Message-ID: <23287asstr$953788253@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kristenwrites@aol.com (Kristen)
X-Original-Message-ID: <20000322194554.24280.00000354@ng-fh1.aol.com>
X-To: story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us
JMDigest-Score: good -32
Subject: {ASSM} "Lake Tahoe" Part 1 by Kristen (MF)
Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000 00:10:53 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/23287>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: IceAltar, apuleius
("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
_________________________________________
Scroll down to view text
Archive name: tahoe.txt (MF)
Authors name: Kristen (kristen078@hotmail.com)
Story title : Lake Tahoe - Part 1
Last Edited 03/22/00 by Ian
------------------------------------------------------
-= This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2000. =-
Please do not remove the author information or make
any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-
commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of
commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration.
------------------------------------------------------
Lake Tahoe Part 1 of 2 (MF)
By Kristen Kathleen Becker
"It is now safe to turn your computer off."
I had just finished answering my last e-mail. It
was to Bronwen, one of the fearless leaders of the
Erotic Writers' Guild (of which I am a proud junior
member).
I'd posted to our Internet newsgroup that I was
going to Lake Tahoe for a week, and she asked me
if going to Lake Tahoe was a good thing. I thought
it was; even if I had to work, I'd get some skiing
in. I replied: "I'll let you know when I get back."
Punching the off button on the computer, then looked
up at the clock on my bedroom wall and saw that I'd
been messing around a little too long. If I was
going to make my 4:30 flight I'd have to get my
butt in gear.
As I pulled out of the long driveway to my apartment
house and headed toward Portland up Highway 20, I
made a mental list of the stuff I was taking with
me.
The whole trip was kind of weird. My boss had
called me only the day before to tell me that we
were to have a "Corporate Retreat" in a little town
called Stateline, just north of Lake Tahoe. He said
that meetings would be held on Wednesday, Thursday
and Friday. On Saturday we'd take the day off and
go skiing on Mount Rose.
I think the idea was to make us more like a team.
Well, so long as I have my skis on my roof rack,
I'm up for anything. It would be like a vacation
for me.
I love to travel. Any excuse for it is a good one
as far as I'm concerned. I'd fly to Buffalo, New
York, just for the fun of flying there. (You get
the picture?) I don't get to travel much, and,
being twenty, don't have loads of cash.
Basically, I live in three rooms in a huge old
farmhouse/mansion off Highway 20, on the edge of
Deschutes National Forest. It's a neat old house,
but my space in it is small and only costs me
$350 a month.
Since I own my 1977 Jeep (built a year before I
was born) and my computer belongs to the company
I work for, my actual expenses are pretty low.
Somehow, though, I always manage to live just a
little above my income.
Contact with the outside world is pretty limited
when the biggest city near you is a place called
Bend (It's OK if you've never heard of Bend. It's
sort of in the middle of Oregon, and there's not
much reason for anyone to know it even exists.)
At any rate, I was stoked, and heading up the
fog-shrouded highway to fun and adventure, with
only a slight guilt pang that my boyfriend Jeff
couldn't come with me. But this was business and
I'd be working for three days (sort of - wink,
wink!).
Jeff, who's a structural engineer, was in the
middle of a project anyway, and had been up in
Seattle for almost a week when my boss called.
I made Portland just fine. Got parked and through
the construction-wracked terminal just in time to
be one of the blessed first thirty passengers on
Southwest Flight 1709 to Sacramento. (They don't
have assigned seats, and even though I like
people I hate having to sit in a middle seat.)
We boarded, and left right on time. My plan was
to catch up on reading several of my friends'
Internet stories via the old laptop during the
hour-and-a-half flight to Sacramento.
I was sitting next to an older man (forty-ish)
and made a special effort to introduce myself
to him, and get to know him a little. He turned
out to be a salesman, and also a reverend. He
had his own church; his little congregation
met at his house each Sunday.
I usually draw my neighbor into reading my
stories during a flight, unless I'm traveling
with Jeff, when we keep each other busy. I
like to get their reaction; it's fun to let
them know that I write erotic stories for the
Internet. It's also fun to see if they get
aroused sitting next to me while we read a
story together. (I've had several interesting
encounters doing this on a flight, which I
probably ought to write about some time.)
However, I didn't think my salesman/preacher
would appreciate what I did, so I positioned
the computer screen to face the window so that
he couldn't read it. I was determined to read
without giving any outward signs that might
indicate what I was doing. Luckily I'd already
read Woodsmoke's story (It really makes me
crazy when someone uses my name in their story;
it turns me on to imagine myself into one).
Fortunately no other authors had used my name,
and I was able to get through all the stories
without making a spectacle of myself, though
some of them did make me feel kind of crazy.
Anyway, everything went all right, and we
landed at Sacramento International at 6:45pm.
I was walking through the rather seedy-looking
terminal when an announcement came over the
loudspeaker: "Kristen Becker, please pick up
a white courtesy phone."
I'd never had that happen before. As a matter
of fact, I wasn't sure what a white courtesy
phone was. But, being smarter than your
average blonde, I soon figured out that the
white phones on the wall must be what was
meant.
It turned out that Andreaus (the big boss)
had a son who was also attending our little
retreat, and he wanted me to meet him at the
Southwest Baggage Claim and bring him along
with me to the meeting.
I have to admit I was a little put off by
this. Apparently Antonio (seems like all the
men in my boss's family have "An" names)
wouldn't be 18 for two more months, and
therefore couldn't rent a car on his own. So
I was stuck.
You know what I mean; it's hard to say no to
the boss when he's covering your expenses for
a day on the slopes.
I was wearing my black cold-weather outfit,
and when I walked into the baggage claim I
got a good response from the men there. (I
like wearing tight outfits. It's fun to watch
the lengths to which some men will go to to
look at some leg. It's not that I'm a tease;
I just know I look good in tight pants.)
There was Antonio, standing by the carousel
and undressing me with his eyes. I was a
little taken aback by the unrelenting stare
he was giving my body. And I do mean my body;
I don't think he looked at my face until I
was standing right in front of him, offering
him a hand to shake.
Looking back, it was kind of funny, because
his hand was real sweaty, and he was super
embarrassed, realizing that he'd been staring
like an idiot.
His dad is around 50 and has gray hair, so
I didn't know what color it had been when
he was younger. Apart from his sweaty hand-
shake, Antonio's outstanding feature was his
lovely, wavy, auburn-red hair, the kind that
seems to fall into place without doing any-
thing to it. (I suspected it was an expensive
haircut.)
He was also quite handsome, but, then, I find
most men handsome, in one way or another.
When the introduction was over we grabbed a
luggage-cart and filled it with our baggage
and skis, then headed toward the buses that
take you to the rental cars.
Going out of the terminal doors I saw that
the weather had turned ugly; you could
actually see the clouds moving overhead.
The wind is something else in Sacramento;
it cuts right through you, even in cold
weather clothing. But I didn't mind; I
just walked faster and made Antonio run
after me to keep up.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a little
bit pushy. It's not that I'm at all rude or
mean; I just find it hard to be around slow
people. I'm very athletic, and feel that men
have a big advantage over women, strength-
wise, and I've little patience with men who
complain, or can't keep up with me.
I gave little Antonio a hard time when he
began whining about the pace I was setting;
I just walked faster...
I also said something that apparently
offended his masculinity, and he was
pretty morose for a time. Things livened
up, though, when we got into our 1998
Blazer and it wouldn't start.
I had to get an attendant to take a look
at the vehicle for me, and he kind of
pissed me off when he took the attitude
that I was just another dumb blonde who
knew nothing about cars.
Well... anyway, it was a bad fuse, and it
took him awhile to figure it out. I was
ready for another car, but they had no
more 4WDs on the lot, and I thought, what
with the crummy weather, it would be wise
to stick with the one we had since we would
be doing some mountain driving.
We finally left the Sacramento airport about
7:30pm, heading south on Interstate 5. I had
no trouble finding the junction to Hwy 50,
and then pushed the pedal to the metal.
South Tahoe is a little over two hours from
Sacramento, and I wanted to reach the hotel
long before 10pm, so I was hurrying things
a bit.
About Plaserville the fog and snow started.
The snow began falling like we were in the
middle of a blizzard. I had to slow down
to fifty just to see twenty feet in front
of me (so much for 10pm!).
I started getting worried when I saw the fog
thickening, and, slowing the Blazer down to
twenty-five, we began creeping up the two-
lane road. I knew we were in trouble just
after we passed Kyburz when the side of the
hill to the right of us slid down into the
river that ran along the side of the road.
There had been a forest fire sometime in the
past year or two and the soil erosion was
obvious, even in the dark. I stopped the
truck in the middle of the snow-covered road
and we watched soil and tree stumps tumbling
into the rushing river. It was pitch dark,
and the only reason we'd seen the hill go
was that the area had been framed in the
Blazer's headlights at the moment it let
loose.
Realizing that the weather was turning even
worse, I pushed on, hoping to cover the
remaining twenty-nine miles to Lake Tahoe
before anything else nasty happened.
About ten miles farther on we had the big
nasty, when the truck stopped. I mean,
everything about it stopped. The headlights
went out, the engine cut out, and we just
sat there in the middle of the road.
I kept trying to re-start the engine, but
after turning the key fifty times with no
result I finally gave up.
Antonio, in his helpful, male, adolescent
way suggested that the problem might be a
fuse.
I knew that! - it's just that it hadn't
yet occurred to me. So I scrunched down to
look at the area the rental guy had been
working on, and started picking at the panel
that covered it.
Well... I couldn't get it off. Antonio
eventually got tired of me hitting the
dashboard and swearing at the plastic
covering, so he got out of the passenger
seat and trudged round the Blazer.
Opening my door, he leaned in and flipped
the hatch open. He flicked a Bic lighter
to help him see what he was doing and
soon found the bad fuse. He kept changing
the fuses around as if he knew what he
was doing, and eventually the headlights
flashed on. I turned the ignition and the
engine started up immediately - to stop
once again as soon as Antonio had
reclaimed the passenger seat.
Cursing, he went to open his door again, but
I grabbed his arm and said: "Just climb over
me and I'll move to your side. The snow's
getting too deep, and it's colder than the
North Pole out there."
Little Antonio hesitated, then did what I'd
suggested.
I hadn't planned on him rubbing his face
across my chest, but I gave him the benefit
of the doubt, and didn't punch him in the
nuts to wipe the dumb grin off his face.
Anyway, we couldn't get the Blazer to start
again; Antonio reckoned that the lower-rated
fuses were just popping their little filament
thingies whenever we turned on the ignition.
So there we were, stuck!
The snow was coming down in bucketfuls, and
the wind was whistling through a crack I'd
left open in the driver's side window and
then couldn't close because they were power
windows (and we had no power).
I suppose it took about ten minutes for all
residual heat to be sucked out of the truck.
It was about this time I realized that no
cars had gone by us for almost a half-hour.
I could barely see any tire tracks, since
they had mostly filled up with snow.
We learned later that when that hill slid
down into the river it had made a kind of dam,
bringing the water level up far enough to
overflow the pavement. The authorities had
caught on to the situation and stopped both
the uphill traffic and the traffic from the
top of the mountain until morning, making
everyone go a different way.
It really PO'ed me, though, that no-one
checked the road to make sure it was empty.
I guess they figured that everyone on it
would keep traveling, and the people at the
slide couldn't see us because we were miles
up the road.
I figured right away that something must be
wrong, because Hwy 50 is quite an important
artery between Lake Tahoe and the outside
world.
We waited another hour before I decided to
put on the rest of my ski clothes over what
I was already wearing. This is when I found
out that sweet little Antonio only had a
shaving kit and his laptop in his carry-on.
He said his dad had everything, and that he
was supposed to pick his stuff up at the
consignor when we arrived (Oh great!).
It wouldn't have mattered if we hadn't found
ourselves stuck in a fog-blown snowstorm in
sub-zero weather.
I'm 5'4", and at my heaviest have never
weighed more than 115 lbs (well, maybe 120,
for six months, back in eighth grade).
Antonio, on the other hand, was an inch over
6 feet and probably weighed 175 lbs (yes, he
is big for his age, isn't he?).
I hated doing it, but I told Antonio to put
my parka on (it would probably never be the
same again), and since there was absolutely
no hope of him fitting into my pants (Damn
those tight pants, anyway!) I had him wrap as
much spare clothing as we had around his legs.
Our one remaining problem was that we were
still freezing. We talked for what seemed like
days. I found out that Andy (he preferred that
to Antonio) was a musician, and that his dad
didn't like that one bit. I also found out that
he thought of himself as a square peg being
forced into a round hole (His words, not mine),
and that he wanted nothing more than his
father's approval for what he was, not for
what he wanted him to be.
I could identify with that. Not that my folks
harassed me or anything; they had my older
sister Amy for that. I was an angelic fair-
haired child compared to her. Amy did things
like sending naked pictures of herself out on
the Internet, getting then caught when a friend
of the family told dad about it.)
The point is that Andy and I were connecting;
I was starting to think there was a person
behind those handsome blank eyes. Inevitably,
though, being a teenage boy, Andy brought the
subject around to sex. We were talking about
the Internet, and where the company's future
might be heading, when little Andy said: "You
know, I probably have the world's largest
collection of pornography on my computer."
I raised an eyebrow. "What kind of porno-
graphy are we talking about, little man?"
"Nude pictures and dirty sex stories." He
looked me in the eye, waiting for me to be
shocked and horrified.
I just smiled my most innocent smile and
asked him: "Do you have any on your
lap-top?" I think he was shocked that a
female would respond with a question like
that instead of being indignant.
"Uh, yah, I do. You want to see some?" he
asked, a little worried now.
I asked how many pictures and how many
stories he had in his collection, and he
replied proudly that he had hundreds.
He had piqued my curiosity; it's not every
day you meet a fellow collector of erotica.
Continued in Part 2...
~~~~~~~~
"You'll find that many of the things we hold to be true, are only
that, from a certain point of view."
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+