Message-ID: <59912asstr$1265764206@assm.asstr.org>
From: Uther Pendragon <nogardneprethu@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} repost "Heart Ball" Part 10 -- Uther
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Date: Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:10:06 -0500
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law
to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do
something else.

This material is Copyright, 2001, 2003, Uther Pendragon.  All
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long
as this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous
permission.

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.


                           #  #  #  #
                           HEART BALL
                       by Uther Pendragon
                    nogardneprethu@gmail.com



Part 10:
Continued from Part 9


Steve skipped the committee meeting.  His attendance had been
well above average, and tonight was the night for shopping.

He should buy Shannon something small, something she could
smuggle into her house.  Still, another thought had been tickling
the back of his mind.  He would look, at least, at the nighties.

The store was warm after the street, and the women's section
felt still hotter.  He stood looking at a rack full of nighties
without any idea what they would look like on Shannon.

A lot of adults these days looked like kids to Gert.  Still,
workers didn't wear backpacks; this one was still in high school.
She took pity on the kid.  "Looking for something particular?"
she asked.

"A nightie," Steve said.  Suddenly, he felt twice as warm.

"For your wife?"

"My girl.  My girlfriend.  It's her birthday."

She didn't think he'd meant his daughter.  It was none of her
business, anyway.  Still, this looked like a nice kid; and her
conscience would hurt her if she sold him what would break up his
romance.  "Look, it's none of my business.  Still....  Think of
your girlfriend opening the present.  Her friends are looking on,
and she gets this from you.  She'll blush redder than you're
doing now.  Take it from me, it won't make her happy.  Wait until
you're married, and then give her a negligee in private."

"It's not like that."  Shannon wouldn't open it in public.
She wouldn't have a chance to.

"Okay."  She'd tried.  "What size is she?"

"About this tall."  When he kissed her forehead, the top of
her head would come about to his nose.  Well, he'd have to bend
down.  "Maybe this tall."

Gert had seen some of the oddest size-differences in exchanges
for women's clothes.  Hell!  Her husband used to give her size
eight clothes before he switched over to kitchen appliances.
Well, negligees didn't need to be close-fitting.  "What color?"

"White!"  Steve was sure about that.

That surprised Gert.  She moved over to another rack.  "Now,
this one is nice and warm."

"Warm isn't precisely what I was looking for."  This was
starting to look like a bad idea.

The boy was blushing even brighter.  White and sexy?  White
and sexy and sized to fit anybody.  "Now, this one is rather
sheer."  Intended for a bride's trousseau, actually.  And it was
priced accordingly.

Steve put his hand inside the nightie.  He could see it
clearly through one layer of cloth.  This is what he had wanted.
Picturing Shannon in this started him hardening.  They were at
the cash register before he even asked the price.  It was more
than he'd planned on.  By now, however, he was picturing Shannon
wearing it.

"Can you fold it into a smaller box?" he asked.  "Something
which would fit in my backpack?"  If she couldn't, he'd go buy
something else.  It really cost too much.

"It would wrinkle."

"Wouldn't the wrinkles come out?"

The customer is always right.  Gert folded the present which
would embarrass her customer's girlfriend into a package which
would fit into his backpack.  It was a nice sale with a nice
markup, but Gert had eighteen years in the store.  One of the
teen girls who worked the cash registers on the weekends could
have handled this one just as well.

Steve had it gift wrapped.  It cost a buck more, but he didn't
trust his own skills to compete with the packages that Shannon
had wrapped for him.  Even so, he had much less for his cash-
stash than he had hoped.  But, then, he told himself, he wasn't
taking Shannon to a dance tomorrow.

Walking home didn't take all that much longer than the bus
trip, since he went straight.  He left the backpack with its
secret contents in his room, then he joined his parents for
dinner.

                              - = -

Shannon had dropped the martyr pose, and Allison enjoyed the
easing of their relationship.  The only question which her
daughter asked about meal prep was intelligent, and she listened
to the answer.  Shannon even had a story to share during dinner
about school.  The kids were up in arms over a bad call during a
basketball game.

"And how is the actual school going?" Wayne ventured.  "You
know, classwork?"  Allison, who would never have pushed her luck
on the eighth day of Shannon's grounding, waited for the
explosion.  It didn't come.

"Ask me Monday.  The big thing right now is English, and the
test's Friday.  I mean, I'm working; but I won't see any results
till then."

Shannon cleared the table without a single grumble.  She was
putting the clean dishes away, dressed for bed, when the sports
came on.  "Mom, do you want me to go to the store with you
Saturday?" she asked when Allison came into the kitchen for her
snack.

"Why?"  It would take Shannon out of the house, but it was the
only chore they hadn't assigned to her.  This Shannon would speed
shopping; the Shannon of the last week was something she hadn't
cared to display in public.

"Well, I might not have a party this year, but I still need
some birthday cake to share with my friends at school.  I'll bake
it, which means a simple mix; nothing like what you've fixed the
last couple of years.  I figure that you wouldn't let me shop by
myself, but I could go through the line right behind you.  And
I'd help get stuff or push the cart the rest of the time."

"Shannon!"

"Mom, it isn't any extra time.  It's at school.  I'd talk with
them, anyway, or talk with Steve.  You can't object to my
spending less time with *Steve*."

"Shannon, you're grounded.  You have no social life.  Period.
We aren't celebrating your birthday this year.  *You* are
not celebrating your birthday this year.  Not at home, not at
school."

"But that was a party.  That was presents.  This is something
we've done for years.  Most of these girls, I've already eaten
*their* cake."  Shannon's face held a genuinely pleading
look.

Allison slowly shook her head.

Shannon broke out in tears and ran to her room.  Allison
finished putting the dishes away.  This hadn't been a ploy to
escape chores -- Shannon was truly broken up.

"What happened?" Wayne asked when she got back in the living
room.

"We are punishing our daughter.  I just punished her."

"You *spanked* her?"

"I told her that she couldn't share birthday cake with her
clique at school."

"I told her that last Wednesday," Wayne said.

Still, Allison thought, Shannon had cried harder at this
ruling than at anything they had done previously.  Maybe they
were getting through to her at last.

                              - = -

If teachers had the brains they were supposed to, Steve
thought, or even a little common sense, they would schedule tests
on Monday and let people study for them over the weekend.  Still,
he reviewed the play that night.  Maybe re-reviewed.  He felt he
knew this material -- either that or he was fooling himself
completely.

This would be the disk that Shannon had over the weekend, but
homework hadn't left much time to write.  He started a story of
Shannon in her nightie, but that would spoil the surprise.  He
saved it and read the letter before beginning another story.


 >> You really want to do it standing up don't you?
 >> We haven't even
 >> done it the regular way, and you are dreaming of doing it
 >> different ways.  Boys are weird, but I think you
 >> are weirder than most.

 >> Only a million?
 >> You used to send a billion.  I'm locked up for less
 >> than a week,  and your love has decreased 1/1000.


She didn't want special positions. He would remember that when
he wrote the fantasy.  But first, he should answer her letter.
And, if she wanted to play numbers games, he could start the
letter on that.


 > S he has Steve's
 > H eart all the time and his help
 > A ny time that she
 > N eeds it.
 > N onillions
 > O f kisses this
 > N night.
 >
 > Is *too* a word. 10**30.

 >>
 >> He thinks they might let me out for Saturday
 >> prepping the gym.  If they do, I'm not going to
 >> spend my time in the gym!!!  Where could we go?

 > That's a good question.  Dads missed a lot of
 > Saturdays this winter, but, of course, that's when I
 > wanted him home.  If he's not here, then you could
 > be.   At worst, we could borrow the Jeep.  But
 > that's really  worst.

 >> Gotcha!  Steve has a guilty conscience.
 >
 > Steve has an absolutely clean conscience.  Steve has
 > a suspicious sweetheart.

 >> I just don't know, Steve.  You're almost pushing
 >> again.  And it's sort of gross.
 >
 > Gross?
 > My mouth is gross?
 >
 > I know that isn't what you mean, but that is what
 > would be touching you.  Let me worry about what
 > grosses me.

 >> I don't think we'd fit quite like that.  You'd be
 >> at my shoulder or something.  Right now, I wish
 >> that we were trying it out, though.
 >
 > Well, we could experiment.  How we would fit?  Hmm?
 > I bet you were thinking about fitting different
 > parts than I'm thinking about fitting.
 >
 >> I love you.
 >>
 > And I love you.  I adore you.


He finished up with the story, again in a separate file:


 > It's an ordinary evening.  Work had been neither
 > exciting the day before nor a particular hassle for
 > either of them.  They'd watched TV for a while
 > before turning in.  He was already in bed when she
 > came in  wrapped in her towel.  She picked up her
 > nightie and then glanced at him.
 >
 > "You're just going to want to take it off me again,
 > aren't you?"
 >
 > "You could put it on afterwards."
 >
 > She tossed it towards the bed, but it caught the air
 > and floated down.  He reached over to grab it.  She
 > turned away to drape the towel over a chair, but he
 > got a side view.
 >
 > Although he had seen her most nights of the past
 > three years, that hadn't spoiled his appreciation of
 > her beauty.  On the contrary, he had been
 > overwhelmed by the main erotic zones during their
 > high school and college years.  Before their
 > marriage, he had never had time to appreciate all
 > the subtle details.  Now, he knew them well.  The
 > smoothness of her thighs as well as the curly hair
 > between them, the movement of her breasts as she
 > bent to drop the towel as well as their bold thrust
 > as she walked straight towards the bed.
 >
 > He threw back the top sheet to make room for her.
 > She lay on her side so that they could share a sweet
 > kiss before rolling over on her back.  He kissed her
 > face and torso before returning to her mouth.  When
 > that kiss turned passionate, he stroked her body.
 > Just as he could never get enough sight of her
 > beauty, he could never get enough of the feel of
 > her.  Holding her in his arms night after night
 > delighted him, but it came nowhere near saturating
 >  his desires.
 >
 > After a while, he tore his mouth away from hers and
 > kissed her breasts.  He licked and sucked at their
 > smoothness, but the nipples were too close to
 > resist.  While he was sucking that sweetness, his
 > hands were busy between her legs.  The warmth he
 > felt there, the smoothness, the welcoming moisture,
 > drove him crazy.  He wanted to kiss her everywhere,
 > but he had only one mouth.  He wanted to touch her
 > everywhere but he had only two hands.  He loved each
 > thing he was doing, but he couldn't stand delaying
 > the final act.
 >
 > Finally, she decided for him.  "Darling," she said.
 > He knew that she wanted him to enter her without
 > more delay.  He reached for the box on the night
 > table, he applied the condom, he paused between her
 > legs just outside her entrance.
 >
 > "I want you," he said.
 >
 > "I want you," she echoed, "now."
 >
 > He pressed slowly into her secret space.  He filled
 > her, and she surrounded him.  Fully enclosed,
 > pressed into her, he stopped to look into her eyes.
 > "I love you," he says.
 >
 > "I love you," she says.  But already they are
 > moving.  Their motion speeds up.  His thrusts become
 > more forceful, she meets them more fully.
 >
 > "Love," he gasps, unable to say more.  The next
 > moment they reach bliss together.  He spasms deep
 > within her, she spasms tightly around him.
 >
 > Slowly, they return to earth, his body stretched
 > above hers.  They relax in each others arms until
 > they are nearly asleep.  Then he withdraws,
 > carefully drawing the rubber with him.  He throws it
 > into the wastebasket.  She pulls herself into a
 > sitting position, and he helps her with her nightie.
 > She presses back against him as he covers them both
 > with the sheet.  It is a little warm for hugs, but
 > neither remembers another way of sleeping by now.
 >
 > Breathing the lovely smell of her hair, he murmurs,
 > "I love you."
 >
 > Held in his arms, she answers, "I love you, too."
 >
 > Each knowing that the other is telling the truth,
 > they fall asleep.
 >
 > The end


                              - = -

The soft buzz woke Shannon in the night.  Why the alarm and
not the radio?  Oh yes, she hadn't set anything.  She was
surprised that the alarm had gone off.

Oh no!  Mom was trying to poison her relationship with her
oldest friends.  Awake now, she got out to answer Steve's letter,
or -- at least -- write him one.


 > I'm not going to answer your letter now.
 > I'll do that later.  All that I can think of right
 > now is my birthday.

 > As you know, Dad told me I couldn't have a party.
 > No birthday gifts for Shannon this year.  But,
 > however angry that makes me, that is something that
 > they're denying *me*.  Nobody can complain that they
 > weren't invited to my party because there wasn't any
 > party at all.
 >
 > This bringing the birthday cake to school is an old
 > habit.  We started in sixth grade.  The girls who
 > didn't make the first lunch period the first year
 > dropped out.  We were almost evenly split our
 > sophomore year, and we made two groups.
 >
 > Anyway, we have done this forever.  And we *never*
 > miss.  Now I've broken the chain.  We're all going
 > away, I'll never see them again, and all they'll
 > remember of me is that I broke the chain the last
 > year.
 >
 > I love you.  Your something special in my life.  But
 > they are something special, too.  It's different.
 > I'm feeling more and more that you'll be part of my
 > future, and -- no surprise -- they won't.  But we
 > haven't been going together for a year.  They are
 > part of my past.  They are my past, except for my
 > family.
 >
 > Maybe that's why Mom's jealous.  They're a past which
 > I want to  keep.  She's a past which I can't wait to
 > to  dump.
 >
 > Anyway, thanks for the letter.  Thanks for the
 > story.  But all I can think about right now is my
 > friends, and how Mom is trying to break me apart
 > from them.


                              - = -

Steve hadn't taken the gift-wrapped box out of his backpack.
Obviously it couldn't take the crushing he was used to giving the
pack.  He carried the pack in his lap on the bus.

He waited for Shannon by her locker with the backpack open and
in his hand.

"Oh Steve!" she said.  How had he known that she needed his
comfort?

"Watch out!"  She looked like she were heading for his arms.
That was great; that was where she belonged.  But not in school.

She stopped herself short of him.  He moved aside, and she
opened her locker.  "Mom hates me!"

This wasn't news.  But it sounded like something new.  "What
has she done now?"

"She won't let me have a birthday cake to take to school
Monday.  We've shared cakes on the days after our birthdays.
Always.  Now I'm the one who can't do it."

"That sucks."  And it did, but it wasn't what he would call a
surprise.  "Look," it was already too late for him to get to home
room on time. "We'll talk at lunch.  And happy birthday from me,
at least."  He handed her the box and left her there.

Shannon was able to get her attention back on Shakespeare's
tragedy from her own long enough to take the test.  The essay
question was "'Romeo and Juliet' was meant to entertain, but
great authors do more.  What single message do you believe
Shakespeare intended to communicate in this play?"

She was tempted to write "Families suck."  But the play was
really about Juliet's first love, her one love.  Shannon had
thought about this long enough that her problem was keeping the
answer short.

Steve's answer to the essay question focused on the feuding.

At lunch, Shannon told her friends that she couldn't bring a
cake on Monday.  This time, she was quite willing to sit with
Steve, hut all her talk was on the injustice of her mom's ruling
and how this had ruined her whole time in high school.  "Junior
high, too.  Our group has been together since *grade*
school."

Steve was, as he had told her, on her side on anything -- much
less her parents' punishment for time she had spent with him.
Still, this was much more venting than she had spent on being
denied a party where Steve and these same girls would have been
present.  Also, he had expected some reaction to his gift.

"Can you fit the box I gave you into your backpack?" he asked.

"I think so."

"And they aren't going to poke inside to find it."

"They haven't done that yet," Shannon said.  "I know where to
hide it in my room."

"And no peeking until Sunday."

"I won't."  She wasn't all that tempted.  She had resigned
herself to having no presents this year.  It was the 'no parties'
which hurt.

"Do you think you did all right on the exam?" Steve asked.

"Okay.  It sure didn't help that I spent the night crying over
Mom's new cruelty.  I was tempted to answer the essay question
with some comment on how families mistreat their daughters.
You?"

"I think it was all about feuding.  After all, the end of the
play focused on that; it didn't bring the lovers back to life.
And the same goes for the problems.  Romeo would have been
banished if he hadn't fallen in love, or hadn't fallen in love
with Juliet.  They died because the Montagues were feuding with
the Capulets....

"And because they fell in love, and Shakespeare can't have
meant that they shouldn't have fallen in love."

"Oh Steve!"  She had *told* him all about Juliet's pure
love, her only love.  He hadn't listened at all.  Well, it was
done now.  "I meant how did you do on the test?  Aside from the
essay question."

"Pretty well, I think.  And, if I did, you deserve all the
credit."

Then it was time to trade disks and leave for their next
classes.

Snow was already falling outside.  The number of kids
who actually attended committee meetings had dwindled, anyway.
Steve was able to get a table all by himself.  "Don't want
company?" Ken asked when he came by.

"Want yours.  What's this about Shannon's parents letting her
out of the house on Saturday?"

"We left it up in the air.  I'm not going to ask for another
week.  You still on with Hauksbee?"

"Sure," Steve answered.  "I traded *this* Sunday for next
Saturday, I couldn't get out this late if I wanted."

"If Shannon can't get off, would you come help in the gym?  I
won't cheat you; I'll try my damndest to get permission from her
mother."

"Why, Ken!  You think she won't come decorate the gym."

"I," said Ken, "think she'll be too busy decorating the
Steve."

When Steve got home, his mom had beaten him by only a few
minutes.  "Dinner's in three quarters of an hour," she said.
"Don't bother to shovel; it's still coming down.  TV says we'll
get better than a foot."

"TV guy doesn't shovel.  From where I stand, we'll get worse
than a foot."  Actually, he was glad for the snow for once.
"I'll bet that you'll want me to shovel the walk after dinner."

"You'll have a good, long, time.  I can't start the brownies
until dinner's done."

"And there might be another snow storm later this year."  It
was the second of February.  They were due three or four serious
storms before spring.  "And you might want the walk shoveled
tonight, and tomorrow morning, and for the next storm as well."

"What do you want?  I've already offered brownies."

"And that's what I want.  But not when I want them.  I want
the entire tray of brownies, cut -- cut small for that matter --
but not one piece removed.  I want them baked Sunday night for me
to take to school Monday morning.  For that you get the walk
shoveled for this storm and for the next one, too."

Rachel Anderson was hardly the chockaholic that her son was.
Still, the cook was entitled to her share; and she had planned to
save a few pieces for Roger.  Steve wouldn't really get much more
than half the tray, usually.  Also, shoveling the walk was
Steve's *responsibility*; brownies were a reward, not a
negotiable salary.  But, if Steve wanted to negotiate, two could
play that game.

"Next three storms?  This and the two after it."

Steve hadn't thought of that possibility, but Shannon wanted
something to share with her buddies.  "Done."  And he went up to
his room to read Shannon's letter.

Which was all about her birthday.  This ruling had knocked
Shannon for a loop.


 >> I love you.  Your something special in my life.

 >> But they are something special, too.  It's
 >> different.  I'm feeling more and more that you'll
 >> be part of my future, and -- no surprise -- they
 >> won't.  But we haven't been going together for a
 >> year.  They are part of my past.  They are my past,
 >> except for my family.


He just hoped that the brownies would be accepted.  He loved
them, but Shannon's friends were persnickety.

After dinner, the snow kept falling.  He shoveled the entire
width of the walk, then a path through the little bit which had
fallen since.  He set his alarm an hour earlier than usual.

Then he sat down for his letter to Shannon.


 > What your parents did to you sucks.
 > I hope I made it a little better.  There's not much
 > more that I can say about that.

 > You've said that you like my stories.  I've been
 > thinking about one for our wedding night.  I can get
 > the veil off and kiss you.  After that, I don't know
 > anything.  All those dresses look two-piece, but
 > they aren't; are they?  I mean, even if they are of
 > different cloth and all, they are sewed together
 > aren't they?

 > And what do you wear under them?  A slip?  Then bra
 > and panties and pantyhose?  Anything special?  I
 > keep hearing about a garter.

 > When there is a choice, you don't have to make it
 > now.  These are fantasies.  Just tell me something.
 > I'll use it for the story now.

 > Maybe I'll write another fantasy later, if you have
 > another choice.  Or even if you don't.


For his story, since he didn't have the answers to any
of those questions, he dealt with their second night.  She
wouldn't see the fantasy before she'd seen the birthday nightie.

                              - = -

Between the crises at home and the major exam in English,
Shannon had been neglecting her other subjects.  Friday night,
after the dishes, she corrected that.

She didn't read Steve's note until she woke up in the middle
of the night.  This schedule had its problems.  Athletic socks
and fuzzy slippers or no, her legs got cold sitting at the
computer when the thermostat was set for night.

Steve's header, what she thought of as his 'poem,' was cute.
He couldn't help much, but he had tried.  She briefly wondered
what he had got her for her birthday.  Her friends *said*
they were on her side, but Steve was the only one who had
smuggled her a gift.  And she was perfectly willing to believe
him about "nonillions."

Did she want to go to Steve's house?  So many things could go
wrong.  It was better than parking the Jeep somewhere.  Damn!
She wanted Steve's kisses; she knew from experience she would
want more when she got those; but she also wanted to be in
control.  But she couldn't take a babysitting job, and Steve sure
couldn't come here.

Would Steve want more?  He'd always been such a good boy,
despite her complaints about pushing.  He did take 'no' for an
answer.  And did she still want to say 'no'?  She'd been a good
girl, too; and it had got her grounded forever.  If she'd snuck
around instead of telling the clients, she'd be having a party
tomorrow and taking a cake to school Monday.

Still, the white wedding had been *her* dream; it hadn't
come from her mother the way the dream of Albion had.

Steve went on and *on* about kissing her down there.  All
the novels made that sound so exciting too.  Well, at least that
solved the problem of the white wedding.  Sex was another step
after that kiss.  And she could still wear white.  But the novels
seemed to suggest that that step took seconds.

Still, the historical stories, at least, took only a few
minutes between the first kiss on the mouth and the first sex.
She knew that didn't apply to her case.  She made a decision.  If
she had to give in, she would give in about the kiss.  Although
she didn't have to give in yet.

Still, it was cold.  She would have to thank him for the
birthday present, anyway; and she had two more days to write that
letter.  She took the history book back to bed.  Curled up under
the blankets, still wearing the socks if not the slippers, she
finally got warm.
                              - = -

Steve shoveled the walk again before Saturday's breakfast.
His mother drove him and the shovel to Hauksbee's.  He had half
the walk outside the drugstore shoveled when Hauksbee got there.

"Why Steve, thanks," he said.

"Do you want me to continue?" Steve could picture the old man
letting him shovel the rest and then chewing him out for getting
inside the store late.

The druggist wasn't sure that Steve had done him as much of a
favor as he had intended.  The law held him responsible for the
state of a shoveled walk, but not for the state of an unshoveled
one.  On the other hand, the people in the town would like it
better, and they were customers.  Anyway, he was probably liable
for the state of the walk now.  And, of course, he was insured.
"Please."

Steve finished shoveling but spent more time mopping the floor
that morning than behind the cash register as customers tracked
more snow in.

He left the shovel in his mother's car behind the dentist's
office before walking home.  He rewrote his story for Shannon,
and then did his homework for the next week.  When his mother got
home, he shoveled the walk once again.  They killed the evening
watching TV.
                              - = -

When Shannon got up in the middle of the night, it was -- of
course -- already her birthday.  Since she only would get one
birthday present this year, she should wait to open it until
later.  On the other hand, she was *tired* of being a good
girl.  She opened the box.

It was a negligee, a sexy negligee.  Well, she could hardly
expect Steve to buy her a sexless one.  But should he be buying
her nightwear at all?  At least her parents wouldn't see it.

And it *did* make her feel sexy.  It made her look sexy,
too, when she modeled it for the mirror.  The cloth was nearly
transparent.  She could clearly see the shape of her breasts.
She could see the nipples stick out, too; it was *cold* in
the room.  After spinning once to see the negligee stand out far
from her, she shivered and put the much warmer nightie back on
before climbing into bed.  Not only had the gift been sheer, but
it had an opening down the front, closed by dozens of tiny
buttons.  She couldn't quite see why; it was large enough that
she had donned it without even attempting to open them.

Then she *could* see why, and shivered again.  The
negligee was designed to be opened by a husband.  A lover?  No,
she thought, a husband.  Those buttons gave him access to all of
his wife, but  slow access -- teasing access.

The gift was much sexier than she had thought.  She wondered
whether Steve had seen all of that.  Probably!  Sexiness was one
thing which Steve saw much more quickly than she did.  Soon she
crawled out of the warm bed to the cold computer.  It was time to
write Steve.   First, she thaked him for his gift.  Let him stew
over whether she saw it as sexy as he did.  Then she grinned.
She hadn't felt like a good girl wearing it, and she didn't want
to feel like a good girl ever again.    She got out his last
letter.  Then she dug out his previous letter and story to
answer. The story would make her feel like a bad girl fastest.


 > Thanks for your lovely gift.
 > You do know that this is the only gift that I'm
 > likely to get this year.

 > Brosna??
 > Where did you get that name?

 > And you seem to dictate all of the woman's feelings,
 > too.

 >> He loves the feel of her secret
 >> parts, and she loves what his fingers do there.
 >>
 >> When she can't resist that excitement any more, she
 >> slides back down his body.

 > Isn't that convenient?

 > I'm not at all sure that toddlers should see their
 > parents entwined in the aftermath of sex.  Steve,
 > you have a dirty mind!

 >> S he has Steve's
 >> H eart all the time and his help
 >> A ny time that she
 >> N eeds it.
 >> N onillions
 >> O f kisses this
 >> N night.
 >>
 >> Is *too* a word. 10**30.

 > Nonillions of kisses back to you.

 >> Gross?
 >> My mouth is gross?
 >>
 >> I know that isn't what you mean, but that is what
 >> would be touching you.  Let me worry about what grosses me.

 > I liked your most recent story.


She wrote.  What she liked about it, she couldn't quite
express.

Anyway, it was better than being caught by Brosna.  Where had
he come up with that name?

No reason to admit that the word, nonillions,  was new to her.
And, if he had made it up -- the word wasn't in her dictionary,
she'd checked that -- then she was just accepting a word he'd
made up.

She still wasn't sure that she liked the idea of visiting his
house, his room?  Still, making out in the Jeep was a much worse
choice.  Where else could they go?

And he was still pushing on the kisses.  But the novels kept
making them seem nice.  Nice? they made it sound delightful.  And
it wasn't -- despite the novels -- something a nice girl would
do.  Shannon wasn't a nice girl any more, and something which was
both evil and felt delightful might be just what she needed.  She
would read his ideas; whether she would let him do them was
another question.  Anyway, he was talking about after marriage.

And, in the latest story, he didn't even mention them.  Would
they be like that as a couple?  Would he still think that she was
sexy after getting totally used to her?

She saved her stuff and hid the disk in her pack.  Then she
returned to the warmth of her bed.  There, she didn't retell the
story to herself.  Instead she pictured -- again and again -- the
negligee as it had looked in the mirror.

                              - = -

Shannon didn't set any alarm for the morning, but her parents
were able to get her up for church anyway.

She was ready before her mom was, even if she had dragged her
feet all morning.  "Too bad you took so long," she whispered to
her mom under the prelude -- but so several people could hear.

Mrs. Browning stopped her as she was going out after service.
"Come stand by me for the coffee hour, twin." she asked.  She and
Shannon had the same birthday, although their birth years were
seventy-two years apart.  The church would celebrate all the
February birthdays today, and Mrs. Browning's 90th would almost
certainly get a special mention.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Browning," she said sweetly.  "My parents
aren't allowing me any birthday celebration this year."  Then she
hurried out.

She was cold by the time her parents found her by the car.

"Why didn't you come to coffee hour?" Dad asked.  "We had to
hurry out to look for you after the singing.

"I couldn't go to the singing," she said.  "They would have
sung to me, and you two won't allow me to celebrate my birthday.

"We didn't say anything about church," Dad said.

"My friends can't celebrate my birthday, but you'll make an
exception for *your* friends?"

The drive home was remarkably quiet after that.

                              - = -

Steve managed to shovel the walk clean before breakfast.  When
he and his mother got home from church, there wasn't enough new
snow to require another full shoveling.  He did clean up the
patches of blown snow while his mom fixed lunch.

"Well," she said when they had started in on that meal, "if
it's not coming down any more, that means your father might get
home tonight."

He went to his room after lunch.  Before starting his
homework, he began to rewrite his last letter to Shannon.  The
fantasy was all about taking that nightie off her on their second
night of marriage.

Still, he worried more about the first night.  Shannon was
going to give him some help on the clothes, but he could use some
help on the activities.  He snuck into Mallory's room to get some
of her bodice rippers.  The books often fell open to the sexiest
scenes.  Somehow, that didn't surprise him.

The descriptions of the first times varied a good deal.  But
they seemed to have pain for the girl more often than not.

What if Shannon were sore, he suddenly thought, after their
first time?  The second wouldn't be as much fun as he was
painting in the story he had written.  What if she expected to be
sore?  She, after all, had had more sex ed than the heroines of
Mallory's books.  Maybe he should rewrite the story to ask her
that question.

Still, it wasn't a topic he wanted to bring up.  "This might
hurt you, but *I*'ll really enjoy it."  That didn't sound
quite like the tone he wanted to take right now.  Inspired, he
rewrote the story.

He would keep "It was the second night of their honeymoon.
Steve waited in their bedroom as Shannon showered.  When she came
out in  the sexy nightie, it took his  breath away."

The details of their time in bed, he copied over to a file he
could read any time.  He still thought it was sexy, but he erased
most of the fantasy.  Then he changed "sexy" to "delicate" and
"it" to "she."


 > It was the second night of their honeymoon.  Steve
 > waited in their bedroom as Shannon showered.  When
 > she came out in the delicate nightie, she took his
 > breath away.

 > Her hair was falling free down her back, the long
 > glory of it calling for his fingers.  Her face was
 > fresh-scrubbed, its delicate blush calling for his
 > kisses.
 >
 > The nightgown clung to the beautiful shape of her
 > body.  Through the sheer cloth, he could see the
 > curves of her breasts flow free.   The material
 > clung to her slender waist.
 >
 > After the first two kisses on her forehead, she
 > looked up to meet his mouth with hers.  They pressed
 > tongues together as his hands went around her.  He
 > brushed the smooth cloth against her supple back.
 > Then he combed her luscious hair with his fingers
 > again and again.
 >
 > Finally, he gripped her firm hips and pulled her
 > against him.  He could feel her lithe length press
 > against his body.  When they finally had to breathe,
 > he kissed her cheeks.  Then he kissed down to her
 > neck.
 >
 > She started towards the bed.
 >
 > "Not yet," he said.  "Let me look at you."
 >
 > The folds of the night dress clung to her shape.  He
 > could detect her narrow waist and her supple arms.
 > But his attention was drawn to her hips.  He could
 > just see each of her separate shapely thighs and the
 > space between them through the sheerness of the
 > cloth.
 >
 > She whirled around.  The nightie was buttoned up to
 > her neck, but revealed the shape of her breasts
 > moving free underneath it.  There were two lines of
 > red hearts from the skirt to the neckline.  And,
 > outside of those lines, two nipples pressed the
 > cloth outward.
 >
 > He looked up at her flushed face.  She stared at him
 > as he was staring at her.  He had to kiss her then.
 > Having tasted her sweet mouth and slicked the dress
 > along her sleek back again, he stood back for
 > another look.
 >
 > He looked at her lovely face, remembering the kisses
 > and anticipating more.  He looked at her breasts and
 > the nipples which seemed to be reaching for him.  He
 > looked at her mound, just visible through the cloth.
 > The hair there was every bit as beautiful as the
 > hair on her head.  "Maybe more beautiful," he
 > thought.  "Anybody can see her head, this hair is
 > private -- hidden from everyone but me."
 >
 > As if she could read his mind, she blushed under
 > this examination.  She turned suddenly and got into
 > bed.  He followed her in, compensated by a hug for
 > his loss of the sight of all that beauty.


He left it at that.  Some of that reading was rubbing off.
Would they have sex on their second night?  He hoped so, but not
if she was still in pain.  What he needed to tell her, however,
was that she was beautiful.  He certainly should *not*
mention the possibility of pain.

And, of course, Shannon was beautiful.  He liked looking at
her.  He certainly liked touching her more, but he already knew
that she preferred his mentioning the beauty.

                              - = -

Supper was a remarkably silent meal for Shannon and her
parents.  Shannon pictured the negligee again.  That was one
thing that they didn't know.  "What are you thinking, dear?" her
mom asked.

Shannon realized she had been smiling.  "I was thinking how
there are only seven months until September," She said.  "After
then, I'll never have to live in this house again."  They didn't
know about the negligee.  They wanted to control her every
action, but there were so many things they didn't know.

"We'll be sorry to see you go," her dad said, "but happy that
you are growing up."  Shannon couldn't believe her ears.  He
thought that they would be happy about her growing up.  At least,
he thought she would believe that they would.  They treated her
like a little child, and both of them clearly wanted her to stay
that way forever.

Wayne thought that his statement was overly optimistic.  He
and Allison looked forward to Shannon's growing up.  But she had
been acting like a preschooler lately.  Would going off to school
suddenly provide her with maturity?  Well, it was an opportunity,
and an unavoidable one.  What Shannon would make of it was
another matter.

                              - = -

Steve's dad had called that he was on his way.  Steve had the
table all set, and his mom was waiting dinner when they heard the
Cherokee in the driveway.  Over dinner, they dealt with reports
of what each had done in the past week.

Would the house be free for Shannon on Saturday?  Steve
couldn't ask it in quite those words; he didn't want his dad to
feel unwanted, and he certainly didn't want to explain why he was
unwanted.  "How about next weekend?" he asked.  "Do you think
that you'll be able to get back then?

Roger didn't want to guarantee what he couldn't deliver.
"Well, that depends on the weather and the state of the roads.
Why?"

Steve had an answer ready for that question.  "You know that
we're decorating the gym for the big Valentine's dance.  Ken is
sure to need transport for people and material."  Doing a favor
for Ken would always get the approval of his parents.  "I thought
if you were going to be back I could borrow the Jeep."  And if
Dad were back, he would probably need to borrow the Jeep.
"Well," Roger said, "I can't promise what the weather will be
like.  But I will promise that I'll make every effort to get back
Friday night.  I've spent more than enough time in motels this
winter."

Oh great!  Dad didn't have to make the effort for Steve's
sake.  But, the comment about motels gave him another idea.
Steve wondered how much a motel would cost, and whether he could
get Shannon to go to a motel with him.  It sounded a lot worse
than visiting his house, even than visiting his room.  On the
other hand, they would have privacy there.  Now how could he
convince Shannon that he wasn't asking her to go all the way?

Mostly, he worked on his homework after dinner.  He did reopen
the disk holding his letter, though.


 > By the way,
 > This isn't what you think, but one place we might go
 > to get some privacy is one of the motels out on the
 > interstate.  Think about it, OK?


Roger and Rachel were both aware that Steve could come out of
his room at any time.  Still, they had been apart a long time.
Rachel sat beside Roger on the sofa in front of the TV set.
Every once in a while she pushed his hand off her leg.
"We'llhear him if he walks down the hall," he whispered.  She
went into the kitchen to make two batches of brownies.

She brought in one for Roger as soon as the pans were done.
At least, juggling the hot brownie kept both of his hands busy.
"Mmmm," he said when it was finally cool enough to swallow, "but
this is going to bring a chaperone out of his room."

"Nope," she said.  "I made two pans, one for him.  And he
wants that pan untouched for the morning."  Soon, they took their
pan into the bedroom with them.

Conscious of the thin walls, neither dared speak a word, much
less reach for the wand.

Roger teased and teased.  He sucked Rachel's nipples while
stroking his nails over any skin which caught his fancy.

At the edge of an explosive orgasm, Rachel pulled a pillow
over her face.

At that point, Roger abandoned her breasts.  After putting a
brownie between his lips, he drew his fingertips over her thighs
lightly.  When one bite had been savored, he withdrew a hand to
push the brownie deeper in his mouth.  Then he stroked her lower
lips with his thumb.

Rachel could stand it no longer.  "Roger, please!" she said.

"Oh!  You want a brownie, too."  He put another in his mouth
and leaned his face over hers.  When she tried to correct him,
the brownie entered her mouth.

She shoved his shoulder hard.  He tumbled over in the bed.
Sweeping the covers off his groin, she straddled him.  "Damn
you," she mumbled around the brownie.  Then she fitted herself to
him.

"Oh!  That's what I want."  He filled her with his hardness.

One of his hands played across her nipples.  The other one
stroked her where he knew she needed it.

"Just there!" she said.  She rubbed the most sensitive part of
her against him.  "Just ...."  Then the fire took her away.

Roger could feel her convulse around him.  He couldn't have
prevented his own explosion from matching hers.  He didn't try.
He raised his hips off the sheet despite her weight.  He pulsed.
Then he collapsed.  He heard the bed groan, and almost matched it
with one of his own.  Then she lay on him.

Some time afterwards, she moved off to lie beside him.  She
adjusted the sheet and blanket.  Roger was still lying flat on
his back, breathing like a steam locomotive.  "You okay?" she
asked.

He nodded weakly.  She tucked herself against his side and
began to drop off.  Getting to sleep was so much easier when he
was home.  Still, she hoped Steve hadn't heard any of that.

                              - = -

"She's still fighting," Wayne said to Allison while he
stripped.  Shannon had been in her room for hours, now.

"You sound like you admire her."

"Well ... in a way.  What she did was sneaky and childish.
Some of her recent tactics are equally childish.  'If Shannon's
friends can't celebrate her birthday, neither can her parents'
friends.'  On the other hand, she hasn't given up yet."

"And she gets that stubbornness from you."

"You're not exactly a string of cooked spaghetti yourself.
And, really, we've raised her to stick to her own standards.
What we really meant, of course, is that she should stick to
*our* standards.  Well, she didn't and isn't, but she seems
to be sticking to her own.  And she is about to go away next
year."

"Where she won't have any influence from us.  She really made
that clear this evening."

"Where she will have no standards to reject but her fellow
students'.  If she remains as stubborn as she is now, she's safer
in college than we might fear."  He got into her bed beside her.

"You look at the bright side of everything.  Do you want to
end her punishment?"

"No.  She still isn't giving us any chance to accept her
remorse.  Well, enough of her for one night."

"You only say that because it's Sunday night."

"I only say that because I think we've exhausted the subject.
Do you have anything else to add?"

Allison reached over to caress his face.  "Not really."

He leaned to kiss her.  Remembering that she was still in
parent mode, he spent a long time on the facial kisses.  Slowly,
she relaxed.  He licked her lips, and then slipped his tongue
between them.  He wasn't sure she was ready when she sat up, but
that was one hell a subject for a fight -- this was one hell of a
time for one, for that matter.  He helped her remove the
nightgown.

He kissed her breasts and stroked between her thighs.  When he
reached her center, she wasn't quite dry.  He had found her much
wetter on other occasions, though.  He stroked there, hoping to
increase her excitement.  Very soon, however, she reached over
and grasped his erection.  As it firmed in her hand, she tickled
the shaft.  He couldn't take more of this.

He rolled away to put on the condom.   "Are you sure?" he
asked.

"Unless you want to go back to your own bed.  It's Sunday
night, after all."

He climbed between her legs.  The lubrication that had come
with the condom was enough to get him in.  Soon, he was stroking
faster and faster.  He could tell that she was nowhere near her
climax when he reached his.  He gasped and lay on her for a
moment.

Then he rolled off towards the side.  He thought of saying
something, but then thought better of it.

After a few minutes, he said, "I do love you."  He got out and
went to his own bed.  There he removed the condom and put it in
the wastebasket.

Without saying a word, Allison rolled over in her bed so she
was turned away from him.

A little later, they both went to sleep.

Shannon awoke easily to the radio.  She was eighteen
years and one day old.  The next day, she wouldn't have any cake
to share with her friends.  She'd gotten a little revenge today,
but that hardly compensated.  She reread the history assignment,
since she'd done all her homework.  Now that her parents had
destroyed her business and social life, there was much more time
for school assignments.

Then she got out of bed to reread Steve's letter.  Her answer
seemed okay.  What if she could visit him at home?  How far would
she let him go?  She got back in to the warmth of her bed to
ponder these questions.  Steve had really been her only ally.
And look where being a good girl and fending him off had gotten
her.

On the other hand, it was her body.  She had a right to say
when.  To be fair to Steve, on the other hand, he seemed to
accept those rules.  And he had gotten her the only birthday gift
she had received this year.  Well, he deserved a smooch for that;
he didn't deserve a fuck for that.  Fending him off had two sides
to it.  Her parents had come down on her like a ton of bricks
despite the fending off, and Steve had supported her despite the
fending off.

She wouldn't pretend that Steve was happy with the present
situation -- the situation before she got caught.  But he had
seemed, still seemed, satisfied with it.  For that matter, Steve
was being entirely supportive when all their making out was cut
off.

Were these really his fantasies?  Did he really dream of being
*married* to her?  Well, he might dream of fucking her.  To
be a little more honest, he dreamed of making love to her.
Still, he dreamed of making love to her after they were married.
At least he told her only those dreams.

She turned off her lamp and stretched out under the covers.
Where could they go?  She certainly didn't want to work on the
gym.  It was still far from certain that she could even get out
that morning.  Where could they go to get a little privacy if she
could?

His house, maybe.  That would put him in control of things as
he had never been on their dates.  Her mom couldn't see how much
control she had kept.  Still, would his being in control be so
bad?  Maybe she wanted him in control.  Maybe he would push
farther, and she wouldn't have to give any permission at all.
Still, on dates you could walk home.  She had.  If you had told
your mom that you were decorating the gym, you couldn't walk
home.  And walking from his house was a *lot* of walking.

Still, she thought as she drifted off, either they went all
the way or they didn't spend Saturday together.

                              - = -

Shannon turned in beside Steve on their way to English.
"Brosna?" she asked.  "Where did you get the name Brosna?"

"In the atlas," he said.  Or was it in the gazetteer?  He
could never tell those two books apart, and the one in his house
was bound with the other.  Anyway, that was old news.  "Would
your friends consider brownies instead of birthday cake?"

"Huh?""

They turned in the classroom as he was thinking of another way
to ask the question.  He put his pack on his desk and unzipped
the top.  "Here," he said.  He handed her the tray of brownies.

The bell rang before they could say anything else.  They both
looked guiltily towards Mrs. Foster, but she didn't direct any
attention towards them.

When she passed back the tests, however, neither Steve's nor
Shannon's was among them.  "Steve," Mrs. Foster asked, "did you
study the play with Shannon?"

"Not for the test," he answered.  Mrs. Foster hadn't said that
they shouldn't.

"But before?"

"Yes ma'm.  You didn't say we weren't allowed."  Really,
Shannon had helped him a lot more than he had helped Shannon, but
he couldn't tell who was in the wrong on that one.

"And what was the theme of the play?  What did you write about
for your essay question?"

"The feud.  The Montagues and the Capulets feuded, and it was
a tragedy because of that."

"Shannon," Mrs. Foster continued, "what did you say was the
theme of the play?"

"Juliet's love.  She had never been in love before; she had
never even thought that she was in love.  Then she fell for
Romeo, and everything was different.  Her whole world changed."

"All right!"  Mrs. Foster said.  "I keep despairing about what
is going to happen to my students when you get into college
courses.  You ask about studying together, and I dodge the
question.  Well, Steve and Shannon studied together, but each of
them thought for himself about the play.  That's all I wanted to
see on the essay question, whether you had thought about the
play.  Those two had.  They both got excellent grades on the
test.  Each of them made mistakes on the essay question, but
their marks for content were perfect."

"Anyway ...."  She handed them their papers before going over
every question.

Shannon sat down with her friends for lunch.  "Who would
like a little dessert?" she asked.

The brownies were a big hit.  After all, nobody, least of all
Shannon, expected that she would be able to provide anything.

Steve was sitting with his friends when the girls passed by.
"Steve," Diane said, "if you ever set up to give boyfriend
lessons, Jeff will take them.  Won't you Jeff?"

"What did I do?" asked Jeff.

"Who gives a ...?" asked another boy at the table.  "The
question is 'what did Steve do?'"    Shannon gave the tray -- now
sadly depleted -- back to Steve.  He took one of the remaining
pieces.  If he'd shared the tray among that many *boys*, he
thought, there wouldn't have been a crumb left.

"What Steve did," Shannon said, "was think about making things
better for me."

Steve explained the situation a little more thoroughly.

                              - = -

Shannon got a library pass from study hall later.  She
looked up "Brosna" in an atlas.  The map was a map of Ireland,
and Brosna was a river.  She was confused at first until she saw
that it ran into the Shannon River.  "Cute," she thought.  "Not
real smart, but cute."

She had a whole period in the library, and nothing to do
except homework.  She finally looked over the fiction section.
She checked out one book which looked like it would be hot.

"I looked up 'Brosna' in the atlas," she told Steve
after school let out.  "Cute."

"Well, I couldn't choose a real name without consulting you,
now could I?"

Then the Jeep honked for him, and he had to leave.

                              - = -

Steve had a little shoveling to do when he got home from work.
Then he read Shannon's letter.

She liked his gift, and his story.  She was puzzled by the
girl's name, but he had known that already.

He got through his homework, and then started on another
letter.  This long pause between asking the questions and getting
the answers could be a drag.  Still, the story was more
important.


 > They had been married for more than a year,
 > And it was cold in their house.

 > Nevertheless, he lay under the blankets in his bare
 > skin.  "Brrr," she said as she joined him.
 >
 > "Lie close," he said, "It will warm you up."
 >
 > As she snuggled up against him, he pushed her hair
 > towards the top of her head with his hand.  He
 > kissed the back of her neck.
 >
 > "Your face is cold," she said.  She shivered against
 > him.
 >
 > His hand stroked up her warm nightie until it
 > reached her breast.
 >
 > Soon, he slipped his hand under the her nightie.
 > For a bit, he played with her breasts while his arm
 > lay against her skin.  Then he drew his hand lower.

 > "I love your hair down here, he said.  When she
 > turned on her back, his hand kept stroking her while
 > he kissed her mouth.
 >
 > She suddenly struggled to sit up in the bed and
 > remove the nightie.


He took them through the sex to a mutual orgasm.

House?  Would they be able to afford a house?  Maybe it would
be a stuffy apartment.  He decided to keep it a house.  These
were fantasies, after all.

                              - = -

Shannon thought that Steve's story was hotter than the book.
Still, she had weeks to read the book and not much else she could
do.

She didn't even try to reply to his letter until she had the
house to herself.


   Thanks

   Thanks for the letter and the story.  But especially
   thanks for the brownies.  I know I have ONE person
   on my side, anyway.   Thanks for the birthday
   present, as well.

  > I hope I made it a little better.
   You did.

  > You've said that you like my stories.  I've been
  > thinking about one for our wedding night.  I can
  > get the veil off and kiss you.  After that, I don't
  > know anything.  All those dresses look two-piece,
  > but they aren't; are they?  I mean, even if they
  > are of different cloth and all, they are sewed
  > together  aren't they?

  > And what do you wear under them?  A slip?  Then bra
  > and panties and pantyhose?  Anything special?  I
  > keep hearing about a garter.

  > When there is a choice, you don't have to make it
  > now.  These are fantasies.  Just tell me something.
  > I'll use it for the story now.

   Girls don't wear their wedding dresses on their
   honeymoons.  Haven't you ever been to a reception?
   I know you have, I've seen you there.  The bride
   changes into traveling clothes before heading off
   with the groom.

   Anyway, yes.  The wedding dress is one thing.  After
   that, how should I know?  I suppose a slip.  I know
   panties and a bra.  I think it's traditional to wear
   stockings and garters.   Tradition says that the
   bride wears something old, something new, something
   borrowed, and something blue.  I guess that the
   panties would do fine for something blue.  Probably
   the rest of the clothes would be white.

  > Maybe I'll write another fantasy later, if you have
  > another choice.  Or even if you don't.

   I like your fantasies.  And they don't have to be
   all about wedding nights.  I don't mind your
   *fantasizing* about me being a bad girl.

  > By the way,
  > This isn't what you think, but one place we might
  > go to get some privacy is one of the motels out on
  > the interstate.  Think about it, OK?


   I'll think about it.  I've been wondering where we
   could get some privacy.

  > It was the second night of their honeymoon.  Steve

   I liked your story.
   I love you.

   I liked more than your story, actually.  I like that
   you take all this trouble to keep in contact while
   we can't talk.  I like that you thought so hard
   about my birthday.  The present was so pretty.  The
   brownies were, if anything, even better.


He thought her beautiful.  Well, he wrote about her being
beautiful.  Anyway, it was a nice fantasy.  And he was a nice
guy.

That didn't mean that she should go to a motel with him.

A motel was worse than his house.  In his house, she could
stick to the living room or the kitchen.  A motel room was a
bedroom.  In his house, you had to worry about his parents coming
home or somebody knocking at the door.  A motel room was a locked
bedroom.  She could just imagine making out on some rented bed.
Real danger.  On the other hand, she *could* imagine making
out on a rented bed.  She could remember how nice he had made her
feel.

The present was pretty.  It was also sexy and expensive.  Mom had
been wrong; Steve wasn't limited by what she had bought him.
That's what came of listening to Mom.  Still she couldn't believe
herself.  For the brownies, much less the present, she owed Steve
a smacking kiss.  She didn't owe Steve her body.  Yet she was
thinking about meeting him in his house for hours with nobody
else around; she was thinking about going to a motel room with
him.

On the other hand, she'd been a good girl for years and years;
she'd been Steve's girlfriend for one of those years.  When push
came to shove, being a good girl hadn't done her any good; being
Steve's girlfriend had paid off.  So she'd go to the motel where
good girls would *never* go.  Because that was the only
place where she could be his girlfriend in the privacy they
needed.  (Assuming, of course, that his father would be home; if
it was available, Steve's house looked better and better).

Not that she was going to tell Steve that she wasn't going to
wear white on her wedding day.  Still, she would go to the motel
room with him.  They would kiss and make out on the rented bed.
If he didn't push, that would be that.  If he did push, she'd
decide then.  Steve wasn't pushy, wasn't demanding.  Still he had
been pushy in the past, had been pushy about the kisses just
recently.

And, of course, saying she would set the limits when he had
her all excited was a mistake.  Not really a mistake, she
decided.  It meant that her feelings mattered.  Good girls didn't
act like that, but Shannon was *finished* being a good girl.

And, since she was finished being a good girl, and there was
so little opportunity to be bad in the middle of the night in the
middle of the winter, she went back to bed and imagined the motel
room.  Since she didn't know what it would look like, she
imagined Steve in this bed.  She stroked herself as Steve would
stroke her, as she wanted Steve to stroke her.  It had jumped so
in Mrs. Green's bathroom.  Would it jump inside her?

And on that question, she came.  Some time afterwards, she
turned off the lamp and turned over on her side.  This time,
waking up in the middle of the night had been worthwhile.



Continued in Part 11
Heart Ball
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
2001/01/18
2003/02/10
2010/02/09

All my available stories:
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