David Miller got home that Friday evening from work to find his wife of twenty-two years waiting for him. It was obvious from the expression on Michelle's face that something was wrong. As he sat down in his recliner, David wondered if he'd put the toilet seat down that morning before leaving for work. But whatever the problem, he'd learned over the last two decades that his wife would tell him in her own good time.
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Sharon Jameson stretched out on her belly on the patio chaise. She tugged gently at her bikini swimsuit bottom, which had crept up a bit too tightly between her legs and threatened to leave an unwanted crease mark alongside her pussy. It was a good day for her to add to her already attractive tan, and to give some serious thought to the current state of her life.
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Working in construction for so long I've been able to work my way up to foreman; which in my case, basically means that I point out what others are to do and I don't do much physical labor anymore. I've been doing this, with the same company, for almost twenty years now, starting when I was just seventeen. I've been able to keep myself in great shape, physically and sexually. It's no secret that there's a special category for construction workers in a lot of women's, and men's, fantasy worlds. I've been able to take advantage of a lot of a lot of those feelings over my career and I hoped to keep it up as long as I could. After all, I'm only thirty-six years old; I expect to be able to fuck like a madman for another few decades.
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"Write me a story," my lover says, her eyes glinting with deep, sensual desires.
I kiss her, savoring the warmth and wetness of her mouth, as I say, "What shall I write, my love?"
She smiles at me wickedly, her hands fondling my growing erection. "Something – naughty," she replies, her voice low and soft, caressing me like velvet. "Something – forbidden..."
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John Harrison had not enjoyed the best of days at work. His boss had been acting like a tyrant, he'd spilled coffee on his shirt, the sandwich shop got his order wrong and sent him Ham instead of Turkey. He wanted to get home, open a beer and relax. He walked in the three bedroom apartment he shared with his daughter, Penny, and there it was.
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OUR OWN PASTORAL
Scaramouche123
Forbidden love in three acts
All characters are of majority at the time the sex takes place.
ACT I -- The Stranger
I was seven when my mother died of complications from a fall she suffered while we were hiking the Appalachian Trail. I was devastated and thought my world was ending. My father had been killed during the last days of Desert Storm, a few months before I was born, and as I was an only child of a single parent who herself was an orphan; I stood at the abyss at a far too early age.
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I fired up the laptop and sat in the chair. I waited quietly in the dark room while it loaded and connected to the net. There we go I thought. I clicked on the icon and the world opened up to me.
I typed in the usual address and looked to see what they had to offer for porn today. I skipped over the big fake tits getting drilled by monster cocks stuff. That was old and boring. I wanted something new, something different.
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Not every story has a happy ending, at least for me it didn't seem that way. Zoey had won states and was heading off to the west coast and Stanford in the fall. She was excited but apprehensive about the move and being that far away from home and me. I assured her it would be fine and she would be fine.
Soon after we had returned from the state championships my wife decided that she wanted to be single and try to find someone else.
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When you start writing a fiction story, it's fun to think about where to start. But when you're writing a true story, especially one with a lot of threads runnings through it, deciding where to start is really hard. There are so many strands involved in explaining the key event, and people won't understand you if you don't describe them well. They may even judge you.
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I lay in my dad's arms, still woozy from what just happened -- physically and emotionally. My free right hand reached for his arm, and caressed the knots of muscle that roping from the shoulder to the elbow. It struck me then, that there was something about an older man in peak physical shape that I found desperately attractive. Of course, he owed this fact to his job as a conditioning coach -- but there it was all the same, this frame of capable limbs, narrow waist, and a big, brutish chest.
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