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From: Emay Uto <early6@yahoo.com>
Subject: {early6}"A Fox in Sheep's Clothing"( mf hs teen rom )[1/1]
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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.)


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