Message-ID: <7602eli$9804051801@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: tigerlynx@aol.com (TigerLynx)
Subject: A Touch of Innocence ( bbw story )( m/f, some rom, no sex )
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
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: <1998040519425901.PAA24600@ladder03.news.aol.com>


This story is something of a graphic romantic story, just without the sex. How
can that be? you might ask. Just read. You'll see when you get to the end. And,
by the way, though this story isn't overtly sexual, if you are under the age of
consent for your locality, or expressedly forbidden to view material with *any*
sexual content in your locality, or are offended by the viewing of material
with *any* sexual content, then you are encouraged to leave now. If you stay
and read, you do so at your own risk.

This is my story, and I've copywritten it. If you want to read it, or show it
to your friends, be my guest- if you try to pass this off as your own- and why
would you want to?- then I'll have to take drastic measures, starting in the
legal circles.

If you happen to like this story, and want to tell me about it, then drop me an
email. 

-TigerLynx

_________________________________________________
A Touch of Innocence

by TigerLynx
© 1995


I know that it wasn’t the very first thing I noticed about her, but it was
definitely among the top ten. Her hair was shaped in the latest style, one of
the few that had become a “classic”— it was still a very popular hair style,
even though it had come into fashion nearly three years ago. A “mushroom”, her
hair clipped short along the sides of her head, and then on top,  her hair
permed and hot-combed into straightness, and then brushed and picked down into
a dome around her head, like a halo.    

Her face becomes the next central feature;  a milk-chocolate honey brown
shade, rounded, and soft; her eyes, a light, mocha-brown color, where you could
see into her heart and know her thoughts— or you could, at least, when she
allowed you eye contact;  her nose, long, a little thin, but very elegant; her
mouth, with soft wet lips that called for attention at all times.

My eyes take in her breasts, next; soft, round, firm, and light even in relief
of support; they would fit into the palms of my hands nicely, their weight
definitely, deliciously, noticeable. 

A slight bulge, her tummy, not just from fat— though a little I absolutely
adore.  To me, it is the mark of a real woman, a woman who has decided that the
trivialities of life— like having a waist like Jane Fonda— can wait a while;
more pressing matters need attention. Her tummy was soft and curved, not just
from fat— but from the four children she had. So young!  at twenty-two, to have
so many children, to have children at all!   

Her hips are next, a gentle explosion from her not-so-narrow waist, a soft,
curving femininity that screams of woman!  Her waist is not much smaller than
my own, and her hips only slightly larger than mine.  She turns around,  and I
can see that hips are not the only curves she possesses around her waist.
There,  she is rounded and soft, with a feminine touch, yet firm and muscular
in a nice way. She bends over, and it is a pleasure watching her move, a
gracefulness that most would not, could not, acknowledge, unknowing of the
lithe form and stunning beauty within the outer skin of her mere prettiness
that was as innocent as it was not.  

Her hips change into thighs— thick, strong, juicy, meaty; I had to turn away
when she walked, or else simply stare;  her thighs begged to be touched,
caressed, soothed and relaxed.  Her thighs changed again into legs, as they
tapered down to her knees, and from there to her feet— all the way , enfolded
with the soft gentle strength of frequent use. Her feet were small, delicate—
she wore a size six in men’s sneakers. 

I step back a bit, in my visual scope, to look at her completely.  At
five-three and about 165 lbs, she was definitely not born to be a model; her
features were not quite hard enough— by meaning of facial definition or
expression;  her body not quite poised enough, lacking that
look-but-don’t-touch quality; her form not quite lithe enough, made more for
actual experience than for window-dressing displays; her skin not quite smooth
enough, lacking the porcelinity, the calm, and the ephemeral freshness— which,
like its name, is ephemeral— that is necessary; her eyes not doe-y enough; her
hair not straight enough, not light enough; her general personality, her
physical appearance, all not feminine enough, not a part of the American
stereotypical model-esque that the powers that be determine that the American
male wants. 	

The klaxon-like sound of the drive-thru sensor breaks me out of my appraisal,
and I turn to the microphone speaker with a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the
task at hand. A voice squawks harshly at me, nameless, and for the moment,
faceless, asking inane questions, and making asinine demands that I rightly
cannot accommodate. 

I turn to her. 

She is approaching me, in slow-motion to me; I watch her every step— the
slight bounce of her breasts, the pitch and roll of her walk, the difference in
the way she looks toward her task and the way she looks at me.  A small smile
comes to her lips, a rich rose red hue now. I tear my eyes away from her, and
give my attention to the face in the window. I repeat their words back to them—
some, their minds lost, either in drugs, alcohol, or in just plain vapidness—
making sure that I don't have to deal with them any longer than necessary. 
They leave, and once again, for a moment, it is quiet. I play around with the
antique electric keyboard in front of me, tapping in numbers and food items,
and then erasing them with the touch of a few more buttons.  She comes closer,
and brushes my arm in passing. She fixes a cup of hot cocoa for herself, and
then adds some vanilla milkshake.  <It cools the cocoa>, she says, in a voice
that both belongs to her and does not. It fits her; like her beauty, it seemed
both innocent, and yet not.  She takes the coffee stirrer out of the cup, and
licks the length of it, her small pink tongue sliding along the plastic,
lapping up the sweet treat. I do nothing but watch, taking an extra notice of
the way she savors the taste on her tongue. She notices me looking at her, and
the tiny smile on her lips grows, her tongue peeking out at me from between her
lips. She begins speaking to me, and I respond. I walk the three steps to the
little counter in the drive-thru window where she is standing, and move close
to her, my arm just brushing hers; we chat for a bit. 

I return my attention back to her for a moment, my attention having slipped
away from the beauty beside me, and I notice she is gazing at me, a particular
look in her eyes that I don’t see at any other time during the workday when she
and I are together. It gives me something to wonder about.

She tells me that eight-hour days of standing has her back aching on a nearly
constant basis, and even now, her back aches. <I need a massage>, she says,
almost nonchalantly, almost to herself; I offer to give her one, after we’ve
closed the restaurant. She looks at me, again the smile appearing on her face
as if by magic; <Sure>, she says, <okay>. I look over her again as I feel my
senses being stirred to attention by her womanness, and I shudder momentarily
with the sensations she engenders within me. 

She pushes off of the small surface, and walks back to her register, less than
twenty feet away.  She walks away from me, and again I smile, wondering how
America couldn’t see her figure, her personality, her entire womanhood, as I
saw it; how they couldn’t believe that she was as desirable to men as the
anorexic-bulimic, 36-24-36, 98 lbs-soaking-wet,
computer-enhanced-and-airbrushed, stick limbed, platinum-bleached blonde and
blue-eyed models were that practically lived on the front covers of every
fashion magazine and hung on the posters on the walls of college men.  

She finishes her order, and turns to look at me. Instantly, my brooding about
this horrible job disappears; her smile is something kinda impressive. There
are so many things that she seems to be saying in that smile, but I don’t wanna
try to interpret or misinterpret anything, so I accept it at face value. 

I walk over to her, now, and lean against the countertop. Again, we start
talking, and I notice the look in her eyes again. I begin to think about just
what that could mean, but we are interrupted by a co-worker of ours. He sort of
buts his way into our conversation, wedging himself into our talk, which very
quickly turns to dating and relationships. Apparently, he has a definite
attraction towards her, and she quickly reminds him that she is already
involved. Tenaciously, of course— as always— he seems to ignore this fact. 

<I’ll be here when you want a real man>, he says, and goes back into the
kitchen of the restaurant. <Shoot>, she says, softly, though I can hear her,
<if I wanted a real man, I’d get wit you>, and she gives me a quick look and a
smile. She stops suddenly, seeming to realize her words. She looks at me again,
and I can see that look in her eyes again, and I know now.  But, how do I use
this information?

The drive-thru sensor sounds, and again I have to tear myself away from this
woman who feels as I do, this woman whose senses are attuned with mine, and go
to a job that I do not like. I turn back to her, just for a moment, and she
still has that look. I would gladly lose my job for that look.

I can barely hear the voice this time, over the rumble of her muffler-less
car, and over the din from the street, as a couple of fire trucks roar past,
their sirens momentarily overpowering the sound of the car and driver at the
speaker. She finally calls her order, and even before I punch the price
buttons, I already know how much the total will be. I give an inward shudder;
I’ve been working in this place for too long. 

<Five minutes>, I hear from the back of the store. It is the voice of the
manager on duty tonight, and I smile, for the first time this evening. His
statement means that very soon, I can close up this window, and turn off the
lights. Fatigue washes over me briefly; I can feel the five minutes taking
their time in passing. 

The woman in the window reminds me that I still have time to complete her
order. She begins to get upset; her order isn’t ready, and I have to go in the
back to make it. Again, I remark to myself, I’ve been working here too long.
Only someone who had been around as long as I had would know how to run both
the front and back of the store. Lucky me that I knew how to do both. 

I go into the back, and only now are the hamburger patties coming off of the
grill. The smell of the grilled meat makes my mouth begin to water, and my
stomach start growling like mad, reminding me that I haven’t eaten at all
tonight. Maybe the manager will let me fix some food for myself.

Almost intuitively, without my asking, she takes over my position at the
window, telling the woman that her order will be up in a couple of moments, and
asking her if there is anything that she can do for her in the meantime.  In
the month that we’ve been working together, that we’ve been leaving together,
she and I have come to work like a team.  It’s a good relationship, and is the
only thing that I think I like having gotten out of this job. I can hear the
smile in her voice, and I know it’s there for more than just one reason, there
for more than just the fact that we’re about to close for the night. 

I finish the sandwich, wrap it up, and carry it and the rest of her food up to
the front of the store. She is already there, putting the food into the woman’s
bag. I go and get the woman her drinks; she comes up behind me, and leans
against me out of the window, handing the woman her food. I can feel her
pressing up against my back; I can even feel her heartbeat. As I hand out the
drinks, she doesn’t move. I can feel her heartbeat speed up, and my own
attentions become similarly aroused. 

The woman drives off, and then she gently pushes off of me, and I turn around.
She smiles at me, and out of nowhere, I decide to give her a hug. She doesn’t
seem surprised about it; in fact, she accepts me with open arms— no pun
intended— and we embrace for a moment, the store forgotten, holding each other
as if it were meant to be like this. 

She looks at me, and now I can see that look in her eyes up close, and  the
look is intense. I can feel it coming from her, and I know she can feel it
coming from me— in the way that I hold her, in the way that I look at her. I
know, and I know that she knows, that this is a mutual sensation. 

We part, and I turn around to lock up the drive-thru window. Our timing is
perfect, it seems; the guy comes out of the back of the restaurant an instant
after we part. 

<I thought you had a man>, he asks almost accusingly. He knows that she is
already involved, and he knows that she and I are simply friends; he only wants
to see what kind of trouble he can cause.

<I do have a man>, she responds, and steps into her don’t-fuck-with-me stance.
I know she’s not truly serious about it; her stance is too relaxed. This is a
game she’s played before with him;  more often than not, I’m also involved in
their little face-offs. I continue to pretend that I’m doing my work.  I walk
past them, and over to the lights panel, and flip off the outside lights.

<Then what are you hanging up under him for?> he asks, and I can almost feel
him pointing at me.

<He’s my friend>, she states to him simply. Personally, I think they like
playing this game. They’ve been acquaintances for as long as I’ve known them,
and he’s always flirted with her, mentioning that if he weren’t married.....   
The man is okay, I think, but he needs to stop messing with her. She eight
years younger than he is, and she’s already involved. But then I have to ask
myself if I’m thinking this because it’s true, or because of what I’ve seen in
her eyes. Is it fact, or a tinge of jealousy?

The two guys who make up night crew come into the back of the store, talking
and making noise. I know them, and shout words of greeting to them. I decide
that it’s jealousy, hoping that he doesn’t have a clue as to the fire that she
possesses, that I’m fairly sure that her boyfriend doesn’t know she possesses,
and all over again I’m jealous. I know I’d be aware of something like that. 

I go into the back of the store, and change out of my uniform shirt and cap,
grab my stuff out of the cubby hole with my name on it, and go into the
bathroom. On the way there, I pass her coming into the back of the store. She
smiles at me in passing, and I smile back. 

I’m pulling on my pants when there is a knock at the door. I’m fairly dressed
at this point; I invite the person in.  I’m almost positive of who it is even
before she opens the door. She comes in, and watches me as I finish tucking my
shirt into my pants and fasten them up. Hmm, she moans, smiling, taking notice.
I smile back, a bit embarrassed that my thoughts are so visible to her.  I
finish dressing, and stand to look at her. She approaches me, and we embrace
once again.  She pulls back slightly, and  then— by thought or by chance, I
don’t know— we kiss. 

Her tongue gently pushes into my mouth, asking me of what I want, of what she
can give. I push my tongue into her mouth, telling her what I want, what I
would ask of her, and I know she knows this— by my kiss, by my body, by my
touch, by my embrace, by the look in my eyes. I know she knows this because I
can feel her answer me— in every way that I let her know what I want, she lets
me know that it is what she wants, too. 

The muffled sound of a horn comes through the door, and we part immediately.
She pulls open the door, and rushes out to the lobby. I take a moment or two to
let her get outside first, then I follow, more slowly. As I come out of the
doors, she is about to get into the car. Her boyfriend waves at me; I wave
back. I know he’s jealous, thinking that I’m trying to take his girlfriend from
him, even though he knows that she and I are just friends. 

<I’ll see you tomorrow>, she says, and takes a brief second to give me that
look again. Then, she gets into the car, and she and her boyfriend drive off,
leaving me alone in the parking lot. 

________________________________________________

As I said before...if you like it, drop me a line.




-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |