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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.                   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

My Friends the Allens -- Light Like Butter
by Mark Aster

There was a crack in the blinds, and the early sun shone in,
thick and yellow as butter.  Bright and heavy, the line of
light moved up over the foot of the bed, onto Alex's body
where he lay on his back asleep.  The fine hairs on his
thighs blazed, the down on his stomach, the skin of his
throat.  When the sun touched his face, he sighed deeply
and his eyelids fluttered.

Twelve years before, the light had been just that color
as he sat with his bear Fritz, watching his Dad and his
brothers playing football in the meadow.  The boys were
big and blond, louder and stronger and much older than Alex,
and he adored them utterly.  Suddenly Petey had surged over
and scooped him up, tossing him to Frank.  "Alex is the ball!"
Petey yelled, and Alex screamed in terror and delight and hung
onto Fritz, burying his face in the bear's fur as the big
boys' hands gripped him and tossed him and dropped him.
Then he was on his father's shoulder, breathless and limp,
his father laughing and hugging him, and his father's smell
filling his head as he was carried inside, already half
asleep.  That had been evening, not morning.

Alex opened his eyes in the sunny bedroom, the ghost of a
smile on his lips.  He stood and stretched, and the muscles
of his calves made graceful curves in the sunbeam.  He looked
at nothing for a moment, then sighed again and went into
the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he came down the back stairs and into
the diner.  He was wearing black jeans, a leather jacket
over a white t-shirt, and carrying a large duffel bag.  Dan
saw him and came out from behind the counter.

"On your way?"

"Bus in half an hour."

"You okay?"  Dan stood close to him, not quite touching.
Alex reached out and touched the back of Dan's hand.

"I'm okay."

Dan took his hand and squeezed the fingers gently.  "You
take care of yourself."

"I will."  And he pulled the hand toward him, and he kissed
Dan very softly on the mouth.  Dan's other hand squeezed his
shoulder, and then he was out the door and on the street,
moving down the sidewalk.

The bus left on time, half full.  Alex settled his duffel onto
the seat beside him and sat looking out the window.  Fifteen
minutes later, at the last stop in the city, a boy and a girl
about his own age took the seat in front of him.  She was small
and dark, elegantly curved in a tight knit dress.  The boy's
hands touched her face, her shoulders, her breasts, and she
looked into his eyes and pursed her lips.  Alex thought of
Becca Richter lying back on the couch in the basement, her
hair loose around her head, her body slim and rounded,
beautiful as a statue or a sunset.  He had touched her where
she'd told him to, and she had amazed him and confused him.

The bus pulled onto the highway and accelerated smoothly;
the long constant rumble came up from the wheels and into
the seats.

"Have you talked to Rebecca Richter lately, Alex?" his mother
had asked.  Lying on the red rug in the big dark living room,
he hadn't replied.  His father had answered for him.

"Don't nag at the boy, Gerta.  A man needs to take his time.
No need to hurry, eh boy?"  His father had smiled at him, and
Alex had tried to smile back.  But there'd been that thing in
his father's face again, something puzzled and angry and deep,
and he'd looked away.

Alex took a book from his bag and turned the pages as the
highway rolled by.  The girl put her head down on the boy's
shoulder and dozed; the boy looked around the bus with a
bright selfish smile.  Around noon, the bus stopped for
lunch.  Alex bought a sandwich and a soda and walked around
and around the bus, thinking of the dark living room and
his father's grey hair.

He changed buses in Springfield; there was a two-hour wait.
The benches in the waiting room were new, but the smells and
the sounds of the place were just the same.  He'd had a donut
from the same lunch counter two years ago, on the way out to
school.  Alex sat for a long time, watching the numbers roll
by on the big electric board.  Then he picked up his bag and
walked out into the crowd.

In a corner of the station, express men unloaded dozens of
identical square boxes from a van into the long low cargo bay
of a waiting bus.  Alex leaned against a post and watched
them.  The shadows were soft and grey.

The letter had been a bad idea.  It had seemed like a good
solution at the time, an easy way to get it over with.  He had
tried to be gentle about it, not to say too much.  But he
had just fallen in love for the first time, and too much of
the joy must have slipped through.

"Dear Mom and Dad,

"I'm writing this letter to tell you some things about myself
that I think you ought to know.  I know it might not be just
what you want to hear, but I hope that you can understand..."

He had expected a letter or a phone call, maybe even a visit.
But instead the boxes had started coming.  No note inside, just
typed addresses on boxes of clothes, books, his old toys, all
smelling of home, all torn out and sent silently to his dorm.
Fritz had been at the bottom of the last box, and he'd stood
holding the crumpled old bear, and he'd cried.

His mother had called, finally, two weeks later, when his father
was at a lodge meeting.  He'd cried again, and so had she.  "I'm
sure he could forgive you Alex, I'm sure he could."

"Mom -- Mom, this isn't something to forgive."

And then she hadn't called again, until last night.

The local bus left ten minutes late.  It was smaller and
noisier than the big interstate liner, but it smelled better.
There was a bus stop right at the bottom of the drive; Alex
remembered sitting on the big rock and watching the buses go
by.  Usually no one was getting on or off, so the bus wouldn't
stop, but the drivers that knew him would honk the horn.  As
the bus started up the hill, Alex pulled the signal cord.  The
sun, almost at the horizon, shone in through the windows.

The bus slowed and stopped, the brakes hissing and squealing.
Out the window Alex saw his father's old yellow dog sitting by
the edge of the drive, panting.  The dogs, his mother had said,
had howled like banshees when his father died.  As if they knew.

The doors rattled open and Alex went down the stairs holding
his bag.  The sun thick and yellow on his face, he walked
slowly up the drive, walking home.


Light Like Butter
by Mark Aster
The End


