Your erotic stories

I had made the trip from the little cottage across the street and about 50 feet down countless times but never faster than that afternoon in June of 1976. After I sprinted blindly from our neighbor's back yard, a yard I had mowed for the last four years - not even watching for cars on the rarely traveled gravel road - I ran into our house and closed the door. Closed it and locked it and then looked through the blinds for what was about to happen.

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Life in rural upstate New York, circa 1972. Justin Anderson was on the verge of cumming, and at that moment in time life could not be better for the teenager. He had just graduated from high school and was going off to college in a few weeks. His girlfriend, Becky Biondi, was on her knees in front of him, sucking away on his cock. They had planned on fucking, but Justin had accidentally torn the condom while putting it on - his last one - so Becky was taking care of him as best she could.

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It had become the highlight of my day, sitting out on the bench in front of the apartment complex I called home, waiting for the school bus to drop the students off. This gives you an idea of how exciting retirement was for me, but at 65 you take your thrills anyway you can. Each day at 3:35 or so, the Catholic school girls go by, dressed in identical outfits that were as stereotypical as they come.

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Like clockwork, I happened to be outside around five o'clock, sitting on my front porch and playing the part of the retired widowed gentleman living the life of leisure, and to anyone who happened to go down my road it might have looked like I spent the whole day out there just watching the world go by.

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Her name is Donna, and she's a co-worker of mine who I got to know very well over the course of about a year. While I admit that the initial attraction was physical, when you get to be middle aged, there has to be more than that in order to keep your interest. Fortunately for me, Ross Browning, there was more.

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Chapter One: Bored and alone. It was Saturday night and it was getting late. I had watched COPS for an hour, having gotten my weekly dose of schadenfreude from watching people with lives even more miserable than my own have theirs go down the tube in front of the whole country, and now I was sitting in front of the computer finishing my final beer of the evening. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but was just skipping around from site to site, hoping to make my eyes tired enough so that sleep would come easier for me.

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The summer of 1970 was the time, and the place was Holland Patent in rural central New York State. Arthur Connors was a recently retired man of 65 with a lot of time on his hands, and after his wife of 36 years had passed away a couple of years ago, that time seemed to pass more slowly. Deciding to take up gardening, Art cleared out the area near the fence out back that divided his property from the Miller's spread next door, and began planting tomatoes.

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