Message-ID: <12580eli$9806291301@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/12580.txt> From: Emay Uto <early6@yahoo.com> Subject: {early6}"A Fox in Sheep's Clothing"( mf hs teen rom )[1/1] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <19980628194813.15494.rocketmail@send1b.yahoomail.com> Subject: {early6}"A Fox in Sheep's Clothing" ( mf hs teen rom )[1/1] Group: alt.sex.stories.moderated "A Fox in Sheep's Clothing", as told by early6 <early6@yahoo.Really.No.Spam.com> (Free for noncommercial distribution and archiving. You may not sell this story, however.) This is about a girl I met in high school. We sat a row apart, so we hardly spoke the first month. She seemed friendly enough to the people she sat around, but she really was a quiet person, often spending the few minutes before classes began looking through her notebook. She usually dressed conservatively, coming to school clad in jeans and T-shirts or a blouse with a small black woolen vest. But the way she would slide her hand slowly between her legs during class hinted at another side, dark and sensuous. I was looking at her once when suddenly our eyes connected, exchanging curious and friendly looks. We began saying "Hi!" to each other every time we met. Sometimes when we met in the crowded hallways she would bump me a certain way, or tickle me, and soon it became a thing for us to find new ways of shocking each other. Always, though, we would at least smile at each other. Once I was on line at the cafeteria, when I felt a rustling on the back of my thighs. I turned around, and she faced me with a devilish grin. Her blouse was open quite a bit more than was proper in this school, and I couldn't resist looking down that soft valley between her breasts for a moment. Then I caught myself and gave her a sheepish, guilty look. "Don't worry," she whispered. "It's okay to look." As I turned away, she gave my butt a quick, firm squeeze. I would have to get her back for that! She sat with her friends for lunch, and I sat with mine. Neither of us wanted to risk being known as a "couple". Another time I had fallen asleep on one of the desks at the school library during study hall. I'd spent much of the night before finishing a creative writing piece, and really needed those extra Z's. I still remember having this dream about lying on the fresh spring grass in Golden Gate Park, under the cool shade of trees. She was there too, in a tight, functional, yet revealing bathing suit, her smooth golden brown thighs straddling my waist, gently stroking my forearms. Then she moved to my shoulders, my neck. Ahh..., she is a master masseuse! She rubbed and folded and kneaded at the tension until it all melted away. Gentle fingertips ran along my chest and back as soft and cool as drops of rain. Her long dark hair brushed my face with a rosemary sweetness. Then a tug at my waist. I felt my jeans being unbuttoned. A gentle touching of my thighs. Another tugging at my waist. I grew harder and harder inside. The pressure intensified. More and more, I felt I had to go to the bathroom. . . I woke up to a door slamming. I was long and hard inside my bulging jeans, which to my relief were still buttoned. The library was dark and empty. I checked my watch. Study hall was over an hour ago! Still a bit confused, I ran out to catch Mr. Levenson's presentation of the German Reunification in AP European History, limping a bit to avoid announcing my stiff member to the world. I stopped at the boy's room to relieve myself. Something was amiss. I don't recall ever wearing my zipper down so low. . . The next day, I had it figured out, maybe. I approached her right after Precalc, and asked her how she liked her job at the library. "Oh, it's so-so. It gets service points for Honor Society, you know." A smile. "The only part I really hate about it is having to kick everyone out at closing time. Such a pain." A naughty, knowing grin faded as quicked as it formed. Then very matter-of-factly, "I have to go now. I'm late for Shop. You know how old Mr. Kurtis is when you're late." And she was gone. Later that day, while I was going to my locker, I met her coming down the stairs. "I have study hall," she said. We stopped on the same step to face one another. "I'm done for the day," I answered. Silence. I continued: "You got a few minutes? I think we should talk." "Sure. . . what's up?" My eyes glowed. I looked her up and down, tracing her curves. Her wonderfully tight blue jeans showed puffs of faded denim frayed at the seams. There were little tears here and there, some inexpertly stitched back together with blue thread that didn't quite match the aging cloth. Whitened patches in the dye worn away by sun and time, remnants of paint, dirt, grass, and bleach conspired to betray an overly active life. Noticing my attention, her right hand reached for the worn flap that covered her fly, folding it over to reveal four glinting buttons that kept her modesty. Her fingers ran across them slowly, up and down, down and up. A curious smile. A sudden pop of the taut denim cloth was the only sign of her deed, as her hand moved away and the flap returned to proper. Everything looked as before, except, as I locked my drifting eyes on the face of her jeans, I could imagine that of the four glinting buttons that held her fly together, one had become undone, forming a hidden slit through which, after a moment of thought, encouraged by her welcome eyes, my fingertips entered, found the inviting slit, and found themselves swirling across the smooth silken fabric of her underwear. She could tell this was my first time with a woman, that I knew very few specifics about the places on a woman's body, for with a smiling glance, the fingers of her right hand resting loosely on her hip gestured downward, inviting my fingers further down to a spot where the skin seemed wrinkled and folded underneath her smooth underwear, and her sly smile lit up into a soft giggle. She glanced around a bit, and saw and heard no one around. Suddenly, before I could react, she pulled open my jeans zipper and grabbed me inside. I jumped, but managed to resist pulling away. Her deep, expert strokes sent me into a swooning paradise of rushing sensation. A rage of butterflies heaved in and out of my stomach as my glands fired pure energy into my veins. I had to tighten my grip on the banister to keep myself from losing balance and falling down the stairs. Breathing had become deep and difficult through my adrenaline-hardened chest. She saw my surprise and started laughing. I countered with a hard rubbing of her special sweet spot. Suddenly turning rigid, her hand shot right out of my jeans and grabbed my arm, pulling me away. "Not so hard! Not so fast!" she teased, that wry smile slowly returning. We started stroking again, this time more gently. We were playing a song together. My strokes would ask questions which hers would answer, back and forth we went. A tightness swept through my torso, my groin delighting in agony of the fluid tension mounting within. I took deep breaths. I was about to explode. But not quite. Her artful strokes slowed and let up. Lightly, she squeezed my penis, and there I was, held in heaven. With her other hand, she rubbed me lightly across my chest, putting the subtle roughness of the cotton fabric of my T-shirt to good use, keeping the rush alive. Then her hands entered my hip pockets, and her nails ran up and down the insides of my pockets, right against skin of my thighs. I felt my skin crawl and squirm with pleasure at the unexpected touch. "I'm a pick-pocket, you know. I distract men with my charms while I relieve them of their wallets," she said teasingly as she lifed my wallet and keys out of my pockets. Dazed by hormones, I knew not how to react, but I was quickly relieved as she put it all back, but into my back pockets. "Just making a little room," she whispered reassuringly. "Well," I countered, only half-jokingly, "what man would mind having his pockets picked by a fox like you!" "Mmmmm. . . " she moaned. Using my pockets as mittens, she stroked me again. By now my briefs were all wet. Her touch was tantalizing -- always too gentle, too slow before I could explode, but wild enough to keep me coming back to almost the point of no return. I was both frustrated and ecstatic, angry at being toyed with yet awed at her skill as an artist of sexual energy. "I know what you are!" I said, accusingly. "You're a witch! A man manipulator!" "Mmmm. . . well if I'm a witch, then you must be a warlock, 'coz I'm falling for you too, you know." My fingers came out of her jeans to find her breasts, nipples hard and long. I grabbed one, kneading it like dough. She winced, and I lessened the vigor. As we played each other's pleasures, our bodies sang silent songs, two tidal waves barely contained, straining at the brim. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening. Quick running footsteps towards us from the floor below. With the sleight-of-hand of a magician, she pulled out my loosely tucked T-shirt and let it fall over my open zipper, saving my dignity. My hands moved away from her. The guy running past us up the stairs thankfully paid us no attention as my wily companion asked, quite casually, "So how did you do on that last history test?" "All right," I answered, "how about you?" "Come on, I know you aced it. I aced it too. You don't have to hide that from me. Am I some sort of airhead?" An accusing look. Then laughter. And in a mock Irish-accent, "We're serious hardworking folks, we are, but we know how to have a little fun now and then, don't we?" At that point, I just had to give her a hug. But to give a hug is to receive one, and she shaped it into the lasting hug of friendship, not the ephemeral caress of a high-school fling that I was assuming. My libido quickly dissolved as I pondered the words "just friends" that I thought would soon issue from her mouth. Was she disappointed? But a gentle stroke of my inner thigh left things not so clear once again. Maybe friendship and romance were not so clean-cut in her mind? Then I pointed to the open button on her fly, which she seemed to have forgotten. "It's ok," she said, "it's barely noticeable." A pause. "Except of course to a very special friend. . ." She winked. My heart skipped. I moved back a safe distance, and said: "Let's meet again sometime." She only smiled, and we went our separate ways, for now. ========= Please email with your thoughts. early6@yahoo.Really.No.Spam.com (Remove the despammer in the address, or the mail won't reach me.) -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>