Your erotic stories

Chase wiped the sweat from his brow. Damn, but it was hot in this attic! He had promised to help his neighbor, Mrs. Gumshot, clean out her attic in exchange for her late husband's jazz albums. Mr. Gumshot had been a bandleader and had a massive collection of old jazz hits.

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Memory triggers. They come rushing at you when you least suspect them. You can walk into a house and take in the heady aroma of a cake being baked and you'll be transported back to your grandmother's kitchen. You can smell an empty beer bottle and suddenly there you are playing hide and seek behind a pile of your uncle's empties. Smell is our most powerful sense and we all have a repertoire of aromatic triggers nicely tucked away in that gluggy grey mass we call a brain.

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"What are you staring at?" said Julie as she came up silent on slippered feet beside her friend Elaine, who was gazing out of the picture window. Elaine turned with a smile. "Nothing much. My future, I suppose." "Future, huh? And what do you see?" "Loneliness." "Why? You're still young." "Forty next birthday, divorced for the second time, and haven't been laid in almost three years."

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Grandpa thought he was in heaven! The 55 and older community was actually about 65 and older, and most of them were women, so when I visited him, he'd light up and was proud to show me off. He was still a spry 82, went out for a few beers every afternoon at the local bar, which was really a package store with a bar in the back room, complete with old time bar maids, songs from the Forties, and a million old war stories.

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Not a soul in the long hallways of the University on a Saturday afternoon. I was trying to figure out where this office area had been. I opened doors on the sides, and found one leading to a cluster of offices which could have been the right place. I was probably going further than I should have, when I heard a voice behind me.

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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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When I was eighteen a young couple moved in next door. Bruno and Maxine Steinhouse, and their four-year-old son Victor moved to our community from New York. Bruno was a cop and had been named Chief of our small rural northern community police department.

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I had been watching my mother's friend, Mrs. Ashlock, for many years. She was about forty-five with a face pretty enough for a movie star and a slender but voluptuous body that was the envy of her friends. I was what they call "sexually precocious," I guess. Women's bodies became an object of vague, unfocused but intense desire at about the age of seven. Photos in popular magazines such as hosiery and swimsuit ads drew my interest and caused an unidentified but pleasurable stirring in my chest. Janet Ashlock, however was real flesh and blood and was often in our home or we in hers.

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Due to my frequent travels, my wife and I have an agreement that we are allowed to satisfy our sexual desires as needed. Some call this an open marriage, we didn't put a name to it but I guess that's what it was. Angie is a very sexual person and had taken on a couple regular lovers. She was able to satisfy them and still take care of my needs too when I was in town. We always were open about things that would happen but I was caught off guard one morning when Angie told me that her boyfriend had his son with him when she showed up at his apartment one night.

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When I was little I used to sit outside with my Grandmother on her wide front porch and we would dream about what we would do to the gardens one day. It was one of my favorite things to do with her when I was visiting. My parents died when I was in my early twenties and my Grandmother was all I had left. Eventually I moved to New York City and made my life there, becoming a very successful writer. I had more money than I knew what to do with and I would send her checks, telling her to make her special garden.

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