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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. 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
Love Is Chemical (MF)
by Paul Stacy (jfriday@helena.stat.uga.edu)
The courtroom was too bright and too warm and too crowded. And silent, too.
Except for the soft voice of the Special Prose- cutor...
Nowhere in the room was anyone whispering, and no one was moving about. The
Prosecutor did not rely upon volume to intimi- date his listeners -- it was
something else -- but intimidate them he did. He spoke softly and slowly,
and everyone leaned forward, straining to hear him.
Everyone except the Defendant.
Professor Aaron Waters didn't want to listen. He sat silently in the
Defendant's chair, elbows on the table, face in his hands. The Prosecutor
was addressing the jury, in his final summation.
"...Words like EVIL...HEINOUS...VICIOUS!" The Prosecutor paused for a
breath between the ugly adjectives; his sense of timing was incredible. He
seemed able to double the ugliness of words by the way he spoke them.
"...Words like these do not fit this crime, ladies and gentlemen of the
jury! We need new words to describe the horror of what this man has done!"
When he spoke the words "this man," he turned from the jury to point at
Aaron Waters. Aaron, his face still buried in his hands, could feel it.
But Aaron, staring into the darkness of his hands, was escap- ing...another
day had come into focus like a dream through binoc- ulars. It was always
the same. Always these flashbacks, these little escapes, were the same.
Reruns of the fatal day, and always beginning in the same spot. With the
cheerleader in his office...
He had found her in his office, after his fourth-period class. He had no
fifth-period class, so he'd had an hour before the last class of his day.
He had gone to his office and flopped into his chair, tired out. The
cheerleader came out of his little bathroom.
"Hello Professor," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about my grades..."
She was just a little thing; she was a freshman, jailbait maybe, but he
knew what she wanted, and so did she. This was not the first time. This
time, she was wearing her cheerleader's outfit: sweater and tiny pleated
skirt, like a figure skater wears. This time she came around his desk, took
hold of his chair and rolled it back a little, with him in it.
She sat on his lap, his legs actually, astride both of them, facing him.
She kissed him lightly on the forehead, and took his hand in hers. She
placed it under the tiny skirt, pressing it into her flesh, wet and warm
and furry. She wore no panties...
"This is prime," she said. "This is grade-A prime." Moisture was already
flowing, already it was slippery; he couldn't with- draw his hand, did not
want to, the tip of his middle finger entered her easily. She rocked
against it for a moment, and then----
Then the door to the Chemistry Lab opened!
No! Jesus, no! Somebody was coming!
She heard it too. She just slid backwards over his knees and down onto
hers. She backed into the space under his desk. Without losing her position
between his knees, she helped him roll his chair into place.
When the Dean of Girls tapped gently, and then entered his office, it just
looked like he was working at his desk. Beneath it, the girl had his knees
parted as far as they would go; she was stroking the insides of his thighs,
teasing, occasionally caressing the straining mass in his pants.
"Are you all right?" said the Dean of Girls, when she crossed his office,
to drop a folder on his desk. "You look like you're coming down with
something," she said. She should have been retired, the Dean of Girls
should; she could have been his grand- mother, worried about him.
Beneath his desk, the cheerleader was opening his pants, reaching inside.
She found it. Aaron could hear his heart hammering in his ears, he could
feel the pores opening in his face, he had to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
He didn't know what to say to the old woman, who was leaning on his desk
now, leaning on her hands, looking into his face from two feet away. "Do
you want me to get you something?" she asked.
"No, I'm all right," he said. "I'm just out of breath, I was working
out..." Beneath his desk now, he felt the wet warmth of the girl's tongue,
caressing the head of his throbbing erection, as she took it into her
mouth. He wanted to scream, it was building...
"I think you're working too hard," said the old lady. Then she stood,
turned, and walked out of his office.
When she did, the cheerleader released him and pushed back his chair. She
came out quickly, in reverse of the way she had gone under the desk. Once
again she sat across his legs, facing him. She leaned forward, rocked
forward on her knees, to kiss him deeply. He slid down just a little, and
once again she took him in.
This time, nobody interrupted. It had ended his day though, no way he could
stay for his last class. He canceled his sixth- period class, and went home
an hour early.
If only he had not done that...
When he got home he started to turn into his driveway, but had to stop with
two wheels still in the street; there were two Cadillacs parked in his
driveway...his Elizabeth's gleaming Coupe De Ville, and a black sedan.
Elizabeth had company.
Aaron didn't recognize the black car, but he didn't want to park behind it.
He wanted to take a long hot shower, and he didn't want to wait around for
some bitch to get ready to go home. Aaron didn't care much for most of
Elizabeth's friends. Fuck it. He needed gas, this would be a good time to
go get some.
It only took ten minutes to do that, but that was long enough...the black
sedan was gone when he returned home.
"Hi baby," he said, at last. His love for his beautiful wife had not
diminished in their three years -- she was still the big thrill of his
life.
"Hello love," she turned from the television she was watching, and leaned
back her head so he could kiss her. "It looks like the Republicans are
going to control the Senate again," she said, as if that pleased her.
"Who cares?" Aaron said. He didn't, politics did not matter to him when he
was alone with his beautiful wife -- nothing did. He kissed her again and
felt a familiar stirring. "I'm going up and take a long shower," he said.
"Come and go with me..."
"After dinner, love," she said, teasing just a little. "I've had a shower,"
she added. He could see now that her creamy skin bore no make-up, and her
hair was a shade darker than normal. It was not completely dry. For some
reason not yet known, but already uncomfortable, he didn't ask her about
the black Cadillac sedan in the driveway. For some reason unknown,
Elizabeth did not mention it either...
By the time he'd stripped out of his clothes and put every- thing in place
-- Elizabeth had a fetish about neatness and cleanliness -- he had
forgotten the thoughts he'd had about his wife in the shower and the black
sedan in the drive.
When Aaron stepped from the shower he felt renewed, stimulat- ed. He
enjoyed the shock of stepping out into the cooler air; he got a kick out of
gooseflesh. His body was covered with it as he toweled himself, but there
was something different here...he shivered, but not from the cold. It was
not exactly the thought of Elizabeth in the shower and the black sedan in
the driveway...not that exactly, but something like that.
And then, suddenly, he knew what it was! The bottles! The bottom shelf of
the cabinet was lined with them, Elizabeth's bottles. There were a dozen of
them, neatly lined across the shelf, each holding twelve ounces of liquid
with a pale blue tint. Twelve bottles, all filled with "Milady's Fragrant
Hygiene Solution..." That is, all but one were filled.
There was an empty.
She had used one while he was gone today!
Elizabeth had an honest-to-God fetish about cleanliness, no shit. She
usually took a shower before going to bed, and if they had sex she always
showered afterward...and she always used one of these prepared douches...
She had used one last night, as always; but he had thrown away the empty
this morning. He picked up the waste basket and looked into it. Another
empty was there.
Elizabeth in the shower and a black Cadillac in the driveway! Aaron dressed
automatically...his head was spinning. He put on a clean white shirt and a
pair of light slacks; no underwear, no socks or shoes. His face was flushed
and he could feel the adrenalin pumping throughout his body. He walked
downstairs very slowly, his legs felt weak and he was trembling violently,
fear and anger trading places with every step.
It couldn't be...not his beloved Elizabeth!
Elizabeth was in the kitchen; the dining room table was set for two, and
she was working on a steaming roast, carving it.
So casual she was, so normal. God! It was all so unbelieva- ble! He
couldn't believe it -- didn't want to believe it -- but how could he not?
His Elizabeth in the shower...the black Cadil- lac in the driveway...and
even worse: the empty bottle in the bathroom! He was getting sick. In his
mind, a horrible vision was unfolding: Elizabeth screwing the special hose
to the bot- tle; climbing into the bathtub and hanging the bottle from the
shower head; sitting on her heels, inserting the damned thing...and then
popping the valve on the hose. Air would flow in, and the fragrant blue
liquid would come rushing out of the bottle and into Elizabeth, to wash
away what some unknown bastard had put there...
God! He had almost caught them! It made him weak to think about it. What if
he had left his car behind the Cadillac and just walked into the house?
What would have happened then...? Never before had he felt this way, but
right now he wanted to kill...worse, he wanted to beat and slash and
torture! He sat at the table aflame with hot red rage. But still, by the
time Elizabeth came in carrying the roast, looking so damned innocent and
beautiful and domestic, he had himself under control...hiding the burning
rage he felt.
"Just a little for me baby," he said. "I'm not very hungry, and I don't
feel so good." He knew he did not look right.
"What's the matter, love?" Her concern certainly seemed genuine. She put
the back of her cool hand lightly against his forehead. "I think you feel a
little warm, love," she said. "Maybe you'd better go to bed..."
"I think I'd better," he said. It was only a little after six, but it was
already getting dark, and he wanted to be by himself for a while.
He was by himself for less than an hour, an hour spent in pain. He went to
bed, but not to sleep; he lay there in agony, trying to work out another
scenario that fit the events of the day -- some way to vindicate Elizabeth
of the crime he knew she had committed against him. But it was no
good...there was no other possibility! He would not allow himself even to
wonder who the man was, that one would be easy...the black Cadillac would
return.
"How do you feel now, love?" She said in a whisper, as she sat on the edge
of the bed and again felt his forehead. "You don't feel too hot anymore."
"I guess I'm okay," he said. The light in the room was only that little bit
spilling in from the hallway through a half- opened door, just enough that
he could see Elizabeth's incredibly beautiful face. In spite of himself he
had an instant erection when she put her hand on it, squeezed it gently, as
she stood up.
"I'm going to take a quick shower," she said, in a conspirato- rial
whisper. "I'll be right back, love...don't go to sleep on me..." He didn't.
He lay there hearing her moving about. He could hear the shower running and
envisioned the water beading up on the mounds of her breasts and on the
flat of her stomach.
The erection did not go away. He lay naked, wanting her -- wanting her to
say something new about her afternoon, something that would make him feel
stupid for his thoughts of vengeance and death...
But when she returned she said nothing. She closed the door and the room
went dark. Black dark. He could feel it when she drew the covers down and
sat beside him on the bed. He could feel the dampness of her hair and the
freshness of her warm skin.
She said nothing. She lay quietly beside him for a moment, an arm across
his chest, a breast against his side. Then she kissed him lightly as her
hand moved down his body until she had his soul in her hand. When she took
her face away and sat up beside him, she did not release him completely. He
heard her laugh quietly and he felt the warm washcloth on his shaft.
Gently she held it, wrapped in moist warmth; she squeezed it a little and
rubbed it a little, and just as he felt he could stand no more she stopped,
and exposed it to the cool dark air of the room. For a moment it was cold,
standing up and throbbing in the darkness.
But only for a moment.
Then it was wet and warm again...and the changing pressure came from the
play of the tip of her tongue. Repeatedly she took him to the edge of
explosion and back; somehow she knew exactly what his limits were, exactly
how much he could take. Almost too late she released him and he could feel
her warm mouth going slowly across his stomach, his nipples, his
neck...then her tongue was in his mouth and his rigid shaft was deep up
inside her. He pushed up against her and she did it all...
She did it all, and once started he could not stop it; but it wasn't right.
It was no good, not like it usually was; it was just fucking, anybody could
do it. He went to sleep thinking only of his Elizabeth doing it all for a
faceless bastard in a black Cadillac.
And he dreamed of murder...
He dreamed of a man with no face and his Elizabeth, in the shower and in
the back seat of a black Cadillac. He dreamed of anger turning into hatred,
and he dreamed of murder. And in his dream it felt good to kill.
It was the dream that woke him...it stayed with him, when he got up before
daybreak and dressed and left the house. While he drove to the university
and while he waited for a janitor to let him in, and while he drove back
home, he kept returning to the dream...remembering that it felt good to
kill...
But Aaron could not kill, and he knew it. He was a teacher, and teachers do
not kill. He was, however, a teacher of Chemis- try, and he knew he could
build a trap. Daylight was just begin- ning and Elizabeth was still asleep
when he returned to the house. For a long moment, he stood in the doorway
of the bed- room, watching his beautiful wife sleeping. Sleeping Beauty,
awaiting a magic prince in a black Cadillac...
Elizabeth had still been asleep when he left the house at his usual hour,
for what turned out to be the last time. He had almost called in sick that
last day, taken the day off to watch the house...but logic had insisted
that staying there would have been insane.
It wouldn't have changed anything. He would have ended up here anyway. He
knew that now...
"...And insanity, ladies and gentlemen of the jury...is not the answer
either!" The Special Prosecutor was winding down now, concluding his
summation. "In fact, insanity is impossible as a defense...this was the
most coldly calculated, most premeditated act imaginable..." Aaron could
feel pure hatred in the Special Prosecutor's voice, and for a week he had
seen it spreading into the eyes of the twelve faces in the jury box. They
belonged to him now, to the Prosecutor, he had them hanging on every word,
entranced.
"...Ladies...gentlemen," the Special Prosecutor went on, "I am not the only
one who demands a guilty verdict and a maximum penalty...Justice demands
it! Decency demands it!" Aaron was getting sick again.
"...This is not a sick man, ladies and gentlemen...this man is EVIL!" The
Special Prosecutor stopped and took a deep breath. The crowded courtroom
was silent while he slowly poured half a glass of water and slowly drank
it. Everyone knew what he was going to say now, and he was acting as if it
were getting diffi- cult to speak.
"...It's true this man's wife took a lover," he said. "It is true she was
guilty of adultery, and adultery is a sin...but it is not a crime..." Aaron
had the bitter taste of bile rising up in his throat. He wished he could go
deaf.
"...Have sympathy, ladies and gentlemen, for the lover of this man's
wife...for he too, was caught in this man's trap...it was her lover who
heard her screams; it was her lover who forced open the bathroom door..."
Now the Prosecutor went through the whole process of getting a drink of
water again. The room remained silent. When he put down the water glass
this time, he picked up the little bottle that was now so familiar to
everyone.
He held up the bottle, then leaned over the railing toward the jury. He
closed his eyes and spoke softly...but everyone could hear him: "Really,
ladies and gentlemen...SULFURIC ACID! Can you even imagine what it felt
like...when twelve ounces of SUL- FURIC ACID came rushing out of this
little bottle...?"
This is the end, Aaron thought.