Your erotic stories

It was a wild midsummer's night. The rain was pelting down in sheets and the wind was howling through the trees like the banshee's lonely wail. I was sitting in my favorite chair with a half full bottle of single malt Scotch in my left hand and a revolver in my right hand. There was only one bullet in the revolver and I was getting up my Dutch courage to play the first round of Russian roulette.

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My wife Cynthia died on a Monday. She had been unconcerned when she started spotting between her periods and didn't bother me with the concerns of her gynoclogist until the diagnosis came back, uterine cancer. The cancer was stage IV and highly aggressive, the doctor didn't sugarcoat the results. Cynthia fought hard, surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, but in the end the diagnosis had come too late.

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CHAPTER 1 At last new widower Charlie Creek was left sole occupant of his home. His two daughters had returned respectively to Rome and Los Angeles to their families after coming for the funeral and had cleared the house of most of Beth's things but had left the photographs of her undisturbed.

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Have you ever sat down and thought about a moment in time? Something or some time, which has stayed in your memory forever. I'm not talking about a wedding or a death in the family. Those are things we all remember. I talking about something insignificant to most everyone else but it meant something to you. I was at a funeral recently of a brother-in-law. After the service as we entered the restaurant, one of my sisters, I have three, said that two women wanted to say hi to me.

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During the long wait for his wife to die Freddie Short thought about life after Shelia's death. He'd miss having her beside him in bed, for sure, but what about during the day when she'd chatter on much about nothing and pester him to take her somewhere? He'd REALLY miss that. Freddie tried not to think about missing the sex. Being washed up aged fifty-nine was a little early but like death that was something to accept, not matter how hard it felt.

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Her passing had been very sudden. We had been sat together watching nothing in particular on the TV and she had slipped into a sleep that I realised, eventually, was death. The family had been caring, the funeral sensitive and then followed the lowliness -- that awful sense that something was missing in my life. Our children had all left home, but living close, they had kept in touch, not oppressively, but supportively.

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I'm Tom Davis, kid brother of Laura Hughes. I was a 30-year old high school social studies teacher and girls' basketball coach; after five years of coaching, thanks to two athletic sisters on the team, we won the district championship. Often, I saw the superintendent of the schools, Harry Bradley, and his wife, Rita, among the spectators at home games.

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I have to confess that I was surprised when I heard the doorbell ring about mid-morning Sunday. Who would come to visit me that early and especially on a Sunday? I thought that maybe, just maybe, it was my brother and his wife on their way back from church. We lived pretty close to each other, so if he needed to borrow a tool or something he might stop by.

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Older hospital volunteer shares his passion for helping with a young nurse. Cassie smiled at Henry as soon as the elevator doors opened. With his red nose, face makeup, and colorful Halloween costume, she watched him clomp down the hall in his big, red clown shoes that pointed to the opposite sides of the corridor. Her smile turned into a laugh, when he honked his horn. "Honk! Honk!"

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She had been my best friend, my companion, my wife and bar none the best lover I had ever had. We had been together for over 30 years, wonderful years, except for the last one when cancer was slowly and inexorably consuming her once marvelous body. Now she was gone.

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