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o  The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories.  o
o  They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
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Wallflower (MF, seduction)
by Gwydion (gwydion@writeme.com)

*****

It was Friday night, and the calm of that evening settled on Diane as
she sat with her knees up on the couch in her 'room'.  Outside the
cold of October didn't keep thousands of people from the Manhattan
streets, nor did it keep them from killing each other (she intuited
from the sounds of the sirens) or from drinking (as she could hear
other NYU students celebrating their weekend in the street below). 
Inside the room on her bookshelf, Diane's mom's picture kept watch
over all her activities. Diane was thankful for the Friday calm,
counted on it.  This would be the night Kat would be out - out in some
dive or hellhole in the city, out until all hours. Not at home like
Saturday night, when she would have her men over. 

Try as she might, Diane was not able to truly focus on the anatomy
text in front of her, trying to link tiny bone pieces to each other in
her head.  She was also unable to read her economics book, despite the
exam that would take place Monday morning.  She chewed on a length of
unwashed midnight black hair (left to grow long more out of apathy than
anything) and blinked sharp green eyes washed-out by the absolute
marble-white pallor that seemed to say she had lived in some lightless
cave her entire life.  The bags under her eyes had two-color zip-lock
seals on them - but she hadn't really looked in a mirror since last
Sunday when she went into Kat's room to search for the pencil sharpener.

She'd been in the bath-closet (it wasn't really even a closet, more like a
bath-chimney. A tiny space just large enough for a toilet and a shower
stall, and if someone was sitting on the toilet or if the stall door
was open, you could not close the door) had no mirror in it. But Kat
had rigged mirrors to the left and right of her bed so she could watch
herself with the men she brought home.

Diane kept a silent tally of these men - giving them free-floating
names like, "Mr. Ambiguity", "Fathead", "Blondie" and "Thumper" (whose
name was given because of the thump-thump sound he tended to generate
as he used Kat's headboard to test the structural integrity of the
wall).  There was no common ground between any of them.  Kat went
beyond "indiscriminate" to the realm of the pseudo-random.  Diane knew
that there were things that happened in that room - things that she
had no concept about. Things that made the tiny soft downy hairs on
the back of her neck stand erect when she thou.

She knew that the things were things she had read about in filched
copies of Cosmopolitan.  She knew that it was something dreadfully
kinky.  She began to be disgusted with herself for many reasons: that
she hoped Kat would catch some awful disease and have to leave school
was one, but running a close second was the concept that she actually
found herself, from time to time, reacting to the sounds.
The living arrangement was like this: Kat had the bedroom, and paid
2/3 of the rent, which her daddy eagerly forked over at the first of
the month like clockwork.  Diane had the rest of the apartment, which
consisted of a small alcove, a closet-kitchen, and a closet-bathroom. 
Her 'bed' was a futon, in the alcove, which actually had the only
decent window in the whole place.  Once home, Diane never left her
alcove. But the vents in the apartment meant that there was no privacy
- not that Kat ever cared about privacy.

Diane had stopped hating Kat a long time ago - that was last semester.
 Now she just dealt with Kat like one deals with a force of nature -
like rain: you can't do anything about it, so why try? Just get an
umbrella.  As her "umbrella", Diane spent $6 on a pair of
probably-stolen headphones from 6th avenue, and played CD's to try and
drown out the Roman orgies that Kat orchestrated from her bed, which
basically took up the entire room and had to be forced in by two burly
Queens-born movers.
What Kat never knew was that Diane had been working on reading "the
Story of O" for the past 12 years.  It rested like a dirty sweat sock
of sin in a cigar box, which was in the bottom of her steamer trunk.
Diane had been started reading the novel by Ms. Reage fourteen times,
never getting past the first chapter.  Some kind of sense of dread
kept her from throwing the novel away - so she hid it underneath
stacks of postcards that her Grandma had sent her on her trip across
the United States.  What Diane didn't know was that Kat wouldn't have
even recognized the book if she had seen it:  she learned about her
kink from the sleazehole bars that she frequented, not from some
softly-written erotic novel.

Boredom was the voodoo of Diane's life, it was what made trouble and
changes happen for her.  When she was fully engaged in the happenings
of her existence, she never had any problems or worries.  The moment
she became bored, however, her unconscious self took over - with
interesting results.  Diane didn't always notice when she was
near-fatally-bored - she filtered out much of the complaints of her
needy psyche.
So, it was not surprising that one cold day last Spring, after
shelling out $10.95 to a nudie-toy vendor, Diane found herself
unconsciously holding a Thing.  The Thing was meant to run on
batteries.  She bought a package at a CVS that was open all night
right down from her apartment, feeling vaguely guilty.  The batteries
were like condoms for the Thing.  On second thought, she turned and
equally unconsciously bought a pack of condoms. She very carefully and
deliberately place the items in her backpack and absolutely,
irrevocably forgot about them.

That is, until her Friday night was shattered.

The door opened quite unexpectedly (although Diane was - always had to
be - dressed.  There was no privacy in Diane's 'room') and in stumbled
Kat and some silky-looking wet tom cat of a boy.  He waved at Diane as
he lead Kat by a chain leash attached to a padlocked collar through
the room, pausing only to slam the door to Kat's room twice (because
twice is what it often required).
It wasn't until the thud of the door (rattling the windows and making
Kat's stupid bobbling dog-head toy next to the door shake its head
"yes") that Diane realized that Kat had been naked.  Well, naked at
least from the waist up -no bra, no shirt.  Just her nipple piercings
to provide some simulacrum of modesty.
"Yes." The plastic dog seemed to say.
After a while, it was "Yes" that she heard first - then a flock of
them.  She decided that this one would be called the "Yes-man" because
he seemed to be a pretty competent lover.  Had broken a land-speed
record for a Kat orgasm, which were normally spaced about 17 1/2
minutes apart almost like clockwork.  
She tried to somehow read the economics text and the anatomy book at
the same time, hoping that alternating between the two would somehow
engage her brain.  She was wrong - only the sounds of a scream and a
slap in the other room kept her brain anywhere but asleep.  Another
"Yes"-flock, another record, she thought, glancing at her watch. 5
minutes apart. She wondered if Kat even noticed she was having a
better time.
Then she remembered the Thing.
More postcards had been placed between the pages of Diane's photo
album to make room for the Thing, which Diane felt thankful for on
some deep level - that the Thing wasn't so huge that it would fit in
the cigar box. That it wasn't so ugly as she had thought at first -
that with the batteries in it, it exhibited a kind of ready neediness. 

She didn't think about the Thing - not really - she wasn't thinking as
she slid down her panties and leaned back against the futon. She
wasn't thinking as she slid a condom on the end of the Thing, trying
to fix it so that it would go right.  Wondering how anyone ever put
those things on in the dark was not beyond her, but thinking about
anything else was out of the question.  

Deep hoarse screams from Kat - she was orgasming again, it seemed -
this time without the attendant "Yes"-train.  Diane closed her eyes
and fitted the Thing to its place...the place that men with black
horned-rimmed glasses had designed the Thing to stimulate.  She
couldn't help but imagine them watching her, bent over her with their
coke-bottle lenses peering at her fingers moving the thing into a
comfortable position.  She could almost hear them wondering aloud "Why
doesn't she put it in her?"

Diane doesn't put it in her because she doesn't wish to - because it
has never done anything for her.  Having secretly run to death her
mother's back massager in late high school, Diane didn't have to think
to know that it would be for naught within her.
To take her mind of the screams, Diane reached for the book in the
cigar box. She did not read the cover this time. She did not read the
preface.  Feeling bold, she skipped Chapter 1.

She was reading about O and about the Chateau, and it struck her
deeply.  She felt as if one of Kat's piercer friends had somehow snuck
in with a stealth piercing needle and struck her clit through.  She
didn't cry out in pain, though.  She cried out because the orgasm that
took her shook her completely, and hadn't even had the politeness to
give her a warning twinge.  It was just suddenly there, a surprise
like a bounced check.

She didn't hear the fourth and fifth orgasms, because she was asleep.

She woke up the next morning absolutely mortified, as the Thing
(looking somehow smug in its latex sweater) was still between her
legs, her Hanes Her Ways down around her ankles, her thighs splay on
the futon, her hair tousled - and the apartment, empty.  Kat's door
stood open as a moot report to her muddled brain:

*you have been discovered*.

Diane was glad that she had made Kat stop using strychnine to keep the
rats away, because she knew that she would have been tempted to eat it
for breakfast.  She was mortified.  Not that she gave a *damn* what
Kat thought.  But what about the Yes-Man?  What did he think?

She didn't really want to know.  She wondered if Kat would tease her
about it or risk her leaving if she did.  It would be hard for Kat's
father to find someone willing to put up with no private space at all
for the price she paid for rent.

Then Diane just let the utter embarrassment wash from her like the
October rain was washing the gullies of Manhattan, outside. She would
probably never see the Yes-man again, anyway.

Life went on.  Diane studied hard, and Kat stayed out late. Kat woke
Diane up on Sunday morning tossing her cookies in the bathroom: if it
was due to too many drugs or too much alcohol the night before, Diane
didn't know, didn't care.

To her credit, and possibly because of the very real fear that Diane
would move out (as if she had anywhere to move  *to*) there was only
one rejoinder to Kat's finding Diane laying there like some kind of
centerfold from Nerd Grrl Monthly:

One day when Diane came home from class, there was a cardboard box on
her futon.  She absently looked inside, began pulling out scraps of
cloth from the box.  Then she realized that it wasn't some kind of
recycled-materials repository but a box full of actual clothing.  The
stuff was mostly lingerie - the kind that slutty girls like Kat cut
their teeth on (she imagined Kat receiving her first thong on her 12th
birthday, hidden in her birthday cake).  In fact, it was hand-me-downs
from Kat, Diane realized, and then realized to her utter humiliation
that there was some kind of reason to Kat's dumping her old undies off
on her.  There was a matchbook on the top layer of the wisps of used
nylon and it was from the Hellfire Club - obviously the only note
paper that Kat had, for inside the cover was a little note, "Thot
(sp.) you would like these things. They don't fit me any more. Luv,
K." 

The box was a kind of albatross.  There was no way for Diane to bring
herself to get rid of it - when what she really wanted to do with the
lot was throw it out her window, making a rain of panties and
garter-belts and stockings-with-runs like some kind of transvestite
wet dream.  But she couldn't do it - instead keeping the box next to
her bed like some kind of badge of shame.

It didn't occur to her to ask why suddenly Kat was becoming tidy
(throwing out old anything just wasn't her style, she still had
hot-dog paper wrappers from 1994 buried somewhere in her room), but
all the packing-up became clear when Kat's father arrived (was that
blushing bride #3 or #4 on his arm?) and took Kat away.  It wasn't
until Kat actually hugged Diane goodbye that she noticed a slight
swell in the woman's tum, and suddenly realized what was happening:
the slut was going to be a mother.

Daddy-Kat gave her a check to cover three months rent, and smiled,
saying, "Whatever else is in the room, you can have." Which included
the bed (which would probably have to be chain-sawed out of there) and
even the two giant-sized mirrors, and piles of trash from before the
Flood.

Confronted with the non-pregnant silence in the tiny Manhattan
apartment, Diane suddenly realized that Kat had served a very
important purpose in her life: the wild, slutty, annoying, useless
slob of a girl had kept her from her boredom.  Kept her from wondering
about herself, thinking about anything but her intense dislike of Kat
and the situation she was forced to live in.  

Wondering which one of the girl's beaus was the newest Daddy Kat
didn't seem to stave off the boredom for long.  If it had been up to
Diane, Kat would have been gifted with the issue of the seed of the
sweaty, smelly wino that she had taken to her bed as a mercy fuck one
night.  

Left alone, to herself, the boredom got to her.  Unclothed, Diane
began to move unconsciously around the apartment, but could not bring
herself to the point of actually cleaning up Kat's room.  Better to
simply just close the door and forget about it.  Still, there was
something about looking into the two immense mirrors - you could see
both sides of yourself at once.  Diane stood so that half of her body
was cut off in the mirror, saw this half-woman looking back at her. 
She watched in fascination as a ghostly disembodied hand came down
and, single finger extended, parted her lips, finding places touched
so rarely that they sang half in pain and half in pleasure whenever
they were touched.  Something about this view of half of her made her
deep inside quiver.

She moved capriciously back to her nook - back to the futon.  Laid
back on the bed and took the Story of O (no longer hidden, now left
out for others to see if there had been any others) and finished two
more chapters sitting there.  More time past without studying.  More
time spent teasing the warmth between her legs.  Her ministrations
brought her closer and closer, but every minute there was that brief
pause to turn the page, which would set her right back to 0, starting
over again.

She came again - but this time it did not put her to sleep. It made
her jazzed. She reached for a bookmark and slid the matchbook cover
into the Story of O while she made herself a package of chinese
noodles for dinner.  Her studies called her, but she ignored them,
even using her Econ book as a lapboard for her soup.  Back to O.

The book was done before she realized it, and before she could find
another orgasm in it. It was late - about 3 in the morning.  The
street was mostly quiet outside: it's a myth that New York City never
sleeps.  There's parts that stay awake, but that's more like a dead
snake that still goes through the motions of life rather than actually
being alive.

Still, the book done, the boredom sat in the room with her like an
imposing house guest, demanding, "What next?"

The matchbook had fallen out of the book while she was reading it, and
Diane picked it up.  She turned it over, saw the address on it
(somewhere in the Bowery, somewhere in the meat-packing district. A
rough neighborhood) and put it back down on the table.

She shrugged. The boredom seemed to demand that she do something. Go
somewhere. Go *there* - to Hellfire. 

She had nothing to wear, she told herself.

The cardboard box Kat had left still sat there next to her futon. It 
said otherwise - a tendril of lace peeking over the edge.

She dumped the box out on the bed, amazed and half-terrified at what
she would find there.  She found a lot of lacey things - bras,
panties, a corset, a bustier, stockings tangled and knotted, garters
and thongs and thousands of other wispy little bits.

"I just don't have anything to wear - no way..no way am I going
there." Diane said to herself aloud.

She idly wondered back into Kat's room, yanked on the lightbulb chain
in the "closet" that she had - started thumbing through the stuff that
she had left. Kat had left behind many dresses.  One was black velvet,
a mini-dress with silver buttons that just slid on and off because the
zipper was stuck.

It fit Diane even without the bra.

"Oh, no way...no way." Diane said to herself, as if she was trying to
convince the boredom to just let her off easy this time.

But nobody was coming home that night. Nobody would know that Diane
dressed like a slut and went out, went out to relieve her unending
boredom.  Went out to see what was out there. Diane just pretended
that nobody would see.

She thoroughly washed the lingerie in the sink as the October sun set,
defeated by endless clouds and rain.  It dried over the radiator as
she took a shower, she put it on slightly damp and patted herself dry
with a towel: she put on a black lacey bra that itched her nipples. At
the bottom of Kat's closet she found a package of Victoria's black
backseamed stockings, and she rolled each pair on, clipping them to a
garter belt she fastened around her waist.  Finally she fit herself
with a black lace thong-panty, that made her butt feel as if there was
something stuck in it, but she didn't care at that point. She
remembered what Cecil B. DeMille had said about undergarments - even
if they're not seen - she'll *know* that they're there.

She slid the velvet dress on over it and the hemline fell lower than
it would have on Kat (Kat being much more chesty).

She had no idea what to do with the makeup really - not having
bothered except for Sunday school as a younger woman, living with her
parents. She decided to forget the makeup, except for applying some of
Kat's leftover lipstick: a shade called, "Battered Woman Red." It
highlighted the incredibly pale skin of her face and the darkness of
her hair. 

She took each step gingerly, hoping she wouldn't fall and break her
ankle.	The black leather straps held the shoes on. The steel stairs
resounded with each step. She paused at the heavy steel door and then
yanked it wide.

Stepping inside, there was a little vestibule, a little area where a man
said, through a grated window, "That will be $5, missie."  He was wearing
a leather banker's visor and was tattooed up and down his burly forearm.
She paid the money without speaking, walked over to the coatcheck (around
a very interesting piece of antique medical equipment - an examination
chair from what looked like the Roaring Twenties), and handed her coat to
the leatherboy behind the counter.

She looked around the room.  She could not decide which was stranger to
her: the man dressed in a latex teddy, the two transvestites kissing, the
short woman with pigtails being spanked (on her frilly white panties) by
a big woman wearing a strap-on dildo that dangled rudely between her
legs, or the cowering, begging man who was being slapped by a larger
woman dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt with the word "BITCH"
emblazoned on it.  Wherever she looked, stranger things revealed
themselves to her.

What was even stranger were the quite plainly dressed tourist-types who
wandered through as if this were some sort of Disneyland of perversion,
stopping at Kodak moments of pure voyeurism, taking mental pictures that
they would always have with them.  Then there were the wandering weenie
whackers who moved from place to place, taking in what was going on and
pounding their meat relentlessly, as if their penises might fall off if
they let them go.

The only remotely interesting thing that was going on was a woman in the
corner who was bent over a PVC-pipe chair, holding on to it with all her
might as a man, dressed in black silk, who moved with catlike grace and
strength, beat the shit out of her with various implements. Diane thought
the woman was pretty.  She had the kind of face that could have been on a
librarian or an account executive - or a student.

A student, just like herself.

She watched as the woman endured her punishment, punishment that she had
read about all day. Punishment that became very real to her as she
watched. She ignored the men watching her now - they faded into the
background like a mass of masturbating wallpaper. She saw this woman's
face, she saw the sexual reaction of her body as her nipple stiffened,
her hips rolled as if she was welcoming an invisible lover.

Something about the scene penetrated her deeply held apathy. Something
touched her soul. Something cracked open inside of her. She was utterly
alone and utterly needy and frightened of it and there was nobody here
who understood all of that. Nobody here who would ever understand what it
was like to be alone, against the wall, breaking through like a flower
through the cracks, but still rooted firmly in the reality of it all.

And then, just as revelations were pouring up out of her, as she watched
enraptured, she came to herself and realized that there was someone - an
important Someone - watching her.

It was the Yes-man.

He grinned as if he knew a secret. Well, he *did* know a secret. Diane
couldn't keep her eyes from meeting his because her shock at seeing was
in large part the only thing on her mind.  She was still riding shotgun
in her own consciousness for the most part.

He stepped up to her and was saying something, but she couldn't hear him.
 He took her hand and led her away from the scene - and it was then she
noticed that the dampness between her legs was not the residual wetness
from the laundering earlier.

She let herself be led, she listened to his words, which he nearly had to
scream over the technobeat that was slamming the crowd and entraining
whips being used everywhere.

He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to talk to her alone. She almost
turned and ran as the fear within her boiled up, as the boredom was no
longer around to provide a comfortably numb blanket through which she
wouldn't have to care.	He brought her out onto the street (leaving
behind her coat) and she was drunk on circumstance and fate.

"What do you want?" She said quietly to him on the street.

"I just wanted you to know you look great in Kat's dress."

Diane turned to leave.

"That's not all...wait." Yes-man said.

"What?" Diane said, startled at herself for the growl under her tone.

"What if I told you I wanted you more than Kat - ever since I first saw
you?" Yes-man said.

"Like I'm going to believe that! You're forgetting how we met - you had
my room-mate on a leash, half-naked, strutting through my bedroom!" She
made a show of looking him up and down. "Where's your leash?

"Back at the club." He said quietly.

There was silence.

"Want me to get it?" Yes-man said, smiling.

She slapped him. "Fuck you."

He stood there in the darkness, the slap making a red mark on his cheek.
He touched his cheek. "I owe you one." He said softly, quietly.

"You deserved it." Diane said softly, but she was shaking inside.

"You were the one reading Story of O.  With your panties around your
ankles." Yes-man said smugly.

"So? Masturbation isn't illegal. Doesn't mean I like this stuff. Doesn't
mean *you* own me or anything. Doesn't mean..." Diane began, but she was
cut off.

"I know - look, I know.  I think you are a wonderful woman. I want you
more than I can say. But I can see where our circumstances will never
work. You won't believe me, and I can't not want you." Yes-man said.

Diane looked at him, her head tilted. "How could you even want me? You
just want to fuck anything that moves."

Yes-man shook his head. 'no'. "I just want what I have tasted - I want
that again."

"What do you mean?" She said, incredulous.

"I want to taste you again. You tasted really good the other night. Even
Kat said so. I let her suck my finger."

"You fucking molested me in my sleep?" Diane was agape.

She slapped him again.

He put his hand to his other cheek. "That's two."

"I can't believe how perverted you are!" She exclaimed.

"And you're not? Or did you buy that vibrator at a Quik Chek?" Yes-man
said quietly.

She looked at the pavement, shaking her head. A cold laugh escaped her
mouth, but it was more like a sob than a laugh. She looked up at him,
mortified.  She hated herself for wanting him so badly right this moment.
And she was mortified that this stranger had tasted the very same juices
that were now seeping through the tiny thong she was wearing.

It was as if her rational mind ruled the words she was saying, and the
other parts of her body were doing whatever they damn well pleased. She
was continuing to pick apart all the indignity and wrong she had suffered
when Yes-man just reached for her and kissed her.  Her head sent word to
the body not to respond, but somehow it got lost in translation.

He pushed her against the cold stone wall and kissed her so hard she
thought he would rip her throat out if she broke the kiss. She was
further betrayed as he found his way under her dress and masturbated her.
 She was angry even at how he did that - wet against his hand, wetter
than she had been in along time - he was expert at doing this. Probably
had done it to Kat, maybe even right here. She tried to will herself dry,
tried desperately to stop his effect on her. But it didn't work. She just
let out a moan as he brought her close to the edge faster than she had
ever been before.

"Yes, that's it...." His silky voice crept into her.

She grabbed on to him and held to him closely as he brought her off right
there on the street, with a wino watching.

"I hate you." She whispered to him.

"I know." He said softly, stroking her hair, holding her closely. She
tried very hard not to like it. She was no longer in control of her
feelings. It was curiously freeing.

"Take me home now." She said. *He* would fucking pay the cab fare.

***

They got their stuff from the club - Diane's coat and a curious leather
bag of Yes-man's: his name, she learned from the coat-check, was David.

In the cab on the way back to her apartment, David fingered her again.
She didn't even resist this time - nor did she think about resisting. In
fact, she stopped him and very frustratingly rolled off her thong,
untangling it from her heel as she tossed it aside. He rescued it and
popped into a pocket as she leaned against him, the cabbie watching them
as he kissed her and fingered her pussy expertly from any angle she tried
him at.

It was ridiculous to her rational mind, but her body was applauding.  She
met her next orgasm as they passed 7th Avenue on the way to her
apartment.  Before she was allowed to come on David's fingers, he made
her ask for it, made her ask to be allowed to come. After it, there were
tears as she leaned against him, tears that were soaked up by the black
velvet dress. She knew they were tears for her old life, when everything
was simple. Somehow she knew what she was doing would mean she could
never go back to that simplicity.

It wasn't long really before he was taking her on Kat's bed.

She lay on the same sheets he had fucked her on, looking at the mirror,
watching his white cat's ass move into her.  Her old rational self seemed
to be far away. She still had on the stockings and the heels, and she
realized that by just resting her heels she dug them into his ass and it
seemed to make him move faster.

"Yes" boiled out of her as she neared her orgasm.

He smiled at her, on top of her, his thick cock making her wider than she
had ever been before.

He slapped her. "That's one paid back."

She cried out, but he met the cry with a hard thrust, his pubic bone
hitting her clit as if it were made to fit there.

"Am I Kat to you?" She said in the middle of it all.

"No." He said quietly, but firmly.

"Are you going to make me her?" She whimpered as he brought her closer
with fingers and tongue.

"I'm going to make you *you*."

He pushed her hands back on the bed while he talked, and she felt as if
she was not in control, she knew he could keep her there and hold her
there, fucking her for as long as he wanted.

"You're *mine* though. Little slut." David said softly, punctuating each
statement with another hard thrust.

She felt as though she had been thrown into a deep tank of water,
drowning, like he was holding her down, but she didn't want him to stop.

Something inside of her wanted it again - the pain, the indignity of it
all. She looked at him, tears in her eyes from the slap, but she nodded.
"Yes. Yes. Yes please."

She felt a stab of electric heat inside of her...

"Very well..." he slapped her again. "That's two, and all I owe you..."

She cried out as she came around his latex-enrobed piece.

She came again not long afterward, as he was using his fingers to use her
nipples as handles to get a good thrust in. The pain on her tiny pale
breasts was intense, but she didn't seem to care. She wondered how she
would even begin to protest any of this. Then she decided that he would
probably stop if she asked him to - but she couldn't bring herself to ask
him. She didn't want to.

He wasn't able to cum until they switched positions, and she was on top
of him, riding his hard cock.  She looked down at him in wonder as if she
could still see the old part of her in another pane of reality. The
reality of the bed, the smells, the screams she was making - hadn't she
heard this all before? The deja-vu was intense. As was his orgasm when it
finally tested the structural integrity of his condom. His cock ballooned
out even wider as he came, screaming, and she mimicked him only softer.

They moved to her futon to sleep, exhausted.

She checked her watch - it was still Friday evening. Her Econ book glared
at her, as did her Mom from the shelf. She didn't care. It was over. That
old life was over. She would do whatever she wanted with David, and if
that didn't work, she would find someone else who understood.  Still, she
told him to be gone when she woke up in the morning, and he smiled at
her, because he knew he would be back. That night if he wanted to.

And he was.

(end)

If you would like to write to me, send me email at gwydion@writeme.com.

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