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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
o from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order o
o other than offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
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o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not be used for o
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o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o and should not be read by minors. o
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Drive-By (MF)
by Peter Principle (PeterPrin@hotmail.com)
(c) 1998
I was back in my old stomping grounds for a few days last week. I
travel there every couple of months on business, pressing the flesh with
customers, occasionally catching up with one old friend or another when the
mood strikes me. Most of the times I just keep to myself in the evenings.
Sometimes I even drive down her street.
BJ and I -- her real name was Betsy Jerrigan, though everyone called
her BJ -- were quite an item back in the late 1980's. We were together, if
you could call it that, for almost two years. I never really felt "together"
with her, though. I don't know that anyone did. She was a fiercely
independent soul who I think was truly the happiest when she was by herself.
That's one of life's ironies, of course. A close second on her happiness
scale was when she was fucking.
I thought about all that when my rental car aimed itself up the
Peninsula and found the exit to downtown Palo Alto and the gentile tree-lined
streets that BJ called home. She didn't live there when I knew her. Back
then she lived in a tiny house in a modest neighborhood not far from the
railroad tracks. It was all she could afford then, before she struck it rich
with a startup in Silicon Valley. After me.
I'd found out about her new neighborhood last year when I had the
urge to look her up in the telephone book. "B Jerrigan" was there with a
Palo Alto address that signaled just how successful that startup had been. I
didn't drive down her street during that trip. The first time I did that was
only six months ago, and I'd only done it twice before last week. I never
actually saw her. Until last week, that is.
BJ's street extends for only three long blocks. It's a wide street,
lined with resistant elms that arch over the sidewalks and most of the way
over the roadway, giving the street a winsome cathedral effect. The first
time I saw it, I knew why BJ had chosen to live there. She always loved the
stately elegance of large trees, showing quiet strength and independence.
Just like her.
Even though I knew that her house was in the last block of the
street, I always began my drive-by at the far end of the street. This time I
pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. I wanted time to absorb
the grace of the trees, the well-manicured lawns fronting the sedate mostly
two-story houses. Time to think about BJ and what I would do if I actually
saw her. And if she saw me.
She and I had ended our relationship in much the same way we began
it, with passion. Not love. It was never love, for either of us. It was
passion, it was lust. It was carnal. It was all about acceptance and about
freedom. Well, maybe it was more about her freedom than about mine.
Our relationship at the end was shaky. We were a car that was running
out of gas, gasping for fuel one day and surging forward the next. We hadn't
seen each other for almost two weeks when I showed up, unannounced, on her
doorstep. She didn't seem surprised, though. It was a late Fall afternoon,
full of blustery winds and occasional cold wet spritzes, and BJ came to the
door wearing her baggy Oshkosh overalls and a thin white cotton shortsleeved
top. That was a common outfit for her, a kind of unisex statement I suppose.
And convenient. She never wore underwear beneath it.
I remember BJ telling me that I'd interrupted nothing in particular.
She'd been slumped in her black beanbag chair in the livingroom, reading and
sipping hot tea from a large mug that rested on a nearby spindly three-legged
table that she'd found at a garage sale. I'd interrupted her solitude, of
course. Her number one joy. And, of course, it wasn't long before we shifted
to her number two joy.
Five minutes and one long kiss later, BJ had unsnapped her two
shoulder straps and had wriggled her overalls to the floor, deftly stepping
out of them and back over to the beanbag chair. There she reassumed her
slouched position, though this time naked from the waist down and with
unabashedly sprawled legs and an expectant grin on her face.
I spent the next twenty minutes on my knees, praying to the God of
Pussy. BJ was less patient than I was in these circumstances. I would favor
an initial mood of lazy exploratory licks, and BJ would interject her own
fingers to brusquely flicker at her clitoris with a nonverbal demonstration
of her preference for harder and faster. Her musky, oozing vagina would
contribute as much as my saliva to the general juiciness between her legs,
and as always, before too long, my mouth would nudge aside her fingers and
devoutly replace their effort.
That afternoon her scent overwhelmed me. Her fat labia grew even
more thick and crimson and yawning. My fingers found the heat of her vagina
and the roughness of her G-spot as my tongue muscled its way back and forth
across her stiff soldier, and I could hear the delicious slurpy sounds of
lubrication and the faraway moans and grunts of her pleasure. BJ was
slippery sweet and flowing, gasping and clenching at me with her thighs and
her vagina, and when she was ready, my firm tongue danced on her clit with a
random frenzy until her hips rose up off the beanbag chair and her body
stiffened and shuddered, her grunts throaty and rhythmic in their pleasured
release.
And then I rose up on my knees and gazed down at her, looking at her
closed eyes and her inscrutable smile, at her fingers which were sneaking
back to softly tease her raw glistening openness. I discarded my shirt, and
then with more effort my pants, yet BJ never opened her eyes, never
acknowledged my naked presence between her legs. When I was ready I moved
forward to cover her body with mine, and only then did her eyes open and her
smile become more apparent.
I wanted to feel her nakedness against mine, and I fumbled to pull
her top up over her full breasts, and only reluctantly did she straighten her
arms above her head to allow me to remove it completely. I visited her
breasts with my mouth, first one then the other, teasing fuller life back
into her already hard nipples. BJ's fingers tousled my hair and she
chuckled. "Can't wait, can you?" she teased. "Don't you want to eat me
again?" I only grunted, my mouth being full and busy, and BJ's legs wrapped
around my thighs and pulled me onto her, telling me that she wanted to be
fucked more than she really wanted to be eaten again.
My cock found her and centered itself, but I resisted the impulse to
drive into her. "Have you been seeing him?" I asked. The tip of my cock
swirled in her pouty slickness.
BJ was silent for a moment. Her eyes were closed once again, her mouth
returned to that cryptic pose. Then in a quiet voice she whispered, "Yes,"
and in one quick thrust I was fully inside and arching my hips to strain my
stiffness against her clenching ring of muscle. BJ gasped and growled her
low- pitched guttural animal sound. I couldn't make up my mind whether to
start thrusting or to just savor her silky grasp of my erection.
"Mmmm," she hummed, and her legs pulled me tighter, then relaxed. Then
tighter again, her hips pressing upward to pull me further into her cunt,
then relaxing. It was my cue to begin to thrust. After all this time, I
certainly knew her non-verbal signals.
BJ spread her knees wide and held herself open for me. Her hips
remained still, the outsides of her ankles lying relaxed on my calves. She
wanted to be fucked. I wanted to fuck her. I wrapped my left arm around her
back, while my right hand snuck around to cradle her behind. I slowly and
deliberately thrust into her creamy sheath with a dancer's hips, side to
side, in and out, edging and stretching and rejoicing in her cunt and her
body and her exposed soul. BJ gave me encouraging little moaning whimpering
noises as I drove us both upward. Her breathing shuddered and shimmied as
she climbed, as I nudged her along.
And when she was almost there, I was almost there, too. With my own
animal growl I plunged into her body with rapid, full-length strokes that
would only have one conclusion. BJ's breathing quivered in erratic little
gasps and I knew she was with me, neck and neck, even if I didn't really care
anymore. She squealed, clung onto me tightly with arms and legs, and I let
myself go. "There!" I announced, slamming into her with those final
satisfying pounding thrusts, "There! Now!" and I jammed impossibly deep
with as the slow-motion explosion ripped through me.
BJ squealed a second time and her entire lower body trembled as her own
orgasm crested, and my superhardend cock began to spurt liquid fire into her
clutching grasp. I wanted to fill her with my own seed, to displace his, to
drive out the demons that I could not control. With every one of my long
surging spasms I pushed hard to bury myself ever deeper. BJ clung to me,
panting rapidly with shallow breaths, full of her orgasm, full of mine.
When I left her house that afternoon, I knew it would be the last
time I would be there, the last time I would be with her, inside her, holding
her in my arms. We finalized our breakup with the remoteness of the
telephone. It was an ironic way to end a relationship that had been so
physically intimate.
Finally, I restarted the engine and resumed the slow crawl down her
street to the final block. As I approached her house on the right, I saw BJ
emerging from the front door of the house. There she was, wearing a simple
white cotton t-shirt and running shorts. She glanced briefly at my
approaching car, then returned her attention to inside the house. My last
glimpse was of her holding the hand of a petite girl, no more than three or
four years of age, with short-cropped blonde hair, wearing faded blue Oshkosh
overalls and a big smile.
[ Copyright (c) 1998 by Peter Principle, PeterPrin@Hotmail.com ]