Your erotic stories

Katie turned twenty one right before Spring Break of this past year, and I was sure she was going to go to Fort Lauderdale or some equally alcohol drenched beach resort with her friends, after all, that's what I did when I was 21 and in college. But instead, my little girl called me up a few weeks before and said she was coming home to see me and she was bringing her girlfriend.

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For most people, a time comes, sometime along the way, where they find themselves in an economic jam. Something happens, something comes up, something goes amiss, and extra money is needed to fix it. Things like this can happen to even the most careful and responsible planners. Like Tara Smith.

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Like I said, I was sitting at this slot machine, more or less blindly pushing the buttons and listening to it go "Clank clank clank." I like that one machine, it is 3 bucks a push of the button, it has the 5 times pay things and if I manage to get two of them it's 25 times pay which is a pretty good chunk of change if it ever pays off. The last reel respins, too, that is fun but the first two reels have to be lined up first.

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Retirement has many compensations! The opportunity to take holidays at any time I fancy is one I rate highly. This is the story about a recent enjoyable break. I recently spent Christmas away in a lovely city centre hotel in Bath in the English West Country. What a beautiful town, relaxing, full of history and incredibly photogenic! On Boxing Day I took my camera out to enjoy this photogenic place. When I returned to the warmth of the hotel I witnessed an unusual confrontation at the reception desk.

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My name is Michael - family and friends call me Mike. At that time I considered myself an unremarkable 23 year-old, English WASP with a degree in psychology and a post-graduate certificate in education. I was working through my last summer before starting teaching in a secondary school near my old home town. I was brought up with the 'protestant work ethic' and had always had a job of some description as I went through my further and higher education.

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Serena McGuire hated boats; that was all there was to it. The rolling beneath her feet, the closed confinement. Even the sea air bothered her, although it never had before. Of course, she had been on a beach then. But the combination now had her stomach rolling along with the waves of the ocean. Her best friend, Isabel Trecher, instructed her that if she would actually spend some time on the deck, instead of in their cabin (which happened to be on the lowest deck, complete with two beds, one dresser, and no window), she would feel much better. Probably, Serena mused, because she would be as liquored up as Isabel is.

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I was already bored with my 'date' from the night before, the prototypical one-nighter with a nurse from Clifton Park who chain-smoked like a runaway locomotive. As Apollo Creed once told Rocky Balboa,"Ain't gonna be no rematch." Rocky, of course, grunted back, "Don't want one." So, in all fairness, I'm sure the feeling was mutual. We both got what we wanted, that's what makes a one-nighter a one-nighter, right?

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"Okay Heather if you want to be like that, fuck you! I'm not gonna stand here and take this shit. We're done." "Fuck you back you asshole! You damn right we're done! I want a man that treats me well!" "You mean you want a man that's whipped, that caters to your every idiotic whim, that hands over money because he's your personal ATM. In other words, you want a chump. I'm not a chump, nor that desperate. Besides, you ain't even that good. Goodbye."

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I really felt ashamed of myself. I knew I was slipping back into my old fantasy habits. A supposedly respectable married woman 39 years of age with this ridiculous fetish for dressing up in school uniform. It had been more than a fantasy during my early thirties with the two old priests and Sister Mary. I think my fantasy thoughts started in my mid twenties after I had married Derek.

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It was a crisp, late November evening in Eastern Canada and we had just driven for an hour through back roads to our remote hunting site. My father-in-law, Edward, parked the truck in a tightly overgrown drive way of sorts, under cover of some trees. The rest of the way to the little cabin had to be by foot, and not just because the driveway was impassible, but because, "Deer don't like the smell of a warm, old pickup," at least that's what Edward would say. Ed was short and stocky and "rough and tough" - a label he'd give himself with a twinkle in his eye.

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