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Message-ID: <47079asstr$1079442605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: El Sol <munster@eden.rutgers.edu>
Subject: {ASSM} Michelle's Story: 'Alejandro me dijo' by ElSol (mf teen coll violent)
Lines: 858
Date: Tue, 16 Mar 2004 08:10:05 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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        This email address is NOT read. If you wish to contact me please
do so ONLY at munster(at)remus(dot)rutgers(dot)edu.


        I consider this the second Stringbreaker story; 'The Return of
Dacia' is the first. For some obvious reasons (to me), Stringbreaker is
not mentioned in it. The stories are not meant to be a series but instead
a character approached from vaguely different angles.

	Thank you
	ElSol

<1st attachment, "shellfortext.txt" begin>


			Michelle's Story
			"Alejandro me dijo"
				By ElSol

Spanish to English Translations: 
Alejandro me dijo -- Alejandro told me
Amiga Mía -- Female friend of mine 
Y solo se me ocurre amarte -- And it only occurs to me to love you 
Yo quiero darte mi alegría, mi guitarra y mis poesías -- I want to give 
you my happiness, mi guitar, and my lyrics
Tan pura la vida y tu -- So pure life and you 
Gracias Alejandro, por esa noche -- Thank you Alejandro, for that night 
Amarte -- love you 
Maricon -- faggot 
Pero no puedo tocar -- But I can't touch (the word for playing an
instrument in spanish is touch) 
mi hijo -- my son 
Todavía puedes cantar -- You can still sing 
Padre - Father (Priest) 
Que  vas hacer -- What are you going to do 
"Voy a cantar... a llorar...  tocar mi guitarra y mi mujer. Lo
demás se lo dejo a Dios." -- I'm going to sing... cry... touch (play) my
guitar and (touch) my woman. The rest I'll leave to God.

			-------

Dedicated to Michelle

			-------

	Nobody expected it, least of all me.

	I was a freshman scholarship student at a private high school with
an excellent music program. One of my teachers, Ms. Smith, sweat blood to
get me the money over an athlete or academic whiz-kid.

	I agreed to perform at the Winter Recital for her sake. I also
wanted to see what it felt like to be alone in the spotlight. It was the
future I wanted and getting used to the glare was a necessary step.

	The Recital was a big thing at the school. The schedule of
performances was printed a month before and I was the only soloist with
freshman in front of their name. Nobody asked why I had the spot; they
formed the opinion that best fit their high school social religion. I
guess I was a heretic of the established order to most.

	Walking in the arrogance of a destined future, I made it worse.

	I touched my first guitar strings before "Ma-Ma" came out of my
mouth. My mother could lay a guitar on the floor and forget me for a
morning or afternoon. I looked at the other Recital performers with the
arrogance that if our individual practice hours were summed up and
compared they would be years in deficit. They cried for toys when they
were children; my punishments always involved taking away the guitar.

	Puking twice in the half-hour before I performed was not a
favorable omen. Ms. Smith tried to make light of my clammy, pale skin. She
laughed when I looked annoyed and put the guitar in my arms.
	
	I felt grounded again.

	I performed near the beginning of the Recital. Ms. Smith wanted me
to close the show but was shouted down. I was singing in Spanish to a
Caucasian audience went the argument. I laughed when she cursed in front
of me about the prejudice of that stupidity since the final soloist was
singing from an Italian opera.

	They announced my name and even the guitar could not hold off the
return of stage fright. I walked out and nodded to the audience as soon as
I was out of the curtain's protective cover. I moved to where the
stagehands had placed the bar stool in front of the microphone.

	The lights were a painful white and I could barely make anyone
out. I crooked my neck to the side trying to release the tension. The
microphone was too high so I adjusted it with trembling hands. There was a
snicker as the silence extended past what a good performer would have
allowed. I looked behind me at the people who would be accompanying me.
They looked bored which did not bode well. I turned back and squinted my
eyes to see if I could make out anyone. One of the lighting technicians
took mercy and pulled his light away so it did not shine on me directly.

	The silence was broken by feedback when I tried to say hello.
There were a couple of laughs, increasing my nervousness. The sound of
those laughs nearly cramped my stomach. A line of sweat broke out on my
brow and I cleared my throat nervously.

	She saved me that day.

	The technician moving the light let me see the audience. Directly
in front of me, a few rows back was Samantha Jones, or 'Miss Samantha
Jones' as the freshman guys called the Undisputed Senior School Princess.
Every high school has one of them, the Unattainable Dream.

	She centered me.

	I knew who would be sitting next to her.

	I turned my eyes to her left and saw MY unattainable; Michelle
Debreau, a senior like Samantha.

	She was popular with the guys because she liked sports and laughed
about guy things. Unlike Samantha, Michelle saw me when I passed her in
the school halls, even if I was a lowly freshman.

	I looked at Samantha again, and then at Michelle.

	I had to smile. I always had to smile when I saw 'Miss Michelle
Debreau'. I could not see her brown-green eyes but I knew they would be
shining with sympathy. I turned around, looked at the musicians behind me
and waved them off.

	I didn't need them anymore.

	I smiled at Michelle again. She reflected it with a wide one of
her own. Those smiles reduced the world to her and I.

	I didn't have my own words, but hours of Alejandro had put his
inside me.

	Alejandro Sanz, Spanish singer-songwriter.

	He captivated me with 'Amiga Mía'. The subject matter was the most
original I'd ever heard. I bought every one of his album, and learned
every song by soul.

	He gave voice to what I wanted.

	He gave voice to what I wanted to say to the Dream's handmaiden.

	"Y solo se me occurre amarte"

	It began with the guitar.

	I watched as she leaned forward in the way she did when something
captured her attention. I touched the guitar strings lovingly, drawing the
music I wanted to give Michelle.

	"Yo quiero darte mi alegría, mi guitarra y mis poesias"

	I sang the words to her, for her. She didn't understand a single
one but that was okay. I did not understand all of his words either. I
hadn't done enough to know what they meant. I felt each word when I was
near Michelle though, and that night I found a way to make one part of the
song true.

	I showed her my soul.

	It ended with the guitar.

	Everyone's silence came into focus. I nodded at the audience and
gave Michelle a last smile before I walked off stage.
	
	Ms. Smith hugged me tightly and kissed both my cheeks hard.

	"God, you're so fucking beautiful," she whispered into my ear.

	It wasn't me.

	I couldn't help smile when I was near Michelle.
				
				------

	The details don't matter, not to me.

	Samantha Jones was envious of the five minutes I raised Michelle
above her, so what?

	Michelle's ex-boyfriend was a junior and a hulking brute of a
football star with jealousy running through his veins like acid, so what?

	The ex had two sycophants who would follow him into hell not
realizing that was searing heat they felt, so what?

	The important thing is the second night that Michelle and I came
together, and fell apart.

	We became friends. Not friends in public, but friends in the
privacy outside the doors of the rest of our lives. She was waiting in her
car when I came out of my guitar instructor's house a week after the
Recital. She smiled and waved me in. I enjoyed the walk home but the
invitation was not something I could turn down.

	She drove to her house and led me into the basement.

	Michelle liked to talk, and I liked to listen to her. She said
even if I did not talk back, she felt like I heard what she wanted to say.

	It ended the same every day for two months.

	The guitar and Alejandro's words.

	Our last night, it did not end like that. She was on the floor and
I was sitting on her bed. She took the guitar out of my hands and placed
her face close to me. She kissed me but I was too overwhelmed to kiss her
back.

	"Kiss me," she encouraged.

	She put her lips on mine and I gave her my first kiss. She placed
her hands on my hips and moved them underneath my t-shirt. She separated
our lips and took my t-shirt off.

	I was afraid.
	
	Not stage-fright, but virgin terror.

	Those weren't my words. There was no way I could live up to them
skin to skin. I was a boy and Michelle deserved a man.

	I almost fled.

	She stopped me with another kiss. I drowned in the lavender smell
of her perfume. I was going to fail but I had to stay, like I had to smile
when I was near her.

	I had to be inside her even if it was only once.

	She popped the buttons of my jeans and tugged on their waistline.
I pushed myself up with my arms. She pulled my pants and underwear past my
hips. She took my shoes off and finished stripping me.

	Michelle put her hands on the inside of my thighs and created a
space between them for her. She winked at me and took my hard dick in a
gentle grip. She kissed me and stroked me slowly.

	I could not have held out against the first touch of a foreign
hand; the hand I wanted touching me. I groaned and my eyes felt hot as I
failed her.

	"It's okay, baby," she whispered and I believed her. "This is
exactly what I want."

	She tightened her grip and milked the last of the seed from my
body. She pulled away and looked at me. She stroked my face with her other
hand and touched my lips with hers.

	Michelle moved downwards and I thought I was going die.

	I did die, more than once, as she licked, kissed, and then took me
into her mouth. I wanted to live when she kissed my testicles.

	She stood up and looked down at me. I was on my back with my legs
off the bed.

	"Stay right there," she said.

	Oh yeah, I had somewhere else to be!

	She turned around and walked into her bathroom. I wished she had
not closed the door so that I could watch her.

	I did not want her to leave my sight.

	I lay my head back and stared at the ceiling. I heard the bathroom
door open and looked towards it. Michelle walked towards me naked. I got
hard and bit my teeth down on each other. I lost focus for a minute as a
tear formed in each eye. I blinked them away and looked at her again. She
stood between my legs and touched her nails to my thighs.

	"Ms. Smith told me what song you sang at the Recital," she said.
"I tried to do a word for word translation, and then paid to have it
translated right. I bought every Alejandro album so I knew each song you
sang to me in the last two months. I paid to have each one translated
too."

	I nodded.

	"Are you ready for your first time?" she asked me.

	At fourteen, no.

	I nodded.

	"Good," she said and climbed on the bed, then past me.

	She lay down on her back and looked at me. I scrambled up and got
between her open legs. She kissed me and took me in her hand. She guided
me to her center and I thrust. She must have winced as I penetrated into
dryness. I did not know it wasn't supposed to be like that so I pulled
back and thrust harder. I was fully seated inside her before I looked at
her again.

	Her eyes stopped me. She wasn't feeling what I did.

	The desire to flee returned.

	"It's okay," she whispered. "There'll be more times. This is for
you."

	But that's not the dream.

	My body and heart fought over which would control the rest of my
life.

	"Tan pura la vida y tu"

	In whispered lyrics, my voice was not deep or dark. It sounded as
heartfelt as my heart felt living Alejandro's words for the first time.

	She opened her legs wider and gripped higher up my body.

	Gracias Alejandro, por esa noche.
	
	It was the unattainable as I sang for us. She pulled me down and I
gave her the song with my lips against her ear.

	She moaned softly as I finished the first chorus and moved her
hips beneath me. She was wet and warm. I put my forehead on hers and
pulled my hips back. She squeezed me hard with her arms as I moved into
her.

	The song kept me in place. I could not move and sing, so I sang
and she moved.

	She danced beneath me and as the last amarte left my lips I kissed
her. She came and I knew... knew it was the first time she had done that
with a male inside her. It was in her eyes, the tears and a small part of
what I felt when I looked at her while she passed me in the halls.

	It didn't make me a man, but it sure felt like it.

	"Your turn," she whispered.

	I was lost for a second, my turn for what?

	She stroked my hips with her hands and my sex answered the
question. I pulled back and thrust hard into her. There was no dryness,
only invitation.

	I came inside Michelle.

				-------

	I guess the tears that touched both our eyes at one time while we
made love meant we cried.

	We definitely loved, even if not completely.

	We also laughed afterwards, with each other, about nothing.

	I walked out of her house alive. I could smell the night air. I'll
remember the clean smell of it for the rest of my life.

	They jumped me a few blocks from Michelle's home. They pulled me
into a dark alley and the two sycophants held my arms as Michelle's ex
opened the guitar case.

	I knew my life was over when he smashed the guitar against the
wall. It wasn't jealousy in his eyes, but raw hatred. He pulled out a
hammer and stroked the head.

	"Samantha says you should have sang for her," he told me.

	They never proved that Samantha knew what the three were going to
do. She admitted egging them on when they told her they wanted to get even
for my stealing the football star's girl.

	I struggled as they lay my hand down on the barrel.

	"Let's see you play now, asshole," the ex said gleefully as he
raised the hammer.

	It came down in slow motion. Inch by inch I watched its path until
the pain lanced through my heart.

	They shattered my hands.

				-----

	"Not Guilty" was my second death at their hands months later.

	"Not Guilty" means "It never happened" when the person it happened
to hears them.

	I never woke up in the hospital.

	I never screamed at Michelle to get out of my room.

	I never cried in my mother's arms like I had never cried before.

	I never heard the words "You'll never play the guitar like you
did, Miguel" come out of a doctor's mouth.

	I never dropped the guitar from the pain.

	I never.

	I NEVER!!!

	"It's over, Miguel," Ms. Smith whispered into my ear as she hugged
me when the jury spoke those words. "Let it go, sweetheart, please."

	The jury looked at me with pity in their eyes. Later, one of the
jury members called it a youthful indiscretion that had to be looked at in
the context of the boys' ages.

	Those words were worse than 'it never happened'.

	I smiled at the television when I heard them.

	I was young too and I did not have anything to live for anymore.

				-----

	"Hello, Joseph" I said before I threw the bat in her
ex-boyfriend's face.

	I had been waiting for them in the weight room by the school
stadium. There was no one there and I could watch for Joseph's car from
the window.
	
	I counted seconds and opened the door when they were about five
feet away. They looked shocked but Joseph had the reflexes of a star
athlete. He caught the bat easily.

	He should have been looking low.

	My dad looked on my music with masculine distaste and tried to
make sure I was not going to turn out to be a maricon. He personally drove
me to martial arts classes Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I
thought he looked funny sitting among the moms but never said anything.

	The kick was perfect. I had practiced it a thousand times when I
decided to be indiscrete. It angled downward and struck at the knee. I hit
Joseph with my shin in a kick that would have hurt even if it had struck
higher. The human body is so fragile, hands and knees break irreparably
with so little pressure.

	Joseph went down with a horrendous scream that mirrored the one my
throat had produced that night. I took the bat out of his hands and
pointed it at the other two. They froze seeing their fate in my hatred.

	I pulled the bat back and hit Joseph with as much of the barrel as
I could strike his chest with. His scream stopped as the air was forced
out of his body.

	One life for one life.

	My guitar, his football.

	Even Steven, as any kid might say.

	The two turned tail and ran when I looked at them. I smiled as I
threw the bat end over end at the smaller. He tripped and slid a few feet.
He tried to get up but I smashed his jaw with another thousand-times
practiced kick.

	He was out.

	I looked up and saw the back of the last one. I knew where he was
going so I picked up the bat. I walked back to Joseph who was also out and
took his car keys out of his jacket.

	I didn't know how to drive so Joseph's car was the worst off for
my attempt. Somehow, I made it to the third boy's house before the cops
did. I knew he was running to mommy and daddy. They were the ones that
paid for the high-end lawyers.

	I hit the door at the lock with the bat. It popped open and I
walked inside.

	"I've already called the cops," the father screamed at me.

	His son was standing behind them.

	"Sit down, or I'll kill him instead of just hurting him," I said
to the man who bought his son's innocence.

	"Not my baby, please," his mother pleaded.

	I pointed to the sofa and pulled the knife out of my back pocket.
The father understood the edge they had pushed me to and gathered his wife
in his arms.

	"It's time to make a man's decision, Robert," I told the last of
my guitar's destroyers.

	"I'm going to give you a choice, your head or your arm," I said.
"You have to the count of three."

	"We didn't mean it," he pleaded.

	"One."

	"I'm sorry, I didn't know he would go that far,"
		
	"Two."

	"Put your arm out, Robert," his father yelled.

	"Dad, help me," the boy cried. "Mommy, please."

	"Three."

	The arm went out automatically as his mind chose life.

	I brought the bat down on his elbow.

					-----

	"Hello, Miguel" said an instantly recognizable voice as I sat with
a cup of tea warming my aching hands at the college coffee shop.

	I looked into brown-green eyes.

	"Am I disturbing you?" she asked sitting down.

	I scanned the room. Her friends were looking at her curiously.
Michelle was staring at me.

	"Hello, Michelle," I said with a sigh.

	"How have you been?" she asked looking at my hands.

	"I hurt everyday," I told her honestly.

	Somewhere in the years between, I guess I lost the need to smile
around her.

	A faint sheen of tears covered her eyes, and I ran away.

					-----

	She had something to say and regardless of my not wanting to see
her she was not going to let it go. She was in my floor lounge everyday or
at the cafeteria, when I had breakfast, lunch or dinner.

	"He sang a song for me once," I heard her tell her sorority
sisters when they asked why she was pursuing a freshman.

	She had more patience than I did, and finally she made it into my
room.

	"Do you blame me?" she asked sitting on my bed.

	"No, Michelle," I said. "I don't blame you, I don't even blame
them anymore. Something bad happened. I have to live with it for the rest
of my life."

	"I was glad you got even," she said ferociously.

	I nodded.

	"Do you know how sorry I am?" she asked softly.

	I nodded again.

	Everyone was sorry.

	"I couldn't stay away from you back then," she said. "I was too
young to know I was doing something wrong trying to be with you."

	"There was nothing wrong with what happened between us," I said
wearily.

	"It caused that," she said angrily pointing at my hands.

	I nodded.	

	"Do they hurt?" she asked with concern in her eyes.

	"They ache in room temperature," I replied. "If I hold a cold
glass for too long, they hurt."

	The tears rolled down her cheeks. I closed my eyes to steel myself
against them.

	"You looked at her and you looked at me," she said. "And you chose
me."

	I opened my eyes and stared into her.

	"Nobody ever did that," she said. "I was never someone's choice
when Samantha was around."

	I didn't know what to say.

	"You gave me something she wanted, probably more than anything
else in her high school life because you didn't want to give it to HER,"
she said.  "Ms. Smith said you played and sang beautifully but she didn't
get it. You made me feel beautiful, more beautiful than every girl there."

	"They weren't my words, Michelle."

	"No, Miguel," she said. "But you meant every one, even the ones
you didn't understand."

	I looked away.

	"Everyone in that auditorium felt it," she said. "With your voice
and guitar, you were better than most of us could be at anything. We
weren't angry though. Someday, we would be able to say we were there at
Miguel Sanchez's first public performance. 'You think he's good now, you
should have seen him then. Young, innocent, and so pure when he sang that
first time.'"

	"I had a recording contract," I told her.

	"What?" she gasped.

	"A Spanish album," I said with tears in my eyes. "Ms. Smith got me
the audition. It was all women when I walked into the room. I thought
about you while I sang for them."

	We never told anyone.

	"No!"

	"They were looking for the right songs for the album," I said
closing my hands in pained fists.

	She hugged me tight and sobbed into my shirt.

	We were skin to skin moments later.

	I was on top of her like our first time.

	It was only my second.

	I waited for her body to warm as we kissed. She was the one who
led my dick to her. I pushed in slowly and her pussy welcomed me.

	She was like the warmth from a cup on my hands; the pain fell
away.

	I pulled back and thrust into her fully. She wrapped her legs
around my waist. I pulled back and fucked into my lost dream.

	She had been waiting those years too.

	It felt like her body heated and then released all of it into me.
I loved the pressure her pussy surrounded me with and the sound of her
pleasure.

	She kissed my hands before she fell asleep.

	There was no music, no laughter but at least there were tears.

					-----

	I woke up as the sun hit the window of my dorm room. They had
given me a single because I needed to keep the room warmer than most
people liked. Michelle was still asleep beside me. I climbed out of bed
and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

	I opened my closet door and pulled out my guitar case when I came back. My
father had commissioned my new guitar. There were tears in his eyes the
first time he heard me on it. I pulled the chair out to the middle of the
room and turned my back to the sleeping woman in my bed.

	The guitar, the music and me held back the pain as long as we
could. It always won in the end though.

	I couldn't touch the strings like I had before. The music sounded
off, stilted, over-precise, hesitant. The weakness in it grew with each
passing minute until I gasped as the pain became too intense.

	I put the guitar back in the case and looked out my window.

	"I thought you couldn't play anymore," Michelle asked.

	"I can play now," I said. "Pero no puedo tocar."

	"It's the same thing," she said.

	I turned to her in surprise.

	"I took a Spanish major," she explained.

	"Do you remember when I sang to you?" I asked her.

	"I remember every night," she answered.

	"Do you think I was playing?"

					-----

	"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since
my last confession."

	"And a good two days those were, Miguelito," he replied.

	We were sitting face to face like the new confession rules said we
should. I preferred the screen.

	"At least, there were 48 hours for you to get yourself in trouble
this time," he said with a sigh.

	I went to confession everyday after the judge announced in open
court that he would not imprison someone who had been failed so
grieviously by the justice system because someone could run with a
football.

	My mother had prayed even though we were only as religious as
going to church every Sunday made us. I found some comfort afterward in
the silence of confession and the prayers our priest set as punishment.

	"So exactly what is it that you've done, Miguelito?" he asked.

	"I lied to a woman," I confessed.

	He was silent for a moment and nodded.

	"She asked me if I blamed her for my broken hands and I told her
no," I said quietly. "I told her I didn't even blame those boys."

	"Why did you say that, Miguel?"

	"Because I thought it would make her think I was a better man than
I can be," I told him.

	He nodded and looked away.

	"Do you blame her?"

	"Yes."

	"But you want her to think you're a good man?" he asked.

	"I know I'm wrong," I said. "How much I blame her is nothing
compared to those boys or me."

	"And God, of course," he finished for me.

	I bit my lip.

	"It's what you've never said. What you've never asked these two
years, you've been coming here, Miguel."

	I bit harder until the pain in my lip matched what I felt when my
hands touched guitar strings for too long.

	j"You've been coming here hoping I would tell you why God did this 
to you," he said.

	I shook my head.

	"Don't lie to me, Miguel."

	I smiled at him.

	"I prayed for Michelle. I remember lying in bed, and saying 'God,
if you give her to me, I'll be happy.'"

	"And you think, he gave her to you and took away the guitar."

	"He gave me a gift, and I spit on it because I wanted her."

	"That's not the way God does things, Miguel."

	I was silent.

	"You're going to have to bring this girl to Mass, Miguel," he said
suddenly. "I like her. She makes you feel. It's good for you. She's good
for you."

	I looked at him angrily.

	"False piousness isn't going to make God give you your hands back,
mi hijo."

	"Then what is, Father?" I asked desperately.

	He looked at me sadly.

	"Todavía puedes cantar," he said.

	"I don't want to sing, I want my guitar back."

	"God gave you a gift, Miguel."

	"TAKING MY HANDS IS NOT A GIFT!" I yelled at him.

	He closed his eyes and shook his head.

	"Your mother's going to like this girl too," he said finally.

	I looked at the floor.

	"She tells me she cries when you come home," he said.

	I raised my eyes to him.

	"Your father and her stand outside your room when you sing, and
she cries," he said looking at me in wonder. "She knows the pain in your
voice, not as your mother, but as someone that has suffered too. God gave
you a gift, Miguel."

	I shook my head.

	"You don't want to blame Michelle, do you?"

	I looked at him in surprise.

	"I was there when you sang to her. I know who she is."

	"No, I don't want to blame her anymore."

	"Then let it go, Miguelito," he said. "That's the gift, I'm
talking about. God brought her back to you because with her you don't need
to come here everyday."

	We sat in silence for fifteen minutes.

	I got up and shook his hand. I turned to walk out of his office.

	"Que vas hacer, Miguel?" he asked.

	"I can only play for a half-hour before the pain is too much. This
morning, she was in my bed and I played for forty-five minutes."

	"A woman that makes intolerable pain half-again as bearable. She
is a gift," he said.

	I turned to look at him.

	"I didn't know you were a poet, Padre," I said.

	"When you're ready to stop singing Alejandro's songs, and start
singing your own, come back. I didn't always want to be a priest."

	I nodded slowly and turned around.

	"You didn't tell me what you're going to do now, Miguel."

	I opened the door and looked into the church.

	"Voy a cantar... a llorar... tocar mi guitarra y mi mujer. Los
demás se lo dejo a Dios."
				
					The End


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