Your erotic stories

Some people say "no good deed goes unpunished." I never subscribed to that armchair philosophy even though I had and saw many good deeds backfire. I must admit, though, that the "unpunished" saying did make me a little apprehensive that my most elaborate good deed might boomerang; but it didn't stop me. I'm a 52 year old guy with keen business acumen but poor social skills with women. I did get married when in my twenties to a bohemian woman that my friends considered a poor match.

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Chapter One It had started so innocently. I had been in my favourite chat room, just fooling around in my own virtual way when my private message box flashed up. "You are funny" it said. I looked at the senders' nickname and it was one I didn't recognise. Wary at first I replied "Thanks. You have caught me on a good day." About thirty seconds later came the reply "Lucky me. Wanna chat?"

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It's going to be a surprise. I just hope it's a pleasant one. I really shouldn't be going. But I'm at my wits end and can't stop myself. It's been over two months of denial -- not that there haven't been others, I've let a few virile studs demonstrate their might on several one-nighters, but he's the one I'm really interested in. I'm mindless to the chill as I stride along. It's already dark, drizzle permeating the air in a fine spray, a damp Christmas Eve with no chance of it snowing, no way to pretty things up.

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Saturday I peered into the rearview mirror and saw the familiar VW logo of Jenna's Jetta. Not that I was worried about her finding her way. We'd been driving this route to the beach for over 15 of her 20 years, so she certainly knew the route. It was pretty much a straight shot from Columbia to Charleston on I-26 and then a short jog over to Isle of Palms. Nothing to it.

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MaryAnn was completely engrossed in her notes from that morning's seminar. A glass of wine sat on the table, but that was mostly an excuse to occupy a table. Her reverie was broken by the waitress who sat another glass of Chablis in front of her and announced, "From the gentleman over there." "Damn it," she thought. "Why can't I sit here in peace? Just because I'm a woman all by myself in a hotel bar doesn't mean I'm a hooker or an out of town housewife on the prowl."

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Mr. David was in his second year of teaching Band and things were not going well. The previous band teacher had been very old, and band in High School was never really the cool thing to do, so he was having a really hard time getting kids to be in his Marching Band. He had brought in outside help in the form of one of his friends from a marching band corps, but still things were not going well.

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I remember one summer when I went out to the ranch of my friend Amanda's uncle. This was her father's youngest brother, making him around 40 at the time. We had just finished our third year of college and we were borderline ADD from the joy of completing our finals. We drove up on a hot, hot day in late April, and by the time we arrived at the ranch both of us were covered in sweat and dust.

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Simon's hands automatically went to my waist, slipping low to cup my ass in his palms. I'd already pushed him past the point of no return, but he was still trying to reclaim control of the situation, feebly asserting his authority. "Amy—we can't," he said. "We said we wouldn't." Even if there had been conviction in his voice, the presence of his hands on my ass and the way his mouth opened against mine, his hot breath filling my mouth, made his true feelings clear. I felt a little guilty for pushing him, but not enough to stop.

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I had just finished a nice dinner and was walking back to the Bed and Breakfast where I was staying. It was still light and there was an orange glow in the west where the sun had set over the Pacific. I thought a glass of wine would be just the thing before turning in. Fortunately, the B&B had some available, honor system of course. That's what I like about them, so friendly, so trusting.

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September 2003 "Ya got ten bucks Mister?" she asked as she darted in front of me, one of a small group of black clad, pierced and tattooed punkers who'd mysteriously appeared in the neighborhood just days earlier. "Ten bucks? What happened to the fifty cents for squeegeeing my windshield?" I asked with a grin. "Fifty-cents! A rich, hip Miami guy like you," she teased, jiving me as she danced backward as I continued walking.

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