Your erotic stories

"Why aren't you having sex with Trevor?" asked Jen during lunch with her best friend. "If I had a housemate who was: a good looking guy, with a big cock, knew how to use it and liked to eat pussy .... I'd be fucking him two to three times a week. Maybe even two to three times a day on the weekends!" "You're such a slut!" replied Tina, laughing. "Believe me I've thought about it ever since I broke up with Steve two months ago.

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It had been so long since I had seen Troy or Jake, not to mention seeing them both this evening. I had known both men for years and at separate times in my life had wonderful intimate moments with both. That hadn't happened for years; however, we had all remained friends through the years, rarely seeing each other. We silently supported each other during divorces and marriages, births and deaths, and only hoped for the best for each other in the future.

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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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"Bingo, bingo, big money bingo! What's tonight?" "Bingo!" yelled the crowd of families and couples around the pool bar. "Oh Christ get me out of here!" muttered Julie from beneath her floppy sunhat. "I'm so bored!" "We picked the wrong hotel didn't we?" sighed her friend. "The hotel's gorgeous. It's the resort that's wrong." "Hmm...it looked closer to Ayia Napa in the brochure, didn't it?"

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How do I get myself into these things? Because I'm a sucker for men who beg, that's how. Look on my forehead, see the big "S"? It magically appears whenever a man gets down on his knees, clasps his hands together, and says "Please, please, oh pretty please?" It must be some sort of motherly instinct. I never had any kids, and I always thought I transferred my need for raising children to my dogs.

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The packed city club is jumping, the sound of drum and bass pulsates around me, colourful lights flash rhythmically and your eyes follow me as I stalk seductively up to the fully stocked bar. My sequinned skirt glitters as my hips move in time to the dirty baseline, the semi-sheer black body I'm wearing is designed to allow the imagination to wander and my long legs are emphasised by slender stilettos and opaque, black, lace topped stockings.

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The following morning was almost a replay of the one before. I woke fairly early and drove over to Mom's hotel, letting myself into her room with the spare key, again. The drapes were not drawn shut as they had been yesterday, but stood open allowing the faint light of dawn to softly light the room.

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I rested my neck on the edge of the bathtub and stretched my limbs, luxuriating in the warmth of the foamy water. I surveyed the unfamiliar opulence of my surroundings and sighed with satisfaction. I had learnt on my arrival at the resort hotel in Maui where I was to stay that my confirmed reservation had been deleted by a mysterious glitch in their system and that no rooms were available. Either my panic stricken face or more probably the fact that I am a claims agent for a major marine insurance company persuaded the management to get rid of the problem by upgrading me to a beach side cottage.

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This story has been buried deep inside of me for a long time. I remember all of it very well, almost like it was last week. I've reminisced and re-lived it all many times over the years. Much of it is quite fun to remember. Some of it is bittersweet. Some of it is painful still. When I was out of college and in my early twenties I got a job selling radio advertising in a suburban/rural area, and although new to the region, I became successful in a fairly short time.

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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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