Your erotic stories

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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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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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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