____________________________ | | /)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\ / )| DIRECTORIES |( \ __( (|____________________________|) )__ ((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / ))) (\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///) \ / \ / \ _/ \_ / / / \ \ o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o o betical directories. o o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o Educating Maria -- Chapter 1 (M-f-teen, ped, affair) by Ghostwheel "Fly By Night" I wasn't looking forward to the flight. San Francisco to Boston, with a three-hour stop in Phoenix -- not the easiest way to make the flight, but I was flying on my own funds this time, so I had to keep it cheap. If you want cheap, and inconvenient, American West is the way to go. Worse, we were leaving San Francisco at midnight, and even if I could get to sleep on the plane, the Phoenix stop would eliminate any chance for real rest. Worse still, I was horny. It had been about two months since the woman I'd been seeing had unceremoniously scrapped the relationship, and my need for sex was starting to get to me. I had packed for the trip as I usually do -- walkman, assortment of tapes, a few apples, a package of cookies, and a couple of books. I don't generally sleep on flights, and being a night person anyway, I figured I'd be awake the whole way. Settling into my seat, I pulled out my book and started reading. The book was "Sundiver," by David Brin, an excellent piece of science fiction. I didn't have very many pages to go, so I was glad I'd packed a second book. With so many other passengers getting on the plane, I had a hard time paying attention to my reading, so I put it aside for a moment, and watched the moving crowd. I was quite pleased when I noticed a very attractive young woman sitting down across the aisle from me. Not that I expected anything to happen, of course, but having a nice looking woman nearby can often make a flight a little less tedious. A moment later, though, I realized that I'd gotten my hopes up for nothing. First, at a closer look, I realized that she couldn't be over sixteen, probably more like fifteen. Second, she was sitting all the way across at the window. And third, the two people seated between her and me were undoubtedly her parents. My dirty mind was going to have to look elsewhere for entertainment. Although, when it comes down to harmless fantasy, there's no reason why a sixteen-year-old can't be the subject, right? I stole another quick look at her, to confirm that she was as beautiful as I'd thought, and she definitely was. Dark skin, long black wavy hair, perfectly clear complexion, large dark eyes, delicate nose, slender body, and a surprisingly full bust. All of which, I suspected, would probably be destroyed by the time she was 21 or so. Now, this wasn't just random speculation on my part. As I said, her parents were there, too, and if she was heading for the same life they seemed to have, her best years might already be behind her. Her father looked like a low-rent drug dealer from an old episode of "Starsky & Hutch": hispanic, with a bushy mustache and long, black hair -- probably trying to compensate for the widening bald patch on top of his head. He wore half a dozen gold chains around his neck, and several rings on his fingers. And while he looked to be in his early forties, he looked like one of these guys who would never really leave adolescence. He also walked with a cane, and had a very bad limp. I could see when he walked that there was something seriously wrong with his right knee. The girl's mother, on the other hand, was white -- or closer to the truth, grey, with pale skin that had acquired that unhealthy tinge that comes from years of smoking. Her hair was also black, and while I could see faint echoes of her daughter's beauty, they were buried under at least 20 extra pounds, and further blurred by age lines. I could see her nervously clutching at a pack of cigarettes, and wondered how she would make it through the flight without lighting them. It seemed a shame for a lovely young girl like that to face such a disappointing future, but who ever said life was fair? Anyway, the plane had finally finished loading, and we were taxiing out to the runway. Figuring I wouldn't be disturbed any more, I plugged in David Bowie, pulled out my book, and forgot about the people across the aisle. Forgot about them for about half an hour, that is. That's when the stewardesses (or flight attendants, I suppose) came to serve drinks to us. I asked for a Diet Coke, as had the girl across the aisle. Her parents had both asked for beer. Unfortunately, the stewardess had just run out of Diet Coke, and had to go get a couple from another cart. While her parents sipped their beers and talked to each other in Spanish, I noticed the girl looking at me. Being in a mood for trouble, I looked straight back at her, threw my meanest eye-lock on her, and gave a slight smile as I looked away again. It's a technique I've used on unsuspecting high-school girls and cashiers all over the country. It's got nothing to do with my appearance -- it's all in the execution. The look has to tell the girl that you want her *badly*, but you know she wants you worse. None of it has to be true, but the right look will convince her of it. Well, this time it worked, because a moment later, when the stewardess came back with our sodas, I glanced over again, and the poor kid was staring at me and looking like she couldn't make up her mind whether she should have an orgasm or burst into tears. Her mother had to address her twice to get her attention and get her to take her drink. I caught her name then, by the way. It was Maria, just like in "West Side Story." I figured that I was in for a little bit of fun this flight, at the young lady's expense. I went back to my book and my music, and tried not to pay too much attention to her, since I didn't want to get either of us in trouble with her parents. But, from San Francisco to Phoenix, every time I glanced over her way, she was sitting there staring at me, with that gorgeous, wide-eyed innocent look. I would smile at my private joke, or raise one eyebrow slightly, or just shake my head and look away. Each time, the result was the same -- she'd give a little swallow, and then shiver slightly, as if somebody had just run their fingers up her spine. And of course, from the way I was looking at her, there was no telling what kind of touches she was imagining. Anyway, her parents didn't seem to notice, or mind, and I figured my fun would be over when I had to go to my connecting flight in Phoenix. The plane touched down, and the pilot came on announcing that we had landed, and that all passengers should leave the plane, and told us where to catch our connecting flights. Throwing one last smile at Maria, I grabbed my backpack and suitcase, and headed for the waiting area to wait out the three hours for my connecting flight. Needless to say, I was a little surprised when she and her parents came and sat down in the same area, just a few seats away from me. To Be Continued in chapter 2: "Getting to Know You"