Your erotic stories

My wife Joan is 62 years old. She is a doctor and a dancer; her lifelong devotion to the art has kept her slim and strong, with great vitality, despite thinning skin, age spots and thickening around the middle. I am passionately drawn to her, find her very attractive, love her with a depth I never knew was possible, and want to fuck her often. (All you young people out there, just because we're old it doesn't mean we're dead.

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Five years ago my wife Sue and I left behind the dark, dank climate and the economic and political doom and gloom of England in search of a new life in the beautiful, peaceful and sunny Languedoc region of the South of France. Both of us are keenly interested in good food, cooking, and enjoying the odd glass or three of wine.

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Several years ago, my wife and I vacationed in Europe for two weeks. I knew that Europeans tend to be more casual about nudity and sex than Americans are, but I was still unprepared (as was my wife) when we decided to visit a spa (called "bad") in Germany. We took a tram up the side of a steep hill to the top and looked down over a beautiful view and a large pool with an even larger deck. "Oh my God," my wife exclaimed as she saw that almost all of the women were lying topless on the deck or soaking that way in the pool.

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It was hot, hot and sweaty, far too hot for housework and in fact just the sort of day to take advantage of Adam's new six foot tall privacy fencing and do a spot of nude sunbathing on the lawn. Nikki needed to top up her tan anyway for when they went on holiday next month, so it wasn't as if she'd be wasting the day.

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I have two cell phones. One has a number I freely give out to family, friends, business associates and one that is used just for a side business. No one in my family except my brother knows about that number. Now that my parents are gone and my wife is an ex-wife my brother is my family. It rings about three times a month and when it rings I know I'm about to enjoy my work.

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"Hello, you must be Shayne. I'm Mr. Caldwell's boy, Jerome. Come on in. I'll take your bag to your room. He's out beyond the great room, in the pool. Go on back." With that welcome, I entered the world of Ted Caldwell, retired supposed master spy, the man I'd been sent to the New Jersey shore to interview over the weekend for Spy magazine.

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10. Sometime in late July, the first year. My hair splayed out around me as the trickling flow of the stream lifted and carried it. Soothed by the water, my body warmed in the desert sun. I held Tom's hand and squeezed with love. We had been lying in the creek for nearly half an hour, letting our tired bodies come back to themselves after fucking so so hard.

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There were silky red thongs, lacy black bikinis, pearl white strings and soft blue french cuts. There couldn't be a more beautiful collection of lacy panties and bras anywhere. I had just returned to my apartment building from getting my morning coffee and was going upstairs, when my pretty neighbor from across the hall passed me with her laundry. Being the polite guy that I am, I smiled and said "good morning" and she replied "hi" back. As we passed I peeked around my shoulder and got a glimpse of the treasures in her basket.

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We had got drunk together numerous times, as part of a group, and just us I suppose, once or twice, he'd crashed at mine as well, a few times, came back for some chilli, a floor space. He was sort of funny, a little older than me, smart, he lived miles away.

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Chapter One "Damn!" I swore. "How could a person get lost going back to their own hometown?" I hadn't bothered with maps except to get near the right area. I figured I would remember the way once in the vicinity. I should have known better. I had definitely not inherited my mom's knack for finding where she was going. In fact, I would call myself geographically challenged.

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