Message-ID: <14808eli$9808281715@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/14808.txt> From: apuleius@poboxes.com (Apuleius of Madaura) Subject: RP: Scene from the Cabin by TropicCool (mf teen rom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: apuleius@poboxes.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit 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: <35ed6aee.3934691@news.labyrinth.net.au> Reposter's Note: I am not the author of this story. - Apuleius ------------------------ Scene From the Cabin By TropicCool There are experiences that have no age, even when the people in them are children and one of them is you. The image remains with you just below the conscious level, and nothing that's happened to you since in any stage of love seems to equal it. A summer rain in the dry San Garbiels causes a lot of excitement. The dusty pine needles drain off into powdery earth, and there is the expectant feeling of a very special event; even the smell is special. I am in a cabin in those mountains when the rains come, and I am thirteen and in love with my cousin of fourteen. Of course the family is there with us, and we are visiting. While the rain falls, sentimental songs play on the ancient phonograph. The words are as foolish as the mannered voices singing them, but the word love occurs frequently, and it has recently become a powerful word to me. So I gaze dreamily away while everyone else is laughing at the quaintness of the music, and they tease me about it. I long for older times when thirteen-year-old girls were thought marriageable women and could be dead in childbirth at fifteen. That short, intense life could be richer than dreams of roses, but I'm expected to live a long time and not to discover my sexual self for many more years... maybe when I'm twenty-one it's supposed to happen... and at thirteen that seems like another century. In the stormy evening when our families go off to bed one by one, leaving us to lantern light and the fire burning down to glowing ashes, our eyes want to meet and detonate the charged air. But we are both suddenly afraid of something, so we agree without words to dance. His fingers at my waist feel like misplaced coals, and when the phonograph winds slowly to a stop, neither of us moves to restart it. The rushing of the rain water down the dry gullies outside is now very loud. All the earth's messages seem to tell us to come together, and our eyes finally engage in that long-deferred glance. But there are stirrings of late-night activity from our family, and we are reminded that the planet is not solely our own. A spark has fallen on the Navajo rug, and I rush to put it out while he restores function to the phonograph. The electric moment is gone. We make hot chocolate and discuss the meteorology of the rainstorm. After all, he is a science prodigy, and rain cannot be regarded as merely romantic. The phenomena of nature occupy much of our daily discussions and contemplations, believing fervently as we do that everything man can perceive in the cosmos will someday be understood. When we are both sleepy, we part at his bedroom door, and our goodnight kiss is as soft and sensual as it is brief. When I awake alone and lost at 3 A.M., I know something cataclysmic is happening. There is a dense blackness and silence in my room, but I'm sure some loud noise awoke me. Then I feel the earth buzzing and humming through the planks of the floor, up through the old iron bedframe and into my very bones. There is am immense crackling sound and a sizzle of the most intense light I've ever dreamed of: every object in the room has its halo. Instantly, a roar of sound shocks my bed and floor and room and roof. Outside, crashing reverberations roll up and down the mountainside and out into the valley, echoes reinforcing echoes. I am terrified and fascinated and leap out of bed to witness this judgment day, padding barefoot to the window. As I stand there in my child's flannel pajamas, which have somehow crossed over into my adolescent wardrobe unnoticed, I am suddenly aware of someone behind me. I'm prepared for a ghostly presence on this night, but it is a familiar voice that whispers: "Lightening may have struck the cabin... there was no time lapse before the thunder." His arms come around me, and his dear warm body snuggles against my shivering frame. There is a long wait for the consequences of either the lightening or the illicit embrace, but nothing happens. "Let's get into bed... you're cold," he whispers. Without another thought the icy bedsheets are breeched, and we lie shivering together in the tangle of old wool blankets and tied feather pillows. Once only we look toward the door... it is firmly closed and bolted, and no further thought of intrusion crosses our minds through the rainy night. Out total embrace of arms and legs, cheeks and temples, hands and hair, begins immediately. The comfort of our mutual presence is overwhelming. My seizure of shivering stops, and a sweet warmth begins to spread. The outer storm still crashes, but it is less threatening now, moving slowly along the mountain range and out into the valley. Our lips touch and draw apart. "You know we will not do the corrupting things," he says. We know, because we have discussed it long and philosophically: love is the universe and its suns; lust is the dark side of the planets. We are not sure how the drenching desire we both feel fits into the cosmos, but we know it must have a place this side of corruption. We trust completely and that trust cannot be betrayed. As the hours pass, we lie entwined, shifting slightly for comfort, pajamas unbuttoned so the warm flesh of each embraces its counterpart. There is drowsing and waking and drowsing again. Lips brush and cling in infinite kisses. Tongues flicker over eyelids and earlobes and touch tongues. Toes caress toes. Knees and arm joints work past each other to meet at smooth places. Hands cup and fondle. His arousal brings my fingertips to stroke and release. His fingers run the rapids of my warm caves and hollows, lingering while I lapse into sleep. We awake to resume the caress interrupted by sleep. When dawn lightens in gentle shades, the storm is only a faint echo in the far distance, and our own world is dripping, quiet, and serene. For a long time I watch his dear face sleeping, then he is disentangled and gone. Now I sink into the sound sleep I have not had all night, and it takes the whole family surging in my door at ten 0'clock to awaken me. Only one question is asked: "How could you sleep through that incredible storm?" And "Ahhh, to be so young!" from my aunt. Later I learned that we had experienced a landmark summer storm in those mountains, one which became local history of fallen trees, crushed cabins, and washed-out roads. But in my personal history the image remains one of embraced bodies, a depth of closeness in our intertwined forms, the absolute trust and visceral intensity of our happiness together. Nothing, nothing has been like that summer storm at thirteen. -- +----------------' 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>