Your erotic stories

The large house was silent except for the sound of Jennifer and Nicole's footsteps on the tile floor. Everywhere they looked, elegant Christmas decorations adorned the walls. They turned into a lavish living room and saw a single occupant—a fellow teacher named Cheryl—sitting next to an eight foot Christmas tree.

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It was the day before Thanksgiving. Denise was happy that the four-day school break was finally here. It had been a rough last few weeks trying to get her high school students to comprehend the World History material. She looked forward to dinner with the family the next day, and then lots of holiday shopping!

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The twins could see the distant vehicle coming up the mountain road towards the house. They looked at each other, grinning. "What do you think he'll be like?" said Anne. Her sister snorted. "Much like last time, but four years older. How the hell would I know?" "He was good-looking then. He's nineteen, now." Anne glanced across at Beth. "I wonder if he's got a steady girlfriend."

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For the life of her, Fiona Barrymore could not imagine why she kept attending these things. She had been with Spicer Industries for longer than she cared to remember, working her way up from receptionist to senior vice-president, and yet she could not remember a single Christmas party that was anything more than a wonderful cure for insomnia.

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Gina let out a quiet groan when she was awakened by the clock radio alarm. Blue Christmas by Elvis was playing, and the music merged with her feelings as she'd drifted off to sleep. The bed shifted, and she knew Brian was sitting up to shut off the alarm. In a fit of pique, she rolled over, facing the wall. A quiet sigh let her know that the gesture hadn't gone unnoticed.

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The halls vibrated with the music that flowed through them. Organ music swelled through the huge, drafty church and out the open doors. Passing people stopped and listened to the familiar tunes and the harmonic voices of the worshippers as they sang a 'thank you' to God for the birth of his son. After they had dragged themselves away from the church and the nostalgia that had surfaced, many of the people out on that cold Christmas night felt more in the spirit of the holiday. Spare change turned to a ten-dollar bill thrown into the hat of a homeless man.

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Mary was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate. Mary had been my wife for over twenty years, mother of our kids, confidant, no doubt the best thing that had ever happened to me. She was not, I hasten to add, perfect, nor was I, by any means, and we had the usual ups and fortunately few downs. However, one morning, Mary just didn't wake up.

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The wind howled like a symphony of sick dogs trained to sing commercial jingles. Jason slumped into the ski lodge, cursing God, snow and his uncle Errol, for sending him to some god-forsaken corner of the world where they still had fresh-air and blindingly white snow, which usually came in the form of ass-freezing blizzards.

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A week before Christmas, I ducked into the fifth floor men's room. It served as temporary reprieve. The first among twenty or thirty things I could invent to occupy myself while avoiding the remainder of the company Holiday party two floors below. One other occupant was in the room. He barely registered on my eggnog-addled brain. Most years I managed to escape the compulsory merrymaking by being unavoidably detained somewhere else on company business. This year I was unavoidably detained in Los Angeles.

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It had been nearly two years since I lost my wife to a drunk driver. Dating at twenty is a bitch, dating at fifty... well, let's not go there. I had a lot of friends, and that helped, but to be honest, porn and hand jobs were no replacement for the twice a week sex I was used to for the last twenty five years. As I said, dating at fifty is a bitch, there aren't too many choices in a small town, even a college town like the one where I teach.

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