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Subject: RP: Bedsheets    MF, slight bond
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(Note: I am not the author, only the archivist.

The author's name has come detached from this story.  If you are the
author, please contact me.  I like to see writers get the credit for
their work.

The following story contains themes of explicit sex.  If you're not old
enough to be here, you're not old enough to read it.  Scram.)

==========================================================================

BEDSHEETS


She opens the door to his bedroom and flounces in.  He is quite 
surprised; she is wearing a short, pleated gray skirt, a white blouse 
under a dark-blue, almost black blazer, with red and purple piping 
along the shoulders; her blonde hair is tucked up underneath a cap 
of the same material, with an elaborate pentagram-like badge on 
the front; her slim legs are clothed in calf-length white socks and 
shiny black patent-leather shoes, with large silver buckles.
 
She bends over, putting her school-bag behind the door; the skirt 
is so short that it rides up, revealing the smooth curves of her 
behind, barely covered by a skimpy pair of white cotton 
underpants.

She straightens again, giving him an impish smile which makes his 
heart-beat waver.  Gods below, he thinks, she doesn't look more 
than fourteen years old.  He notes that she wears no makeup, 
which makes her look even younger.  She stands there for a 
moment, grinning, and then rushes into his embrace, taking his 
hands in hers and placing them around her waist, pressing them 
down to rest on her behind.  Once assured that his hold will remain 
there, she slips a hand underneath and inside his wind-breaker, 
stroking his chest, fingers entwining themselves in the crinkly hair, 
tweaking a nipple between thumb and index finger.  He hugs her 
close, teasing the soft, wayward tufts of hair that poke out from 
underneath the cap, eyes closed in the agony of wanting her but 
not daring to show it.

She insinuates her other hand down his back and underneath the 
waist-band of his jeans, her little finger nestling in the hollow just 
above the cleft of his buttocks; she throws her head back to meet 
the kiss that he finally dares to offer.  Although she is smaller and 
younger than he, she takes the initiative; boldly thrusting her 
tongue against his, pressing him backwards.  His knees buckle and 
he falls back into a sitting position on the bed, where she can 
attack him from an approximation of an equal stance.

He is silent; she sighs, moans and breathes deeply through her 
nostrils, forcing her lips against his painfully as she senses him 
starting to retreat from her.  As he falls back onto the bed - his only 
avenue of escape - she climbs up onto the bed, sitting astride him, 
drawing his wind-breaker up, locking her arms around his neck and 
pressing herself against his naked chest, still writhing in the 
passion of their kiss.  He tries to turn away, deeply self-conscious 
about their difference in age; she gives a small cry of 
disappointment.  His expression softens from alarm to resignation; 
seeing this, she smiles with relief, playing the part of a child who 
has not learned to deal with rejection.  He grasps her shoulders, 
turns her over onto her back gently, fixing her in position with the 
softest of kisses.  Each regards the other fondly; she makes a 
subtle gesture, no more that the particular movement of an 
eyebrow, and he knows which game she wants to play.  He gives 
her a questioning look, raising his own eyebrow; she smiles shyly 
and nods.  He cannot bring himself to deny her now.

She lies back, arms outspread, as he deftly undoes her blouse 
buttons with his teeth; she, giggling when, in frustration, he tears 
the last one off.  He touches his tongue to the sensitive tip of each 
budding breast in turn; evoking drawn-out moans of pleasure as he 
caresses the soft skin that lies between.  His fingers work at the 
three buttons that hold closed the waist-band of her skirt, freeing 
them and running his hands over her smooth stomach.  His hands 
momentarily cup the curves of her behind, lifting her so that he can 
pull the skirt down, playfully digging his index fingers into her 
quivering thigh-muscles, making her gasp.  As his hands draw the 
pleated cloth down towards her knees, he follows it with his mouth 
and tongue, teasing its wetness over the bump of her hip, rubbing 
his slightly stubbled jaw down her thigh with a tickling feeling.  She 
giggles, and then arches her back as he moves down her legs, 
massaging the bulge of her calves, planting a dainty kiss on both 
kneecaps, slowly levering off first one shoe, then the other.  She 
wiggles her toes, freed from the confinement of the unyielding 
patent-leather; he hooks his index fingers under the ribbed end of 
one sock, and slowly works it down her leg, tweaking her toes as 
he grasps the end, drawing it off and kissing the arch of her foot.  
She exhales raggedly, surprised at the intensity of the sensations 
that his attention invokes.  He smiles when he hears a gasp as she 
draws breath, and removes her other sock, brushing his lips over 
her ankle, applying a gentle suction, smiling again when he senses 
her reaction; he circles her ankle with his tongue, firmly holding her 
foot when she tries to draw it from his grasp. He observes the 
dampness of her crotch; she is feverishly massaging her aroused 
nipples, pressing the palms of her hands flat against her small 
breasts and slowly rubbing them in a circular pattern.

He matches this motion with his tongue, sweeping over the 
twitching tendons that ridge the top of her foot, and she is unable 
to stifle the moan of pleasure which this synchronized stimulation 
elicits.

He judges that she has, for the moment, been brought to the 
proper level, and, with a final parting kiss, he relinquishes her feet, 
allowing her to draw her legs up.  She moves to take off her 
panties; he grabs her hands and slowly but insistently forces them 
up over her head.  She grins at him, pokes her tongue out; he 
presses his lips against hers hungrily, and her grin dissolves in 
their second passionate kiss.

After a few minutes, he has brought her to a state of heated, 
surging expectation; distributing kisses and careful bites up and 
down her throat, occasionally stopping off at either of her breasts 
for similar treatment, all the while holding her hands helplessly 
over her head.  She begins to lose the strength to struggle with 
him, and instead concentrates on rubbing her crotch against his 
thigh, an insistent motion which he obviates by sliding up to sit 
over her stomach, holding her down on the bed with her slim waist 
firmly grasped between his thighs, but when he is sitting up that 
far, their mouths cannot touch; a situation which they both rapidly 
lose interest in.  He releases her and indicates that she should 
remove her blouse and panties.  She does so, her small breasts 
bouncing as she shrugs out of the soft white top, which she drops 
to the floor next to her skirt, blazer, cap, shoes and socks; shortly 
joined by her panties.  She lies down again, naked, hands 
demurely clasped before her breasts; he notes that she has 
shaved most of her pubic hair off, leaving only a small, downy 
patch of fur, appropriate to the development of the child's part 
which she is playing.  He reaches over her to tug the edge of the 
sheet from underneath the mattress, brings it up over her arms, 
wrapping it around her; he tucks it underneath and rolls her over.  
The sheet winds around her four times, binding her arms to her 
sides, leaving her exposed from the waist down.  He stacks two of 
the pillows, places her over them, face-down.  Her eyes widen as 
he grasps her legs just under her knees, slowly spreads her legs 
and plants a kiss on her tender pubes, his tongue darting 
underneath to caress the lips.  She closes her eyes, breathing 
deeply and feeling the sheet tighten against her arms as she does 
so.  He finds another sheet, bunches it up and thrusts it under the 
pillows, raising her behind a few more inches and allowing better 
access to her cunt, which he is gently probing with his tongue.  Her 
legs tremble involuntarily, and try to close; he holds them apart 
firmly, his fingers stroking the incredibly soft skin of the insides of 
her thighs.  He thinks about someone - De Sade, perhaps - who 
once wanted to have a book bound in leather made from the skin of 
a young girl's thighs, stripped off by flogging.

Wheatley.  she says.

Mmmph - I beg your pardon?

The guy who wanted to bind a book in thigh-skin, his name was 
Wheatley.  He freezes, withdrawing from her.  Oh _come_on_, I 
wasn't reading your mind...  don't be so paranoid!  I read that book 
as well...  and when you ran your fingers over my - ahhhhh, yes... 

He resumes his ministrations, his nose brushing the cleft of her 
buttocks as he dips his tongue into her, his lips brushing hers, 
feeling the warmth as they swell; smearing her sweet fluids over 
his face.  Her breathing deepens, her hips move haltingly, to the 
rhythm he sets with each stroke of his tongue.  When he senses 
the moment approaching, he withdraws, smiling.  He relishes the 
sibilance of her disappointed moan; induces a surprised squeak by 
digging his thumbs into her thighs and, for a moment, wonders who 
ever had the opportunity to play a musical instrument such as this.

He grasps her hips, (careful to keep the sheet tightly wound around 
her waist and arms) and turns her over onto her back, removes the 
bunched sheets and one of the pillows, dragging her towards him.  
Holding her legs straight up, he touches his lips to her ankle, rubs 
his crotch against the backs of her thighs.  She stares into his 
eyes, eyes wide, gasping with desire as he, holding her feet with 
one hand, undoes the front of his jeans and levers them down with 
the other.  She closes her eyes as he exposes his erection, 
pressing it between her thighs, slippery with the evidence of her 
arousal, sliding it down until it rests against her pubes.  Then, as 
she tries to realize her desire to hold him, she discovers just how 
frustrating it is to be tightly bound in the sheet.  He sees her 
sinuous writhing, and smiles, assured of his domination over her.

For the moment.  He lifts her behind from the pillow, suspending 
her by her ankles, sliding his index finger into her, idly folding her 
lips back, stroking her, tacitly ignoring her moaned pleas to 
complete the act, to stop teasing her! He almost abandons her 
then, but looking down on her supine form, her divine face 
wreathed in a most fetching look of despair, he smiles one-sidedly, 
thinking of a line from a song by Peter Gabriel: No Self-Control 
and, ever so slowly, slides his erection into her.

She finds that this is the moment she had been anticipating, as she 
had dressed herself that morning, on the journey to his house, 
even through the preliminaries they had just performed.  His cock 
isn't the twelve-inch battering-ram that usually accompanies their 
fantasies; it is adequate, nonetheless, and its width certainly 
makes its presence felt; she tries to relax as it enters, feels her lips 
part around it as she presses her thighs together.  He levers her 
legs forward until her knees are pressing against her breasts, 
pushing down so that his penis moves within her, then withdrawing 
and rubbing the engorged head against her clitoris at the same 
time.

The sound she makes on his withdrawal - a combination of moan, 
gasp and relieved laugh - arouses him almost to the point of losing 
control and throwing himself into an uncontrolled frenzy; but ever-
present in his mind is the fact that in this relationship, he is 
supposed to be the responsible one, the one who maintains some 
sense of decorum.  He thrusts again, pushing against the willful 
resistance that she presents; this time, she is silent, in the hope 
that he will respond, through frustration, with more vigor.  However, 
he has played this game with her before, is not fooled that easily; 
he maintains his unhurried pace, gently rocking her back and forth 
as he thrusts.  You would need a metronome to establish that his 
pace is increasing; she finds that the welcome pressure of orgasm 
is slowly mounting within her.  Taking another image from his mind 
(she _can_ read his thoughts!), she wonders how he can be 
thinking about electronics at a time like this; he is thinking about 
low-pass filters, capacitances, and - something she finds faintly 
ridiculous until she sees the relationship - he is thinking of her as 
some sort of switched-mode power supply!  By now, the 
accelerated rhythm of his thrusts has brought the level of 
stimulation to a continual stream of sensation, no pauses 
distinguishable between one thrust and the next.  The sheet seems 
to be getting tighter around her arms as she arches her back, 
gasping deeper with each breath; he is slowly drawing her legs 
apart and back, thrusting from underneath now, his shaft passing 
through her narrowly-separated lips at an angle, pressing into the 
roof of her vagina.  All she has to do is close her eyes, concentrate 
for a moment; and there she is, stomach muscles tight, her breath 
stopped in her throat, her pulse thundering in her temples as she 
shudders into orgasm.  She loses herself in the feeling to such an 
extent that she doesn't have the presence of mind to wonder if he 
will perform his usual trick, and it is only when she, having fallen 
from the plateau of ecstasy, finds herself rising swiftly again that 
she realizes he hasn't stopped thrusting.  This time, she cannot 
remain silent, but allows a choked ahhhhh to escape from between 
her clenched teeth.  They lie there, pressed together, for half a 
minute; then he separates her legs, leans down while still thrust all 
the way into her, and brushes his lips across hers.  She opens her 
eyes as he withdraws, gets off the bed and puts his clothes back 
on.  She struggles to unwind the sheet, almost rolling over onto the 
floor before he comes to her assistance.  She gazes into his eyes, 
and says, You didn't come, did you?  The smallest of smiles 
appears briefly on his lips.

No.  It doesn't matter.  He locates a loose, black jumper and moves 
to the door.  Clutching a sheet around her shoulders, she follows 
him.

Where are you going?

The supermarket will be closed in half an hour, and we're almost 
out of coffee, he replies in a carefully neutral tone.  He closes the 
door behind him.  She returns to the bed, sits down and sighs.

Oh, Kolya.

-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------------



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