Message-ID: <6959eli$9803161624@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: Bookman Archives <readebks@wolfenet.COM> Subject: RP: Bedsheets MF, slight bond Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: readebks@wolfenet.COM 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: <350C688C.57E4@wolfenet.com> (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. -- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |