“You’re not getting any younger you know, Nick.” My know-all older sister’s weekly ‘sermon’ about my health and mobility was bang on cue. “Can you still make it to the corner shop?” “Only on my electric mobility aid.” “So how d’you go on for groceries?” “I either get them delivered or Pi brings them in on Tuesdays.” “Who or what is Pi?” “My Thai carer.” “Male or female?” “Female. And quite a looker.” “I see. And how old –...

“Got anything planned for today?” my mother enquired as she brought me my morning tea. “I expect I’ll go down to the skate board park later with some of the lads.” “Be an angel and drop our edge trimmer round to Marion’s, would you sweetie? She rang earlier and wants to tidy up her lawn.” “Sure.” Marion was Mum’s oldest friend. They went back to college days. Now she was married to Albert, a rotund, cigar-smoking bore who...

I had been told that you can often meet interesting people on adult education literary courses. The seeds of my son-in-law’s divorce were sown at an Open University Summer School. But that’s another story. After an extensive trawl of the net, I’d found a week-long course on short story writing. The good news was that there were still vacancies and that it was located on the gloriously scenic Gower Peninsular. The bad news...

It was the Roman poet Horace who first coined the phrase ‘Carpe Diem’ (‘grasp the day’ or ‘grasp the moment’) Ursula Harrows was a creature of habit. She had been ever since the days when she was Head Girl at St Trinian’s Convent (her nickname was ‘Spanker’). She’d kept her husband Philip on a tight rein all their married life, ensuring that her every need – including a month-long winter break in the Caribbean with her si...

Shy divorcee Mark Sutton, was still licking his wounds after his acrimonious divorce. The court settlement had been crippling, but the subsequent bill from his so-called lawyers was even worse. As his job as a low-grade London banker hung in the balance, he’d applied for voluntary redundancy. Mark decided to take himself off for a solo holiday far away from miserable Covid-wracked Britain. With any luck, when he got back,...

Canon Chasuble’s record wasn’t too hard to equal, but fucking Colette’s bottom was going to be in a different league altogether. My sex education at college had been just about zilch: frotting in the communal showers with other boys after games, the pictures and stories to be found in ‘top shelf’ porn magazines and brief glimpses of Sylvia Krystel’s perfectly-formed titties in darkened art house cinemas. So, for innocent...

The term ‘reserved occupation’ was used by many European countries in WWII to categorise certain trades and skills which exempted people from being conscripted for military service. In Britain, farming was one such skill; and as a farmer, my Uncle Ned (not a real uncle) was able to continue with his arable farming. He had recently taken a new bride: half his age and strikingly beautiful. Colette was a French refugee and t...

We had been blessed with a week of warm weather since I gave 20-year-old Clare her last driving lesson – the Saturday that she’d given me a memorable blow job in the front seat of my car. Seated behind the wheel, she asked with undisguised eagerness: “Back to the woods?” “Errrm – let’s go a bit further afield, shall we? You really need to put in some more miles with your test only a fortnight away, young lady.” Atop her b...

My ex had been nagging me for some time to join a social dating club. “Not an online group of saddo serial shaggers, but somewhere where you might possibly meet the next Mrs Bottomley” was how she curtly put it. So I duly enrolled with Cupid’s Bow. It wasn’t cheap. After an uncomfortable face-to-face interview with a middle-aged woman who looked like a retired traffic warden, I was admitted to the group’s exclusive member...

I had been giving my wife's niece Clare driving lessons for almost a month, usually going out in my car on Saturday afternoons. She’d initially signed up with a local driving school, but got rattled and lost confidence after her instructor shouted at her one time. I decided we should go back to Square one and start all over again. Twenty-year-old Clare is a very attractive drama student, who wants to get into TV. For our...

I was tucked away quietly in a window seat at the back of the train carriage, headed for a break on the Welsh Gower coast. I was reading a raunchy story in a lads’ magazine, folded inside a copy of a daily newspaper. I was also massaging my cock to a nice state of semi-hardness, idly contemplating whether to go to the toilet or finish in my boxers. A shadow fell across the table. I looked up to see an attractive blonde wo...

Let’s face it – we’ve all done it: played the old nostalgia game of recalling idyllic sexual moments with ex-lovers (sometimes re-living them as aids to our solo masturbation). Unless, of course, you’re one of the 0.0001% who wedded your high school sweetheart and has been happily married for the last half-century. If not, read on. Stella The Redhead and I had a whirlwind romance back in the 1980s, both bitter and bruised...

His text, confirming the time, date and location for our meeting, concluded: Please wear a suit. I’ll be in a single-breasted dark blue suit. My reply read: See you on Friday at noon as arranged. I’ll be wearing a grey double-breasted pin-stripe suit. I wondered if I’d arranged a sexual ‘meet’ with a clothes faddist. Our only contact had been via an adult chat site. We’d ascertained that we lived within fifty miles of eac...

I had resigned myself to a solitary Christmas – something I’d become accustomed to since Lauren and I split up three years ago. A well-stocked wine cellar and a fridge- freezer packed with Ready Meals would see me through to the New Year. But her email changed all my plans. Expect an express courier delivery circa 12 noon today. Make sure you’re in to receive it as its perishable goods - for your exclusive enjoyment over...

Swindon, Wiltshire, UK. Alex Trimmer (real name: Alexi Trimouk) contemplated the sparse contents of his small kitchen and lit another cigarette. A flimsy net curtain fluttered in the window. Alex was – in the parlance of Cold War thriller writers – one of the spies who came in from the cold, trading a sinecure in the Russian Embassy in Sydney for a poky little terraced worker’s cottage in the once-great railway town of Sw...