Your erotic stories

It's not pleasant growing old. They tell you when you retire from work that you can relax into your twilight years, and see out your days in peace and tranquillity. Well, I'm – let's say 70-something – now, and ever since I left the job I'd loved for over 40 years, lecturing in Classical Mythology at Girton College, Cambridge, my life has been in a constant state of flux.

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CHAPTER 1 Brown haired and green-eyed Guy Meadows was left confused when seeking to find is the optimum age to marry because the opinions varied widely. He settled on twenty-eight and planned accordingly. He studied hard at college and emerged with a masters in business administration and after settling into permanent employment upgraded that to an MBA. By the time he was twenty-seven Guy was director of operations for a company that manufactured, imported and distributed LP gas and electric grills and barbecues.

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About two weeks after my sensuous and successful aptitude test with 'Manon', the company which provided discreet escorts for ladies. I was contacted by Ron Vincent, who told me to call at the office the following evening as he had my first client. I had already spent some time with Ron, getting a few pointers on what would be expected of me. He also had me fitted out with a couple of outfits, a smart dark blue suit and a more casual jacket and pants, with shirts to match.

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Mr. Anderson didn't know what to do with the girl now that he was done. She remained in the inverted position until he felt he had to shake her out of it. It looked as though she may have stayed there all day, her red gaping ass shining in the sun over the top of her dripping pink chink. She had to taught some manners, this girl, and he knew exactly the person to do it

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Eva looked out her bedroom window. She had heard the gate to her driveway being opened. It was Jim, the son of her best friends Alice and Mike, arriving to mow her lawn. Eva was a fifty five year old widow, living alone on the outskirts of a small college town. Her husband Eddy had passed away three years previous. Eva was only now beginning to pick up her life following the death of her soul mate. God knows what would have happened to her without the support of her friends and their son Jim.

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To say that I always wanted her, would not be entirely true. I wanted her oldest daughter, Elizabeth, first. I pined for her until my sophomore year in High School (she was a year ahead). I didn't even try to be with her, only a friend and she blew me off, calling me lame, flat along with a host of other insults. With that avenue closed in my mind, I turned to her. She was the mother of my best friend, Meredith. She was forty years old my senior year and the embodiment of female beauty. She was everything I hoped to become.

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I was sitting backwards on one of the chairs in my tenant's kitchen, watching him cover an easel with bold strokes of varying shades of green. Sean had moved into the basement suite in late August, and we'd hit it off right away. He was a nice boy, 22 years old, a couple years older than my own son, who was also away at university.

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I hadn't thought about this in years. I've been married for 15 years and stories about ex-girlfriend's and their mothers are not the kind of thing you brag about at the dinner table. The thing that brought this memory back was meeting this particular mother in the mall parking lot. I was getting out of my car and I saw this old lady coming toward me. She seemed familiar. "Mrs taylor?" I said.

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Tim yawned hugely as he padded downstairs, an empty glass in his hand. He almost tripped over his feet at the bottom, and steadied himself with a muted curse. The morning was cool, the house enveloped in a pre-dawn glow. He walked into the kitchen, resting the glass in the sink. Butterball, the fat ginger queen of his home, wrapped herself around his legs. He smiled, and felt the cat's purr against his leg. He bent to retrieve the cat food from under the sink.

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A beautiful, outraged, and thirty-nine year old brunette with an elfin face, full lips, clean white skin that dove past her neck into an ample vertical line of cleavage, and authentic silk stockings – the seams of which climbed upward in a perfectly straight line from her trim ankles to disappear under the hem of her professional, side-slit skirt – swept down the long, richly carpeted corridor of the sixty-ninth floor like a small tornado, sweeping a cheap imitation dynasty pitcher from an expensive walnut sidetable with a vicious blow from her open hand and pausing not at all as it cracked like an egg on the plastered wall and tumbled to the floor.

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