Your erotic stories

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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"Gretchen, are you sure everything's okay? Ever since we got here you've been acting so... nervous! It's okay to relax, you know. I mean, the conference is over. And I don't know about you, but I'm planning on celebrating tonight!" I smiled at Lauren – she was sweet to encourage me to relax, and I did want to let loose. More than she knew.

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"Hi Brian, what are you wearing right how?" The voice on the telephone was low and rough as if she wasn't quite awake. "Not much." He answered her, but couldn't figure out who she was. The voice sounded faintly familiar, but he was not sure he knew who it belonged to. Brian wasn't doing much. In fact, he was standing in the bedroom, wearing only a towel around his neck, trying to decide if he wanted to go to bed early, or pull on some sweats, fix a late supper, and then open his briefcase and read for a couple of hours.

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"Grace arrived late last night. Poor thing was tired after the red eye flight from Toronto," Mia said taking a seat at the breakfast table. At those words, James dropped the muffin he was about to eat into his coffee mug. The resulting splash sprinkled not only on the pale blue damask table cloth, but his shirt as well. Trying to cover up his flub, he responded to his sister's comment.

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After a signature and a handshake, I escorted my newest client to the door. It was easily the biggest account I'd ever landed. My team and I had a lot of work ahead of us to make sure they were happy. It was our first state-wide campaign, and a steal from a competitor. If we pulled it off, it could mean big things for the company.

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The summer I turned eighteen I had an internship at the Public Library. The one downtown, you know the one? It's tall, the tall white building, near the court house, probably built in the 1970s, with lots of windows and really boring looking. And if you think it is lame looking on the outside, don't even bother going in. My internship was for this stupid honors program that my mom insisted I participate in every year.

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My name is Nicholas Ichabous Crane Evanston. I'll spare you the long drawn out story of how I got that ridiculous name. The short version is that my dad saddled me with that long name so I would never forget the acronym, and always be NICE to people. Sometimes big stories have small beginnings, my story started at a CVS Pharmacy in a small town in North Carolina. I was in town to oversee a six month construction job and was having a pretty crappy day, so I dropped in for a sugar fix at the pharmacy near the work site.

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Ramona got out of the shower and dried herself off, wrapping the towel securely around her curves... just yesterday she'd run into her father's friend Victor after her shower and she'd been so startled that she'd jumped and the towel had fallen to the floor. Although it now gave her a rush of excitement when she saw Victor - even though he was almost twenty-five years older than her 20 years and was very attractive - she didn't want to repeat the experiment. Especially because today her dad was home since it was the weekend.

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I'm a sixty year old retired widower with completely gray hair, a little paunch and live in a very nice three bedroom house in Wichita, Kansas. I drive the obligatory, for guys of my age, late model Mercury Grand Marquis. Everyone tells me I am a good-looking guy who has aged well. If I were trying to describe my interests I would only have to mention two. Travel and reading. I got away from buying the Book of the Month selections and now get most of my reading material from the nearby public library.

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When Trevor came in to the Environmental Awareness Center at ten a.m. for his Wednesday volunteer shift a new receptionist was on duty. She looked to be in her mid-twenties with long auburn hair, sparkling green eyes, a rosy blemish-free complexion and a buxom chest. "Hi, I'm Trevor Bridges," he said extending his hand, "are you a new volunteer here?"

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