Humpday Story: Femme Phobia


The dark, clowns, and women—three things Jeremy Price fears.

When he seeks out Dr. Jane Bernstein’s help, little choice remains but to face those fears one by one. But even in the safety of Dr. Jane’s office, that last fear can be paralyzing.

Friendly, supportive, but certainly no sexual object, Dr. Jane treats Jeremy as an equal. As a person. Unlike the other women in his life. Even so, Jeremy struggles with one simple request.

He’d rather lay on the sofa than sit in the chair. Aren’t therapy sessions supposed to be that way?

If you enjoy quirky cougar erotica, be sure to read Femme Phobia. Continue reading “Humpday Story: Femme Phobia”


Sunday Quickie: Neighbor With Benefits

For three months, I had the hots for the girl in the apartment above mine. I lived in a studio apartment, one room and barely big enough for a queen size bed and a desk that was used both for meals and work. When I washed dishes in the evening, I often got the pleasure of watching her walk out of the building and to her car.

She always wore skimpy booty shorts and a tank top, baring her long legs and tanned skin. She had a sway to her hips, like she knew somebody was watching, no matter how small a chance. 

I spent extra time, making sure my dishes were well scrubbed, but I never paid much attention to them. I’d lean against the counter, pressing my boner against the cabinet and imagine pressing up against her firm body. She was shorter than me by a lot, so I daydreamed about my cock against her stomach, with the head right below her breasts. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Neighbor With Benefits”

Humpday Story: Shadow of a Doubt

Shadow-of-a-Doubt-GenericNot everyone rekindles a romance with their high school sweetheart. For Nate O’Brian, his young heart belonged to his high school art teacher, Darla Johnson. But being with her never was an option.

Nate still remembers her sweet smile, and the tight mini-skirts with black pantyhose she used to wear.

Fast forward seventeen years… New cats, new job, new house to call his own. Nate couldn’t ask for anything more in life, except for love.

Until he sees a familiar woman mowing the yard next door to his.

If you enjoy quirky romantic student/teacher erotica, be sure to read Shadow of a Doubt.


AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sorry for posting this late. A lot of you may have read this one already. I’m still cycling through older stories before I post newer ones, but I am slowly writing a list of new stories for the publishing queue. Thanks for reading!



When I was a young man, I had this crush on my high school art teacher, Mrs. Darla Johnson. 

She always wore tight mini-skirts with black pantyhose. When she sat and crossed her legs, her skirt rose up her thigh, hinting at the smooth upper edge of her hose. She’d often walk around the classroom, going from student to student to praise or give advice. On my turn for instruction, Mrs. Johnson would stand directly behind me, the tips of her big boobs pressed against my shoulders. 

And then she’d point at something on my canvas, reaching one arm around my head. She smelled of coffee with Irish cream, paint, and scented hand-soap. When she moved on to the next student, I could still feel the impression of heat from her breasts on my back.

To say she fueled my teenage sexual desires is an understatement. I day-dreamed about her constantly; in the cafeteria, during every boring class, at home in bed while tossing and turning. Every wink and smile when she greeted me, every “hello” she said in the hallway, gave me butterflies in the stomach. 

At night, I kept dreaming about her.

I had to sleep with a bath towel around my waist, to keep the sheets clean. I remember going an entire semester with at least one wet dream a week.

At graduation, Mrs. Johnson gave me a warm hug and a quick peck on the cheek before wishing me luck and success. Never thought I’d see her again.

Fast forward seventeen years, long after the memory of her breasts poking me in the back had faded some. I’d married, divorced, buried two cats, and changed jobs five times.

A new house with a yard and picket fence, a new job as a cover artist in a growing publishing imprint, back in the old hometown where I grew up. For the first time since college, I felt invigorated and fresh. I wanted to conquer the world. I left the old behind, and now intended to do new things and meet new people.

So when I took a break from unpacking boxes, and stepped out on the stoop with a warm cup of coffee, I was surprised to see Mrs. Johnson mowing the yard next door.

I just bought the house, my first, and didn’t know any of the neighbors yet. It was a quiet neighborhood, full of cookie cutter split-levels and Cape Cods. A little slice of heaven, all to myself and the two numbskull cats who were hiding among the unopened boxes. I had brewed a mean cup of java from my slick new stainless steel coffee machine, strong enough to make me feel a little light headed, with a heavy dose of Irish cream for flavor.

This woman mowing her yard stunned me. Flat out stunned. The caffeine flooded my brain, mixing in with old emotions I’d forgotten about. I staggered, and had to sit on one of the lawn chairs on my stoop.

I forgot to sip my coffee. I shook my head, thinking I was just seeing things. This sweaty middle aged woman in skimpy cut-off jeans and a hot pink halter top couldn’t be my high school infatuation. What were the odds of me buying a house next to her? And this woman seemed a little too young to be her. She had a wonderful curvy body, with no obvious tan lines and a strong muscles in her arms and legs.

Mrs. Johnson had to be in her fifties. I had no doubt she still looked great, but no way could she be as perfect as my new neighbor.

And then she moved up to the property line, and I got a better look. The long nose, the high arching eyebrows, the seemingly permanent smile on her lips. She wore a blue bandana, but the frizzy brown hair was exactly as I remembered.

I nearly dropped my cup.

A rush of wonderful memories swept me back to high school. I don’t miss my youth—the bullies, the pressure to get into a “good college,” the sexual frustration—but Mrs. Johnson was a reprieve from being a teenager. Around her I felt like a man. I wanted her to be my first sexual encounter (alas, not to be). I wanted to marry her (hey, I was pretty innocent).

The beautiful woman mowing her yard waved. She was red-faced and dirty, but her smile was infectious.

Before I could return the wave or the smile, she turned and mowed the next strip. The muscles in her hamstrings tightened and strained as she pushed the mower uphill. Her hips were the right size to grab onto from behind. The woman’s shoulders were strong. The way her hair bounced as she moved was mesmerizing. I sprang a hard-on. Good thing I was sitting down.

When she made the corner and turned around to mow a new strip, I forced myself to look away. But I kept watching her while pretending to observe squirrels playing in a tree across the street.

And then the mower engine shut off. I had to peek a look. The beautiful neighbor lady was approaching. I waved, a bit too nicely, a little too stiff. Her flip-flops smacked against her heels. She came right up to my stoop. Hands akimbo, she placed one foot on the first step, Captain Morgan style. I got a wonderful view of the inside of her long thigh. I had to lean forward to hide the ever growing pocket rocket in my pants.

“Good morning, new neighbor,” I said.

“Morning to you, too, stranger,” she said. I could feel her sizing me up. Not a creepy stare, but a glance that made me feel exhilarated and awkward at the same time. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mrs. Johnson?” I said, voice squeaking more than I liked. I hoped like hell it was really her, and not some look-alike. “You remember me?”

She smiled, and I knew right away it was her.

“Nate O’Brian, call me Darla,” she said. “You’re not in high school anymore. And I’m not a missus-anybody anymore.”

Felt like I needed an eternity to process that information. I certainly felt like I was back in high school, with my sweaty palms and slumped shoulders. Like I was being scrutinized by this knock-out gorgeous woman from my past, who I thought I’d long forgotten about. What if she was disappointed with what I’d done with my life? What if she didn’t like the adult I had become?

And then I latched onto what she just told me. She wasn’t a missus-anybody.

Inside my pants, my rod twitched.

“You look great, Darla” I said dorkily.

She tossed her hair over one shoulder and smiled. I maybe wasn’t being smooth, but I meant what I said. Her abs were flat and toned. She had beautiful skin, and white teeth.

“You’ve grown into quite the man,” Darla said.

I offered her coffee and the other lawn chair that was folded up behind me. When she said yes (with lots of cream, no sugar), I knew I spoke too soon. The erection wasn’t going down anytime soon, and I had to stand up to make good on those two offers. I made a show of being sore while standing up, while also adjusting my t-shirt and shorts.

No way Darla couldn’t have not noticed. I quickly unfolded the lawn chair and placed it in front of my own, and rushed inside to get a mug of coffee.

I paced in the kitchen for a bit. By the time I freshened my cup and made hers, I had settled down. I adjusted my junk, wishing I’d worn briefs instead of boxers, and went back outside.

Darla was sitting, legs spread-eagle and rubbing the inside of her upper thighs. She crossed her legs and accepted the mug, her fingers barely touching mine. It was like seventeen years of repressed sexual urges sprang back to life. My boner snapped back to attention for no damn reason.

She took a slow, careful sip, glancing from the mug to my pants to my eyes and back down again. And like an idiot, I stood there, frozen in her stare.

“Irish cream,” she said. “Wonderful.”

“Glad you like,” I said. She was bluntly staring at my erection, no point in hiding it now, unless another neighbor happened to pass by. The street was quiet for a weekend morning. I stood up straight, shoulders back, looking down at her.

Darla smirked around another sip of coffee. “I do, very much.”

“Still teaching?” I sat down across from her. “What you up to now days?”

“Retired from teaching. I’m a full-time graphic artist, with my own studio in the attic. You?”

“I design cover art for a publishing company. Sometimes with stock art, but often with my own photos and paintings.”

She placed a hand on her chest, her smile growing even wider and warmer. “Glad to hear. You were such a talented artist in school.”

Pride swelled, and I got warm, fuzzy feelings all over. I knew right then that I was going to enjoy living in this neighborhood.

“Let’s do lunch sometime?” I said.

“How about today?” Darla asked. “Unless you’re too busy unpacking?”

“Why? Are you too busy mowing the yard?”

“Never.” She reached out and touched me on the forearm. “I’ll need a shower. Come over at noon, I’ll have tuna salad.”

“I have a six-pack of beer. Is that okay?”

“Wonderful.” Darla said. We both stood up. She leaned against me, her hot body pressed to mine, and kissed me on the cheek. Memories of graduation flooded back again. The tip of my cock pressed lightly against her stomach. I wondered, for the first time in many years, what it would’ve been like to have had sex with Mrs. Johnson when I was a teen. “See you later, kiddo,” she said.

Darla turned and stepped off my porch to her yard. Her flip-flops smacked against her feet. I couldn’t help but watch her ass swaying as she walked away.


The morning wouldn’t pass fast enough. I baked box-mix chocolate chip cookies in between unpacking, which got the stupid cats’ attention. They each got a small ball of dough. Then I took a shower for the second time.

Boxers? Or briefs? Being a new neighbor, I should’ve thought about controlling my junk around Darla on our first meeting in damn near twenty years.

But there was that chance the underwear could come off. At least I hoped so. Boxers were more fun.

I put on a pair of jeans and a Def Leppard t-shirt then, with cookies and Shock Top in tow, I headed next door. I rang the bell, and the anticipation nearly killed me. No backing out now. I rocked back and forth from foot to foot. It was all I could do to just breath. I should’ve been comfortable, after all this was just a reunion with an old teacher. But this felt like a first date. My palms were sweaty, and the boxers clung to the inside of my ass.

When the door finally opened, the paper plate of cookies nearly toppled over. Darla was quick to take them with a smile and a friendly wink.

She was dressed in a tight navy blue miniskirt, cream colored silk stockings, and a blue sateen blouse with the top buttons undone. On her feet were blue, pointed-toe high heels, just like the kind she used to wear. Her brown hair was tied up in a loose bun. Darla wore little makeup, enough to smooth out her face but not much more.

She appeared exactly the way she did in my teenage wet dreams.

As I walked through the door, I felt tingly and nervous for no good reason. I was a competent adult, not a kid anymore. But this was surreal.

The inside of her house was as beautifully taken care of as the outside. It was a split-level with beige carpets and cedar vaulted ceilings. The living had a cozy red brick fireplace and a leather L-shaped couch. On the coffee table was a crystal bowl with tuna salad, a pitcher of ice water, and two tall glasses. The TV was turned on to an infomercial featuring kitchen knives.

She sat down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. I sat, and offered her a beer, and then poured for both of us. Darla seemed so prim and proper, back straight and knees together. Maybe I had the wrong idea. Maybe she wasn’t being flirty with me earlier. I could’ve worn briefs, and probably should have.

But then why was she dressed up like she was about to teach class?

We clinked glasses, ate a little, and made small talk. What have you been up to? How long have you lived here? Wonderful home you’ve got.

And then she placed a hand on my knee. Her fingernails were painted a light shade of blue. “I’ve thought about you a lot,” she said.

“I never forgot you either,” I said. When the silence got a little awkward, I placed my hand on top of hers. Then she placed her other hand on top of mine. Not wanting to interrupt this wonderful pattern, I stacked my other hand on the pile.

I never wanted to leave this couch. This seemed so right. All the first date nerves were gone, as if they never were. I didn’t even care if I scored with my former teacher. Just being around her was good.

Darla rubbed her thumb against my wrist. “Not sure how to say this. But, it’s bothered me for… Sorry, how long ago did you graduate?”

I chuckled. “I forget too. Umm… 1999, however long ago that was.”

“Long enough,” she said with a cute wink. “I regret not getting to know you better.”

“You knew me well.”

“I mean, a lot better.” Darla pulled her hands away from mine and stood up. She bent at the waist, her skirt rising up her long thighs, and picked up the tuna salad bowl.

I thought about grabbing her by the waist and pulling her back down to the couch. Thought about smothering her with a deep kiss. Maybe even undoing the rest of the buttons on her blouse.

Instead, I watched her walk away to the kitchen.

Five carefully counted seconds later, I followed her. I leaned one hip on the peninsula and watched her stretch plastic-wrap over the tuna salad. She slide the bowl in the fridge, giving me another view of her well formed backside. For a fifty-some old woman, a retired high school teacher no less, Darla was in top shape. I don’t remember her looking this damn sexy when I was in school.

“I had a crush on you,” I said. “Big time.”

She smirked. This time, the smile was more blue, like she was thinking on things long past. She tugged at the hem of her skirt. “Didn’t you take some cute young thing to the prom?”

“Olivia Chatterton,” I said. Hate to admit it, but I only remembered her last name because she was a chatty thing. I leaned my elbows on the kitchen counter. “She put up with me because she wanted to wear a pretty dress and get a corsage. I liked her. But I was in love with you.”

“Were you now?” Darla’s high heels clicked on the linoleum floor. She came up beside me, one breast poking me on the shoulder. “I hope you know, the feeling was mutual.”

I stood up straight. Even in heels, she was a few inches shorter than me. I liked the way she looked up at me. I liked it even more that, if she took off her heels and bent her knees some, her breasts could touch my cock.

I gripped her by the elbows, and she gripped me by the biceps. I pulled her in closer.

“Even when I was married,” I said, “I thought of you now and then. If I’d been your neighbor in those years, I would’ve been tempted to have an affair with you.”

Darla massaged my arms and shoulders. “I was tempted to have you, when you were in school. You kept me awake at night with my vibrators.”

“Oh?” This was a fun fact to learn.

“Having you in class was hard, I have to admit. And then seeing you graduate was bittersweet. I knew then the opportunity was lost forever, but I was glad the temptation was gone as well.”

“You made the right choice,” I said. “I would’ve hated myself if you lost your job over a kid like me.”

Darla tugged at my shirt sleeves. “Teaching was okay. Can’t say I miss it. But there was only one kid who tempted me.”

I kissed her on the cheek. More a polite, how-you-doing kind of kiss. “Oh?” I said.

She slid her hands down my sides to my belt. And then a bit lower. She tugged at my jeans. “I see now he’s not a kid anymore,” she said.

I was at attention and ready to go. All my dreams came true, and the warm fuzzy feeling of those dreams hadn’t faded one bit. Not how I imagined things, but then nothing ever really works out like in fantasies.

I pushed Darla away and held her at arm’s length. “You sure you want this?”

With both hands, she grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me closer. “I’ve wanted this for seventeen years. I’m glad it’s happening now.”

“Me too.”

I wrapped my arms around her. Cupping her ass, I pushed her body against mine. She smelled like lavender bath soap with just a hint of grass clippings. Darla was strong and well formed everywhere, curvy in the hips, flat in the stomach, all woman. I loved how her breasts squished against my abs. It was like she was made to fit in my arms.

No clue who initiated the next kiss. Our lips just sort of met halfway. A brush, a quick pass. Then a mingling of tongues. She slid her fingers through the back of my hair. I followed the curves up her body, and teased the sides of her breasts with a light squeeze. I could feel the outline of her bra, and I wanted to know what color it was.

Darla pushed against my chest, pushed me away for a breather. Her bosom heaved.

I pinched her at her waist and pushed her against the kitchen counter. I held her like that for a moment, enjoying the view. Enjoying the way she looked me up and down, as if sizing me up. I liked the way she no longer held back the desperation in her eyes.

Then I pressed against her, letting her feel my manhood. Darla grabbed my shirt, tugging hard enough to pop a few seams.

“I didn’t bring a condom,” I said.

“No worries,” she nuzzled against my chest. “I’m past the age.”

I cupped the nape of her neck and kissed her forehead. “Doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Then Darla nudged against me and slapped me on the chest.

“I’m such a bad hostess,” she said. “I forgot to give you the grand tour.”

“I’m only interested in one room,” I said.

“Oh? Which one?” Her smile was sardonic and infectious.

“The bedroom.”

She wiggled her way out of my embrace, and tugged on me by the collar.

“This way,” she said, and led me down the hall.


The bedroom was tucked in the back of the house, and the blinds were already drawn. Only a sliver of light came in from the window, illuminating a cozy room with grey shadows. The queen sized bed had a shiny purple duvet cover and too many frilly pillows to count.

I didn’t bother. Once inside the door, I pushed Darla against the wall and kissed her violently. She tugged on my shirt sleeves, breaking a few more seams. She could’ve ripped my shirt apart, I wouldn’t have cared. Her body heat made me sweat. My boner ached to be whipped out, but I was too busy feeling her up and enjoying the slow kissing.

The making out seemed to last a long time. Neither of us got tired of it. My knees grew weak. The front of my boxers were sticky wet with pre-cum. Darla’s beautiful brown hair fell of its bun, flowing around her face and shoulders. What little makeup she wore was smeared.

I grabbed both of her tits and squeezed, pushing her even harder against the wall. The tips of her nipples poked through the fabric. I rubbed my thumbs across them.

Darla moaned. She lifted my shirt up enough to feel my skin. I helped her out and took the shirt off. She glided her fingers up and down my torso, paying careful attention to the nipples. I pulled at her blouse buttons, undoing one and then another. The process was too slow for her, and both of us fumbled our fingers at yanking the rest undone.

Her bra turned out to be dark red. I loved the way her breasts were squished together and pushed up. I jerked at her blouse, exposed her shoulders. Then I buried my face in between the valley, breathing in her scent, and licked at her soft skin.

Darla held the back of my head, tickling my hair with her fingers. And then she pushed me downward. I obliged. Down on my knees, I gripped her stocking covered thighs and looked up at her.

This was the image I long dreamed of. Looking up at the underside of her breasts, right as I was about to go down on her.

I lifted the skirt above her hips. Her panties were a matching red. Unceremoniously, I pulled them down to her knees. Darla was well trimmed with a prickly thin patch. No tan lines. She smelled sweet and musky. I pressed a finger against her folds. She was already wet.

Darla hooked a finger under my chin. “I need both clit stimulation and penetration,” she said.

“I’ll do my best,” I said, and then spread her lips and tentatively kissed her on the clit. I rubbed her on the outside a little to get her more wet. Along with a few light tongue swipes, it didn’t take much.

First one finger, to see what she liked. Darla quivered and moaned. Then two fingers for good measure. I went as deep as I could. The clit popped out and I sucked on it slowly. Inside her, I curled and uncurled my fingers. The way her thighs tightened and her squeals of pleasure told me I was doing things right.

So I didn’t stop for a long time. No idea how long I ate her out. I alternated between finger fucking her and sucking. I must’ve edged her close, because she kept pushing me away, but not trying very hard. And then I felt her tunnel spasm around my fingers. Drops of warm liquid poured down my wrist and forearm. Darla nearly toppled over me.

I pulled my fingers out slowly, and gently kept licking her sweet juices. When I finally got my head out from between her legs, I stood back up. My head felt light. She leaned into the crook of my neck.

“You’re next,” she panted. Darla patted me on the ass. Then she went around me and pulled the duvet off her bed. With a shrug of her shoulders and a sexy shake of her hips, she disrobed down to just her bra and stockings. Then she patted the edge of the bed.

I obediently sat. She went down on her knees between my legs. I let her have the honors of yanking my belt apart and unzipping my jeans. I only helped by lifting my backside when she wanted me entirely naked.

Saying I was stiff hard was only half of it. I never realized my cock could hurt so good from being erect. As if seventeen years of late night frustration had built up inside me, clawing to burst out. 

Now I wanted nothing but to be touched by Darla. I even told her so. 

Pleaded for her to take me inside her mouth.

Instead she scratched one fingernail down my shaft. She gently patted my balls, and then tasted my pre-cum with the tip of her tongue. A long, sticky string came out, connecting her tongue with my head. When the string broke, she scooped it up and licked it with her fingers. My cock twitched in eager anticipation. I lifted my hips off the bed, trying to get closer, to encourage her to take me.

Darla didn’t need much encouragement. But she didn’t give me the satisfaction of a blowjob, yet. She massaged my groin, touching my cock with only light kisses up and down.

I closed my eyes and gave in to the pleasurable ache of sensations.

And then I felt her warm mouth and tongue. Some of her saliva dripped down my balls and to my anus. Darla scraped her teeth up my shaft. A moment pause, as if waiting to see if I’d protest. I cupped the back of her head. She flicked me with her tongue and went back down.

All the way in. Balls deep. Darla tugged at my sack while sucking me off. Just slow, almost painful motions. I gripped the edge of the bed with both hands.

And then she stopped. Darla stood up. I reached around and unsnapped her bra. She let the garment slide off her body and drop to the floor. I cupped one breast, sucked the nippled, then repeated for the other.

Darla nudged at my shoulders. I kept teasing her breasts. When I didn’t react fast enough, she pushed me flat on the bed and climbed on top of me.

She reached around behind her to grab me by the cock. I slid right into her wet pussy. She was a perfect fit for me, as if we were made for one another.

Darla wiggled and rotated her hips. One hand pressed against my chest, pinning me to the bed, the other rubbing her clit while she grinded on me. I massaged her thighs and ass, begging her to go faster. She whimpered, and then cried out in ecstasy. A warm gush trickled down my balls, like somebody pouring hot water on my junk. She collapsed on me, head nuzzled at my neck.

But I wasn’t done.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, securing her. With my other hand I pinched her nipple. Hard. Darla squealed.

And then I jabbed my cock as deep as I could go. 

Slow, long stroke. Another, a little faster.

Then I pumped her. Sharp and quick strokes. Skin slapping on skin. Our fucking made a wet sound. She dug her fingers into the bedsheets, holding on for life. Our bodies glowed with heat. I was sweating everywhere.

I felt another smaller gush from her. Enormous pressure built on my cock and sack. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The orgasm began in my balls and forced its way upwards. I blow my load into Darla. Her pussy clenched me. My entire body quivered with the shock.

Pulling out was painful. I had to go slow. Once I was out of her, Darla rolled off and relaxed next to me. I held her I my arms.

At long last, I lived my teenage dream as a grown man. I wondered if I’d wake up in my own bed, with only the cats and myself.

But no. This woman in my arms was warm and real and breathing slowly. I could pinch myself all I wanted, but this was Darla, my first real love.

I kissed her on the ear. “I hope…” I started, but wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

Darla half turned and cupped my face with a hand. “Darling,” she said. “I hope you’re not done with me, now that you’ve scored with your teacher.”

“Hell no,” I said.

I spooned with her and took a nap. And then we had a long weekend of fucking. On Monday night, she helped me unpack for an hour, and then we had a night in my bed.

One weekend turned into a year of fun with Darla. I still hope we’re a long ways from done with each other.


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Sunday Quickie: Not All Jobs Last Forever

I have one confession I don’t even dare mention to my girlfriends–I’m in love with my boss. Utterly, hopelessly, in love with the man who signs my paychecks. I know it’s wrong, and I’m asking for trouble, but I don’t care.

Gary hired me right after the Great Recession started. He needed an accountant, preferably with more experience. I desperately needed a job, any job. He was tall, not very dark, but handsome in a rugged and older yet wiser way. Calm under pressure, self reliant, always in control. 

From the beginning I enjoyed working for him. From day one, I had a crush on him.

And I wanted to prove to him I was more than a pretty face with perky boobs.  Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: Not All Jobs Last Forever”

Humpday Story: A Fitting Room Squeeze

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Seven in the evening, right before closing time, and Tyler badly wants to get some tacos and flake out in front of the TV. If he could, he’d quit his retail job at Humdinger’s at the drop of a hat.

And tonight, every hat in the men’s department fell over, for no reason at all. 

As if straightening the hats weren’t enough, the most obnoxious customer ever demands Tyler’s attention. 

Turns out, she wants to use the fitting room for reasons of her own. 

If you enjoy quirky erotic short stories, be sure to read A Fitting Room Squeeze. Continue reading “Humpday Story: A Fitting Room Squeeze”

Sunday Quickie: The Jazz Club

I’ve been involved in a jazz jam club for about a year. I switch between the alto sax and electric guitar, one of which I’m pretty good at and the other I’m just okay at. But the point is to have fun and stretch myself musically.

Plus, it’s kind of fun being one of only two women in the club. Let’s just say, lots of talented cute guys and I have pick of the best.

But only one has had my full attention the entire year. Scott, who plays the drums. He has curly, chin-length brown hair, a dashing smile, and a permanent five o’clock shadow. I love watching him set up his drum kit. The way he takes his time with each drum. His shapely torso and waist. How he pretends to ignore me. Drives me crazy, wondering what he thinks of me. Continue reading “Sunday Quickie: The Jazz Club”

Humpday Story: Goodbye, Martina


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Valentine’s Day night. Two double martinis with extra olives. An empty bar. And ghostly saxophone music playing from an empty stage.

Seth Preston figures it’ll be another lonely night, longing for his lost days with Martina. Good thing for the memories, and the music.

But his heart aches for the closure he never got. And for the second chance that never happened.

If you wish for an erotic story about lost love and the need to say goodbye, be sure to read Goodbye, Martina.


Goodbye, Martina


Seth Preston locked the doors at two in the morning, not a minute later. The tourists left the bar after hearing the ghostly saxophone show. The college kids were getting laid at best, or sleeping off their stupidity at worst. The West Avenue Bar was empty, though not quiet yet, and Seth didn’t want it any other way. 

He made two double martinis with extra olives. One glass was just a plain martini glass. The other had a gold engraved saxophone with the name “Martina” underneath. He set the glasses on paper napkins, in front of the giant mirror behind the bar and directly across from the stage.

The bouncer and waitress had helped flip all the stools and chairs, except for two, where the drinks were now being served. Seth sent his employees home. They understood.

Besides, the saxophone music was a bit creepy after hours, when the place emptied out and the notes seemed to bounce off the walls and ceiling. He didn’t blame the staff for wanting to leave. 

The music flowed from nowhere and everywhere at once. Most folks, tourists and locals alike, believed the music stopped shortly after midnight. Seth knew better, and kept that secret well hidden. For the last five years on Valentine’s Day night, ever since Seth bought the bar, the music would start up again after the last drunkard left. It’d start as a slow and steady rhythm, barely noticeable unless you strained and knew what to listen for. 

While Seth mopped the floor, the rhythm increased, as if to hurry him along so he’d finally have his drink. Then a slow lull, a siren song from the general direction of the stage. 

In his peripheral vision, he swore he could see her. Martina…

Every Valentine’s Day, she wore a yellow dress and blue high heels with peep toes, just like she wore in college. Her wild mane of honey blond hair flowed about her bare shoulders, messed up as if she just rolled out of bed. Or had wild sex. That was how she always appeared on stage—sweaty with messed up hair and a glint in her eyes. She held her saxophone like a lover in her strong arms, and the music she made with it sounded soft and feminine with a rough touch on the edge.

But when Seth looked directly at the stage, she was gone. Only her music remained.

He sat at the bar, and held his glass while staring in the mirror. Not at himself—he knew what he looked like. Almost the same as when he knew Martina, but older, fifteen years older to be exact. His hair was still brown, but cut shorter and the two gray hairs weren’t noticeable yet. Still clean shaved, most days, and still wore t-shirts and jeans.

No, he looked at the stage in the mirror, hoping like hell to see her. Just once. It was all he wanted in life anymore. To see the woman of his dreams one more time. To tell her that he still thought of her. And missed her.

He had a hole in his heart. The saxophone blues filled it once a year, at Valentine’s Day. But that was never enough.

Could never be enough.

He clinked glasses with his ghostly sax player. “To memory,” he said. “Good and bad.”

Then he took a sip.

Fifteen years ago, he’d been in love with Martina. They were kids, in their last semester of college, with the entire world at their fingertips. He’d been a chemistry major, she was a music major. The memory of how they crossed paths was now ragged at the edge for Seth, but he was certain it’d been a birthday party for a mutual friend. 

Seth and Martina were inseparable.

And then one day, she disappeared. No word, no trace, just gone. He cried for a month. 

And then he moved on. Seth took a lucrative job at a pharmaceutical company. He married. He divorced. He took other jobs.

One day five years ago, he heard a story about a haunting in the old West Avenue Bar, where he’d buy Martina drinks after her weekly saxophone performance. She was a martini girl. She’d wink, and say it was close enough to her name for government work. 

Apparently, the ghost of West Avenue played the saxophone late at night every Valentine’s Day.

The day he last saw Martina play her sax. The first, and last, time he ever made love to her.

When he heard the ghostly music, he knew right away what he needed to do. He bought the West Avenue Bar with his savings. Now he joked with his friends that he was still a chemist, just mixing different types of chemicals. 

And for five years, he listened to Martina’s music every Valentine’s Day. Over time, she played on other late nights, just for him when nobody else was around. This was his secret, one he never wanted to share with anybody.

But he made the bar a tourist attraction for Valentine’s Day, and made a lot of money every year. He paid Martina with a martini after the doors closed.

And without fail, she downed her drink. He never saw her drink, never even saw the glass lifted into the air. But the martini was always gone when he inevitable turned his head. Seth was happy to leave that a mystery. He was glad for her presence, even if she wasn’t physically with him.

Sometimes, he thought he missed her so badly, he was just making this all up. 

He downed the rest of his martini, and ate the olives. Seth kept staring at the damned mirror. Nobody appeared, he was alone in his bar. And nothing could bring back Martina.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

For the first time since he bought the bar, Seth didn’t cry when saxophone stopped playing. The hole in his heart felt just as massive. But there were no more tears. He wasn’t sure what that meant, if anything.

A breeze tickled his arm. Strange, given the door was closed. He brushed at his sleeve, thinking it was nothing. 

And then in the mirror, Martina’s glass lifted in the air as if some kind of cheap parlor trick. Must be an illusion. Had to be. But Seth dared not move his head to see for sure. He couldn’t. His eyes were transfixed to the mirror, watching the glass tip slightly as if an invisible person were sipping from it. And then the liquid disappeared. Slowly, the glass returned to the napkin.

Chills ran up and down his skin, as if something cold and slithery were crawling up his back. 

“Martina…” he said. He wanted it to be some elaborate prank, something the bouncer and waitress would pull on him. Had to be what it was. Martina was gone, and nothing could bring her back. Not even music. 

But she came back every year, and played for him. 

Somebody stood next to him. He felt the presence, a slight change in temperature, a warmth that wasn’t there before, and then a feminine sigh.

Seth turned his head. Then he turned his entire body, pivoting on the stool. He rubbed his eyes. She was sitting next to him.

Her legs were crossed. She was translucent. All the light in the room seemed filtered through her. The yellow dress hiked up her thighs, revealing smooth and tanned skin. Martina hunched over her now empty glass, playing with the olives on the toothpick the same way she used to do when flirting with him. 

Then she smiled.

Seth’s smile was automatic. Involuntary. The words he wanted to say, not so much. It was like his brain froze and was now on an endless loop. 

I miss you. Why did you leave me? I love you.

Gave new meaning to the tired phrase—looks like you’ve seen a ghost.

Now, Seth knew what that meant.

He desperately wanted to reach out and touch Martina. Just one last time. To feel the curve of her hips and breasts. To make her smile when he ran his fingers through her hair. To hold her close and kiss her.

But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Her body shimmered as if it weren’t entirely there. She moved like the old Martina he knew. She had the same twinkle in her eyes, and the same arch in her brow. The problem was, this wasn’t her.

Her physical body was gone. Whatever was in front of Seth, could never truly replace the real Martina.

She bit one of the olives and slowly pulled it off the toothpick. Another strange habit of hers, one Seth had long forgotten about.

“Martina,” he said, trying once again to find the words. “I thought of you every day.”

For fifteen years… Granted, after a few years, she was no longer the first thing he thought of in the morning. But he still thought of her.

She patted him on the leg, and squeezed his thigh. 

“I missed you too,” she said. 


Speechless did not begin to describe the way he felt. One thing to imagine seeing Martina again after all this time, quite another to actually have her in front of him. Seth had long fantasized about what he’d say to her, if given the chance. 

And now, despite the impossibility of it all, he had the chance. He just didn’t have the words.

“Martina…” he said. No other sounds came out of his mouth, no matter how much he moved his lips. He had difficulty breathing right. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands anymore. His mouth was dry. His skin itched in places he dared not scratch in front of her. Not now. 

She smiled, the same cute smile with dimples she’d give him right before a kiss, as if she were keeping the world’s best secret from him and couldn’t keep it in. 

Martina ate another olive. As she did so, something remarkable happened. 

She became less see-through, more solid. The light about her became softer, and Martina herself became more real, like looking through a lens that was slowly focusing. 

“I think of you every day, Seth,” she said. “But days don’t really mean the same thing to me anymore.”

“I never stopped thinking of you,” he said at last. 

“I know.” Martina patted him on the knee and scooted a bit closer. She was warm, her body heat—or whatever the ghost equivalent of a body was—seeped across the space between them. “It’s why you bought this old dump.”

“Actually, I saw a great business opportunity. You should see the ledger every year at Valentine’s.”

“Liar.” She winked and ate the last olive before tossing the stick into her glass. Her skin became darker, olive tan, like it was in life. She tossed her blond hair over one shoulder, the locks rustled and glistened in the dim bar light. He wanted to reach out, and touch her hair. 

“I never got over you,” Seth said. “I moved on, yes. But no matter who I was with, or what I did in life, I never truly let you go.”

“And maybe that’s why I appeared tonight,” she said.

“I hope you’re lying now.” He pushed his glass aside, not wanting the olives. He wanted coffee, or something dry to eat. The double martini did enough damage for one night. 

“Only as much as you were.” Martina tapped her fingers on the bar. She wiped away imaginary crumbs from the laminated top. “What does a girl need to do to get a dance around here?”

Seth laughed for what felt like the first time in too long. She laughed with him. Memories flooded back for Seth. The picnic when it rained, and Martina squealed in laughter and danced in the rain. The Halloween she dressed up as a jester and told horribly bad jokes all night. Valentine’s Day, beginning with afternoon coffee and ending with them tangled up and sweaty on a hotel room bed. 

He stood up and extended his hand out for her. She took it. Again, he was surprised at how warm she was. Weren’t ghosts cold? Not like they had blood. 

Martina hopped down off the barstool. Slow, sexy saxophone music started playing while he led her to the dance floor.

“Can you play while dancing?” he said. His cheeks blushed at the question, and he wasn’t sure why. Seemed a silly question. But then he was talking to a long dead woman. All questions he could think of were a bit silly. 

She let out a throaty laugh. The music didn’t stop. 

“Baby,” she said. “I’m a ghost. I can do many wondrous things.”

He brought her close to his body, feeling and memorizing every curve. Her breasts poked at him about stomach height, exactly the way he remembered. She gazed up at him through her long lashes. Seth pressed the small of her back. They slow danced to her music.

“Wondrous things?” Seth said. He felt the mischievous smirk on his face, and did nothing to stop it. 

Martina returned the smirk with her cute dimples. “I take it you’ve never done it with a ghost?”

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I think you’ll enjoy this.” Then she snapped her head away. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Seth kissed her on the lips. The kiss lingered longer than he planned, just the way every kiss with her went. A quick peck on the cheek, with Martina, could turn into a make-out session. 

“I would never pass you up,” he whispered.

“Good,” she whispered back. 

She leaned against him with her head resting on his shoulder, one hand still holding his, her other arm draped across his shoulder. The emptiness inside—something he’d forgotten was there—eased a bit, filling with her presence. It was enough. More than he ever dreamed of having again. And it would have to do. 

Seth could’ve dance all night, until dawn, if that’s what she wanted. He could afford to close the bar for a day tomorrow, while he rested off the wonderful night. 

The scent of her perfume drove him wild. The same perfume she wore so long ago. He honestly didn’t even know what it was called, if it was even still made. It smelled like fresh strawberries on a warm summer day. 

He wanted to cry, and to laugh at the same time. The tears rolled out anyway. He couldn’t fight them. But this wasn’t a sob, more like a cathartic cry, and one that felt really good. He massaged the small of her back. 

The dancing became more of a three-beat shuffle. He was just glad not to step on her toes. She never let him go. At the end of the song, Martina kissed his earlobe and continued shuffling with him for a few bittersweet moments. When she pulled away, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. 

He kissed at her tears, tasting the saltiness. “Don’t cry,” he said.

She smiled with her dimples again. “Only if you don’t either,” she said. 

“I’d ask your place or mine,” he said. Seth held her at arm’s length. “But your place doesn’t work at all.”

“Maybe some other time,” she winked. “I’d love to see your place.”

He nodded. “I’ll get my keys and jacket.” 

“Perhaps we can walk there?”

Martina’s expression was serious. A bit dour. Of course she didn’t want to be in a car, after dying in one. He didn’t blame her. 

“I’ll get my jacket then,” he said. He led her to the back office, and got his leather jacket down off the peg on the door. He wrapped it across her shoulders. Then he took her by the hand and locked up behind them.

The streets were quiet. All the lovers and drunkards had gone home for the night, to sleep off their adventures and get ready for another work day. Only the night owls were still up, and there were few of them driving by along the road. A chill wind blew. Loud music played from the college apartment building across the street. 

They walked hand in hand, silent the entire way. 

He brought her to the front door of his townhouse. His fingers shook as he unlocked the door. A deep breath calmed him a bit.

“It’s okay,” Martina slid her fingers across his shoulder. “If you don’t want to do this…”

“I want this more than anything,” he said. “Wanted it for more years than I care to admit to.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Not your fault,” he pushed the door open and invited her in. 

He closed and locked up behind them. She looked sweet and innocent, standing in his entry with her hands clasped in front of her and head slightly down. That was how he remembered her on that Valentine’s night in the hotel room, so very long ago. 

Back then, he’d started with a quick and inexperienced peck on the lips. 

Seth had learned a few more tricks since then.

He gripped her firmly by the elbows and pushed her up against the nearest wall. He held her there by the waist and, with one quick ravishing glance at her heaving bosom, kissed her violently on the mouth. Martina gasped. But she played along, her tongue dancing with his. She seemed less experienced than he wanted…

But she’d been dead for a long time. How could she have had any other experience beyond that one night?

He broke the kiss. She was panting and red in the face. They locked eyes. 

And then he lifted her into his arms. She squealed in delight, the way a young woman would do who had never been lifted in this way.

Seth was quite okay with that. This was going to be fun… 


The bedroom was dark, except for the nightlight in the corner behind the reading lamp. Barely enough for him to see by. He badly wanted to see Martina naked, especially if this were a one time deal. 

He tossed her on the queen sized bed. She bounced a few times, and spread her arms out wide, giggling. 

“Is it okay if I turn on the lamp,” he said. “I’d like to see you.”

She crinkled her brow and glanced away. She shrugged, non-committing.

This was something he never fully understood about Martina. She was completely uninhibited on the stage with the dresses she wore and how much skin she revealed to a bar full of drunk men. But in private, without the saxophone as a shield, she was a delicate flower. 

“Look,” Seth said. “You still look twenty-two. I’m the one who should be worried.” He did a drum roll on his stomach with both hands. “I’ve become an old man.”

Martina gave him a lop-sided smile. “You’re not old. And seems to me, you’ve been going to the gym.”

“When I’m motivated, let’s put it that way.”

Her crooked smile loosened up a bit. “Fine then, take off your shirt first.”

He did as she asked, and tossed his shirt to the floor. She sat upright on the bed, legs crossed in front of her, and played with her hair while admiring him. Seth hadn’t felt this sexy in a very long time. 

Much too long. 

“You’re right,” Martina said at last. “Let’s have some light.”

He turned on the reading lamp. And then he crawled onto the bed with her. He held her in his arms, towering over her. Martina scratched her fingers gently down his chest. She tentatively kissed one nipple. Only a gentle brushing of lips, no more, as if she were testing the waters before diving in. 

Seth cupped her face with both hands and brought her mouth to his. He felt himself growing beneath his jeans, the angle completely awkward. He wanted to free himself, or at least adjust himself in his jeans. But it seemed too soon. 

Martina made a fumbled attempt at his belt. That was all the permission he needed. He helped her unbuckle the belt, and then zip his jeans down. Then she became bolder too, and tugged at the waistband of his boxer briefs. The entire time, Seth massaged her shoulders, then down her chest. 

When he fondled her breasts, she sat up straighter and gasped. 

But he didn’t linger on her breasts. He held her by the upper arms and pushed her down on the bed. Martina went down obediently, and when he tapped her on the thigh she opened her legs for him.

Seth settled between her legs, kissing the insides of her thighs all the way to her black panties. He tugged at the lacy fabric, and she wiggled her butt to help him pull them down. She was just as he remembered—neatly trimmed patch of blond hair with thick lips. That first time, he’d been afraid and too inexperienced to give her much oral. 

This time, he gave her the gentle attention she deserved. He slowly kissed and fondled her labia. Then he opened her. He licked her clit. Pressed a finger inside. A little of both, some experimenting to find out what turned her on. When he curled his fingers inside her, Martina went wild with an orgasm. 

After a few more experiments, his bedroom thoroughly smelled of her. 

And then she asked him to lie on his back, and she tore off his underwear. Martina returned the favor as best she could. She clearly was no more experienced than she was at the tender age of twenty-two, but Seth didn’t mind. 

She had fewer inhibitions about sucking his cock, that was for sure.

Seth played her hair and told her how beautiful she was. Just like when he was younger, he had a hard time believing the angel with the saxophone was using those same lips she used to play music to suck him off. He put an arm under his head, and enjoyed the sensations of her wet tongue and teeth scraping gently down his shaft. Her soft moans made his all the hotter. 

She took a breath, gasping. Seth took the moment to push her away. Martina stared at him, confused for a moment until he unzipped her dress for her. She started to take off her high heels, and he told her to leave them on. He unclasped her bra with two fingers, a trick that made her laugh in amusement. 

And then she got onto her back. 

Seth shook his head, and then took one of the pillows and laid it at her hip level.

“Roll over,” he said. “I’ve thought about this for a long time.”

Another confused expression, but this time mixed with curiosity. Martina rolled over onto her stomach. He helped her settle with the pillow under her hips, so her lovely ass stuck up in the air. 

He smacked her once on the cheek, just a gentle love tap. Then he slid inside her, an inch at a time, and then closed her legs with his own. Seth rotated his hips, feeling the warm tightness of her tunnel with his cock. As he teased her like that, Martina became wet again. 

And then he lay down on top of her, trapping her under his body. He held her wrists to the bed, above her head. His mouth was next to her ear.

“You like this?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Martina said.

He bucked his hips, pushing balls deep into her. Her body heat warmed his chest unbearably. He could smell her sweat in her hair.

“You always were a dirty little whore,” he said.


Her voice was little more than a dry whimper, barely audible. Seth rocked her harder. The headboard rattled. 

“And I always loved you…” he whispered.

“Oh… baby… God, yes!”

She squirmed under him, as if trying to break away. He held her tighter for it. Every muscle in his body strained. Her pussy contracted around him, almost spitting him out. She screamed in pleasure, and then begged for more. He slowed his pace, only to quicken it again.

He felt his orgasm long before it hit. A build up of tension in his groin. A warmth that spread throughout his body. 

And then he came inside her.

He rolled off her, a sweaty mess, and tried to catch his breath. She rolled into his arms. Seth held her close, playing her hair and kissing her forehead.

That was the best sex he’d ever had. But there was something on his mind.

“What took you so long?” he said. “You know, to appear like this.”

Martina lifted her head. “This haunting business isn’t easy,” she said. “Took me that long to figure out I could do this.”

“Gotcha.” Seth closed his eyes for a bit. He didn’t want to ask the next question, but needed the answer anyway. “Is this a one time thing?”

Martina slid upright and sat on his stomach, her hands planted on his chest. Her expression was serious.

“Do you want this to be a regular thing?” she said.

“Yes, baby. But…”

She smiled sadly. “But you’re alive. And I’m not.”

“I don’t know if I can let you go,” he said.

She kissed him the forehead. 

“You can,” she said. “And I think you should.”

“For you, anything.”

“For yourself, mister.” Martina cupped his face in both hands. “But I’ll make a deal. I’ll continue playing the saxophone every Valentine’s Day. You pay me with the martini. And then we’ll see where the night goes from there.”

“Every year?”

“For as long as you want,” she said. 

“Deal,” said Seth. He smiled. “Goodbye, Martina.”

“Goodbye, Seth,” she said.

She smiled again, this time her cheeks rosy. Martina collapsed in his arms, and he held her for the rest of the night. 

In the morning, she was gone. But the bedsheets were rumpled and warm. The room smelled of wet pussy. 

And for the first morning in a very long time, the hole in Seth’s heart felt healed. 


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