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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. 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
Michele (Mf, teen, romance)
From: Steven Peters (Sxjames@aol.com)
Any comments on this story may be addressed to Sxjames@aol.com....
*****************************
****** MICHELE ******
*****************************
For the purposes of this narrative my name is John. The events I
relate occured almost a year and a half ago and only now can I write
about them with a little perspective -- I think. It still leaves me
emotionally drained however, and to be honest I may not finish this in
one piece. Be that as it may, it's time now to try and sort it out. I
just broke a date with my current lover and at some point she will want
an explanation (as several other people in my life have, and deserve,
one) so here it is. My hope is that by writing this -- putting it down
and then sending it out over the 'net -- I can find the words to
describe a good, loving and ultimately physical relationship between
myself and a sixteen year old girl.
(See buddy, there is a reason for the alias. The way things are
now one cannot be too careful. Also, this gets explicit. If that's not
your cup of tea better stop reading now. You have been warned.)
Where to start. Let's see, I'm 34 years old, stand 6' 2" and
weight about 190lbs. I've got long brown hair which I sometimes keep in a
ponytail, and brown eyes. I'm in good physical shape and aim to keep it
that way. When you sit in front of a computer all day it's real easy to
let yourself go so I set some goals. This year it's a climb up Mt.
Rainier. Hey, it works, believe me. When I'm not working (see below) I
read: Stephen King, John D. McDonald, that new lawyer guy -- good
storytellers all. When I have the time I also play guitar.
I mentioned work and computers. No, I'm not a computer whiz, I'm an
architect. Actually, an architect with a masters in civil engineering.
Its a rare combination and mostly what I do is industrial buildings with
very complicated requirements. Earthquake resistant semiconductor fabs
with hundreds of miles of piping and 60 tons of equipment on the floor,
stuff like that. I work for myself (yeah, I know, I like the boss) and
pretty much name my own price. More often than not, I get it.
Understand now; I'm not telling you this to impress you or anything, it
just explains why I'm not tied to a 9 to 5 job. My arrangements also
allows me the freedom to work at home, when and how I want. You see,
I'm pretty much a loner. I have no family to speak of -- just a
relatively small circle of close friend. And, while I am not celibate,
not many lovers either. I make no apologies, it's just the way I am.
Work and accomplishment have always dominated my life; I've made time
for little else. As a consequence I have money, and my freedom, and
even (occasionally) the time to enjoy both. But I've missed a lot also;
things that money can't buy. Perhaps as I tell this tale you will begin
to understand.
One last thing. At the time I had just moved to a city on the West
Coast, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and a
disaster of a marriage. Now you may think that Michele (that was her
name, and even now it rolls off my lips and tongue) caught me when I was
emotionally vulnerable, and you very well may be right. But the fact
remains: no one but her has been able to penetrate my emotional armor.
And it still hurts.
Okay, thanks for your patience. I think you have the background.
------
I ran into Michele on the doorstep of my apartment one spring
afternoon, and when I say 'ran into Michele' I mean that quite literally
-- I was heading out the front door when I tripped over her feet. She
had been standing off to the side of the entrance and as I grabbed the
metal post supporting the overhead awning to keep from nose diving into
the walkway she back-pedaled wildly, arms flailing like mad before
finally catching herself on the porch railing.
"Jesus kid, are you alright!" I said, then broke into a bemused
chuckle. It was really quite comical.
"Sorry mister" she hastily apologized "I was just gonna knock."
She sounded flustered and defensive, the tone of her voice conveying
more than simple embarrassment. My laughter quickly died. "Are you the
guy who plays guitar?" she continued "I heard you the other night
and..."
And then I heard it, coming from the apartment two doors down.
Yelling -- no, to be more accurate: screaming. An angry male voice,
full of obscenities, it's owner obviously out of control. The voice was
followed by a tearful female one. I couldn't quite make out the words
but there was no need to; I knew what I was hearing. I looked down at
Michele to get her reaction but she was staring at the flagstones in the
porch as if the patterns they created were the most fascinating things
in the world.
"Uh, hey kid--"
"--my name is Michele" she said quietly.
"Okay." I paused. "Michele, are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Ummmm.....no" she answered. Her gaze never left the porch.
"Are those your parents?" I knew the answer, but I asked anyway.
She said nothing, and I was about to repeat the question when she very
slowly nodded yes.
For a long while I stood there, looking down at the top of her
bowed head, at a total loss for what to do. I couldn't just leave her
there on the doorstep. Should I take her in? Call the cops? Take her to
the manager? I quickly dismissed the manager idea, but I was less willing
to dismiss calling the police until I understood the seriousness of the
situation. I cringed at the thought of what I was about to ask -- but I
had to find out.
"Michele, look at me." I kept my voice calm, but I made sure she
would not miss the seriousness in my tone. Slowly she raised her
head. "If someone is getting....hurt in there, you need to say so.
Now."
"No" she said very quietly, hesitating on each word "He -- dad --
just yells a lot." She stared right past me, avoiding my eyes, and I
suddenly realized how very, very hard this must be for her. There she
was; trying to hold a civil conversation with a total stranger while her
parents fought so loud the entire complex could overhear them.
"You need a place to duck out to, right?" She closed her eyes and nodded.
What the hell, I thought, errands could wait.
"Alright," I sighed "come on in."
We sat together in the corner of the kitchen, she on one side of
the alcove with me on the other, eating PB&J's and talking. Music
mostly, (I'm an unrepentant rock 'n roller and Michele shared my tastes)
and gradually, as the awkwardness began to pass, I started to really
*notice* her. Michele was not a big girl -- her slender body stood all
of five feet tall while her breasts were no more that gentle swells
rising from flatness of her pullover shirt -- but there was no mistaking
her blossoming beauty. Her face was so pretty; delicate nose, big soft
eyes and a wide, full mouth. She wore shoulder length, thick,
reddish-blond hair and every once in a while Michele would tilt her head
back and sweep the bangs from her forehead -- a graceful, feminine
gesture I never tired of watching. At first her pale gray/green eyes
reflected a definite wariness; but behind the wariness was intelligence,
humor, and a maturity I did not expect in one so young. After a while
her good looks (and her constant, youthful energy) drew me in; there is
no other way to describe it. When she got up to make another sandwich I
tracked every movement of her lithe, teen-girl body, unable to take my
eyes from her.
After finishing the second sandwich Michele turned the conversation
to her parents. I found out that her Dad had been laid off from an
auto plant back east. He moved the family to the west coast, chasing
construction work, but none had materialized. Her Mom worked, but
finances were tight. "And sometimes" she told me, very matter-of-factly
"Dad just goes off the deep end."
"Michele" I explained "a man puts a lot of self-esteem into providing
for a family so don't be..." She cut me off with a impatient sigh.
"I knooooow. I get the same lecture from Mom."
"I think she's right."
"But it doesn't give him the right to make everyone so miserable!"
For the first time in our conversation she seemed truly upset and I must
have reacted automatically -- reaching for her hand -- because she
immediately sat bolt upright and apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to
yell at you. It's just -- well, I don't have very many friends I can
talk about this with, you know?" She slumped down in her chair and for
the longest time was silent, composing her thoughts. When she continued
her voice was much softer. "It feels good to get this off my chest.
Your a good listener. Thanks."
"I, uhhh...your welcome" I replied, trying to hide my
embarrassment. (My former wife held just the opposite opinion of my
listening skills -- and, I suppose, with good reason). I wasn't sure
what to say next and didn't want to upset her further so I changed the
subject. "I've got a stash of cookies around here somewhere, would you
like some?"
"Oreos?" she asked hopefully. Surprised, I nodded yes.
"Alright!" she said with genuine enthusiasm, breaking into a wide
smile as she jumped out of her chair. Right then and there I knew she
had my heart. I mean, how could I *not* like this pretty, intelligent,
well spoken sixteen year old who could discuss with authority the
latest from Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots while unashamedly devouring
a package of Oreos?
------
Over the next couple of weeks Michele became an almost constant
presence around the place, drifting into the apartment after school let
out and staying until her Mom came home from work. (Early on I made a
point of trying to introduce myself to Michele's parents. I never met
Michele's father, but I did met her Mom -- a pleasant, outgoing woman in
her '30s. She and I immediately hit it off and it was not long before
we came to an understanding; as long as her school work didn't suffer
Michele was free to spend the afternoons at my place while waiting for
her to return home from work. I think she may have been afraid of
Michele's father in some way hurting Michele, but I don't know that for
certain.) Anyway -- I'd be in the study/office, typing on the PC or
talking on the phone, and Michele would let herself in. "Hi-ya John!"
she'd call out, then I'd hear the refrigerator door open and the thud of
a milk jug as she tossed it on the counter. A couple of minutes latter
Michele would appear in the doorway, glass of milk in one hand and a
sandwich or cookie in the other, cheerfully asking me how my day was.
We'd talk for a few minutes and then I'd tell her to get to her
homework. She'd put on a pouty face (for about two seconds, max) then
disappear back into the kitchen to study. It became a ritual; a simple,
graceful routine that anchored my day.
I am not sure when I first became aware -- consciously aware,
that is -- that I was physically attracted to her. Yeah, I know what
your thinking, but DAMMIT! it wasn't like that. I had a deep and
genuine affection for Michele -- far beyond simple sexual longing -- and
I would not, *could not*, do anything to hurt her or mess up our
friendship. But, as much as I wanted to deny it, I was fantasizing
about her. Sexually. A lot. Imagining her small, lithe, body spread
eagle beneath mine; day dreaming of wrapping my hands around her slender
waist as I emptied my balls into her little quim. It was stupid, it was
nuts, it was impossible -- and it left me feeling like shit. I mean,
Michele looked to me for stability and security; my apartment had become
her refuge. She trusted me to act like a mature, rational adult and yet
when she stood next to me it was all I could do not to start fantasizing
about fucking her brains out!
I guess you could say Michele had become a very important part of my life.