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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 o o o
o  	This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of stories. o
o  They have been submitted by people from all over the world.  Also from o
o  alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order to this     o
o  section of my collection,  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 be typed o
o  therefore I don't type things myself." I think it's a lot more fun to  o
o  browse around and find 'little' surprises,  and topics that you might  o
o  not have even thought of looking for. I hope you enjoy your time among o
o  Kristen's book shelf directories.                                      o
o   	Lest we forget!!!  This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o  and should not be read by minors.  Thank you, Kristen Becker           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 o o o o

Arla (MF)
by Carl Benson (c) 1991

***

        It was three o'clock in the afternoon and it had started to rain.
Wet leaves stuck to the glossy red trunk of the Jaguar, beaded with droplets, 
and a hazy sun caught the rear  window. Bobby opened the door and sat 
down heavily, breathing in the leather. So that  was it. The end of Arla. He 
looked across the passenger seat to the lawn through the  streaked window, 
the lawn that led up to the house. The canopied street curved away  before 
him, its houses and hedges and willows and mimosa trees dripping and 
green. He  looked down. Suddenly he felt her legs  around his head again 
and his face pressed so deep  into her pussy that it was stopped by her 
pubic bone.  Her fragrance was overwhelming,  so close, so closeI

---------------------

       Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to 
their right  appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled 
into the Jag. He shifted  gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that.  
They drove up through the hills and it  got cooler.  It started to rain, or
was it mist?
      "Hey, we're driving through a cloud," he said.
       The car felt  snug and strong, and he  looked over and what he saw, 
what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt 
hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side...
       Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the 
cabin.
       But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt
in the corner of his eye.

      Another time he had overstayed his welcome--probably--on her sofa. 
He knew how to do that, and he knew what Arla would do about it. 
"Bobby," she would say,  "aren't you tired yet?" There was a lamp to 
either side of the sofa, making the light in the  room ever so soft and the 
quietness of the house ever so loud.
     "Oh, I dunno," said Bobby, "I feel kinda tense, you know." 
     They'd had a really nice night, all in that room. She had rattled on and 
on about her girlfriends' faults and life mistakes--all nineteen odd years of 
their various lives--and he  had pumped her for lascivious details as though 
he could creep into her friends' rooms also  while they undressed. She 
knew this and she fed him tidbits, but mainly she was listening  to her own 
voice.  Six times at least, Bobby's penis inflated and deflated.  And now he  
was "tense."  What that meant was that he wanted to be rewarded for being 
such a damn  good listener. This was not going to be a Platonic relationship 
if he could help it!  And  Arla was mixing things up.  He was the only 
person she could trust.  That didn't sound  good at all.
     He had no need to worry.
     "What's that in your pants, Bobby?" she asked. "Your flashlight? Did 
you bring  your flashlight? Let me see it. Its so dark in here." And she 
clicked off a lamp.
     Sweet  talk. 

--------------

        Arla, your name is your lips around my dick.  Arla, I smell your hair 
rising off  my lap.  Arla, your fingernails are perfect and your hands are 
cool. Arla, your sweaters are  spun from New Zealand sheep. Arla, you 
sucked me into you and swallowed me into your  head and hair.  I did not 
see your face until you  turned over and said, as you laid on my  right 
thigh, "I'm just going to rest a minute; and then you must go."
       Bobby's fingers were drumming on the wooden steering wheel. The 
rain was  coming down hard now. He should go.  He pushed his keys into 
the slot and twisted. Nothing.  A click.
       Oh jeez!  Now what?  He could go back in, try to speak to her, make 
her  remember. Or he could walk off into the rain. That would satisfy 
something. But then he  would have to come back with tow truck and 
embarrass her and....
       He tried to start the Jag again, and was about to try for a third time, 
feeling more  rotten and stupid and panicked by the moment, when the 
passenger door opened.
      Arla!  Her hair was sprayed with drops but was not wet. Her face was 
shining and  damp as she tumbled into the seat beside him. She smelled of 
wool and chocolate and  everything good.
      "Let's drive!" she said. 
      Bobby prayed a prayer with the sincerity of an acetylene torch. He 
could have willed the car to fly, and kept it flying, on his desire and 
happiness alone.  He turned the  key. The Jag leapt to life. And the road 
crunched under his tires.

      From the house, Arla's sister called her to the window.
      "There's that creep, Bobby James.  I bet he's been parked there for 
hours again.  I'm going to get rid of him."
      "Hey, be nice" said Arla.
      She came to the window and watched Belinda cross the wet lawn to the 
little  Toyota.  She saw Belinda open the passenger door and start yelling.  
She watched the car pull away, and Belinda walking quickly, almost 
running, back to the house.

