on the floorboard on the passenger side. The sixth was wedged between my legs. I was driving a rented Lincoln Town Car straight down I-75 and was screaming through Kentucky when I noticed the upcoming road sign. It was announcing an exit for a road two miles ahead.

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Here I was, in the huge backseat of a restored '57 Chevy Bel-Air with a woman whose name I couldn't remember; her mouth, tasting of whiskey and tobacco, kissing me, her callused, sure, hands slipping off my panties. My wide hips tipping up to let her, my mouth slack and open to her demanding, slippery, tongue; my head tilted, eyes open, staring at the rivulets of rain streaking the fogged side window.

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"For the last time; I don't KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" "Oh I think you do. I just don't understand who or what you're protecting." "Fucking cucaracha, do you have any ears?!" "And again, with the feistiness...Just tell us what we want to know." The room was poorly lit for effect, but the redhead didn't know that. She was blindfolded and cuffed to a cold steel chair.

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