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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 -- Julie and the Beast
by Mark Aster

= = =
Note: this story contains graphic accounts of sexual
relations between adults, quasi-material spirits, and
mythical beasts.  If you are a minor, a U.S. Senator,
or anyone else whose brain implodes when exposed to
such things, stop reading now, and go take a cold shower.
= = =

October 23rd, Year of Our Lord 1653

The darkness leered at her and the forest closed around her;
Julie clung to the horse's back, bending forward and clutching
his thick mane with both hands.  His hair was soaked with sweat;
through the horse-blanket and her thin cotton undergarments,
the strong weary planes of his muscles moved between her thighs.
When Pierre, the faithful black stallion, had come home without
saddle or rider, her alarm had been great.  She had mounted him
without hesitation, and whispered in his ear, "Take me to him,
dear Pierre; show me what has become of Papa!"

The tired mount took her to within sight of the huge old castle,
dark and vine-covered, deep in the most desolate part of the
Forest Ducharne.  He would go no further; when she tried to
press him, his eyes showed their whites, and he whinnied most
pitifully.  The girl slipped off his back, and went through the
gates alone.

"Papa, Papa!"  Her calls echoed off the ancient walls, the great
door askew on its hinges.  She passed into the inner courtyard;
had the night been brighter, or the girl less intent on her
goal, she might have noticed the garden that spread about her,
the carefully-tended shrubs in fantastic shapes, the beds of
roses large and fire-red in the darkness.  "Papa!"  And then,
an answer.

Into the castle through the arched stone doorway.  Up stairs,
along dark passages peopled by shadows and whispers.  Her
father's answering shout becoming clearer.  "No, Julie!
Do not seek me!  Go home, girl, run away!"  But she followed
his voice, through air like thick syrup, rooms smelling of
time and decay.

Her father's face on the other side of a barred door.  His eyes
on hers for a moment, and then staring with horror past her,
over her shoulder.  She turned.

The Beast.  Made huge by the darkness, tall and wide, impossibly
present; a strong animal smell, strength and maleness filling
her head.  One huge hand, thick brown fur, claws held away from
her skin, solid muscular fingers on her shoulder.  His eyes,
huge and deep and overpowering, looked into hers, and she was
helpless.  But not completely.  "Let my Papa go!"  It came out
as a whisper, but the sound of her own voice gave her strength.
"Let him go!"  Louder this time.  A sound in the darkness of
the Beast, a laugh or a growl or a rumble.  Another hand, rough
and large and shaggy, the back of it running over her white
dress, pressing against her breasts and her stomach.  The sound
of his breathing.

"He has stolen from me.  The price must be paid."  The Beast's
voice was a low growl, a snarl, an animal sound that somehow
formed words in the stifling air of the passage.  Her father
reached through the bars, but could touch neither of them.

"A single rose," he groaned, "a single bloom for my daughter.
I did not know!"  The Beast's growl rose and snarled and
filled the space with terror, silencing her father.

The Beast's eyes on her in the darkness.  "But he may go free."
The rumble again, "I will accept you as his ransom."

Her father screamed and shook the bars of his prison, but she
was buried in the Beast's fur, one of his great arms pinning her
to him easily.  Swooning from his scent and from fright, she
managed to raise her head and gasp, "Go, Papa, go!  Save
yourself!"  Metal rattling, a blow, a laugh, a curse.  There
seemed to be others with them in the passage, then the Beast
was moving, her body still crushed against him, her mind
reeling.  The sounds of her father faded quickly around the
mazy corners of the castle.

The smothering grip released her, and she swayed, almost
falling, saved only by a damp stone wall.  The Beast, still
nearly invisible in the oppressive dark, only his eyes and his
scent, the memory of his body on her skin.  His gaze was deep
and insistent, and she felt eaten alive.  "He was not worth
the sacrifice, little rose.  And how dangerous are you to me?"

She trembled, feeling the heat of his breath as he loomed over
her, feeling, or only imagining, his hands, his matted paws on
her body, touching her most intimate parts as though she were
naked before him.  "My servants will show you your room."  And
he was gone.  The room cold and empty.

The Beast's servants were shadows and whispers, low voices from
nowhere, lighter places in the gloom that flowed like ripples
through the thick silent air.  But she followed them to a room,
a deeper darkness within the dark, and a bed, and collapsed and
slept.

She awoke, and cried to find that it had not been a nightmare.
No sunbeams penetrated the inwardness of the castle, but a grey
and diffuse light hinted it was day.  A voice from the empty
corridor terrified her with its ordinary words.  "The Master
sends greetings.  He will be in the West Wing all day; you may
make the rest of the castle your own."

But she did not leave her room all that day, limply huddling in
a fitful half-doze under the blankets in the huge bed, drawing
in on herself when an airy nothingness brought wood and laid
a fire, screaming and swooning when a tray of food slid quietly
out of the wall.  By the return of the darkness, her terror had
exhausted itself, and she sat up, and she ate.  The food was
fresh and rich, bread and cheese and savory meat.  Moving her
legs within the covers, she noticed for the first time their
richness, and the finery in which she had been cowering.  The
dark did not come as a friend, but the youthful sanity of her
body bore up her mind.

A strange wind blew down the corridor, and the door to her room
creaked open.  Something entered, a smell of love and madness,
a deep green smell, bright with blood and hot with desire.  She
shivered, her skin cold and hot, her breath catching in her
throat.  Under her dress, the nipples on her small breasts
stiffened, and she felt warmth between her thighs.

"So!  He has caught a dainty indeed!"  The voice was high and
lovely, a silver flute played by a mad Pan.  Light, the first
and brightest light she had seen in the castle, struck at her
eyes.  The light curled and congealed, and there naked before
the bed, naked and lovely and pale, moonstones woven into her
writhing hair, stood Madness and Lust herself, and Julie's
body cried out for her.

"Oh," she whispered, "have you come to help me?  Has Father
sent you?"

Loveliness smiled, showing her small sharp teeth.  "No, my
poor lost dear, your father has not sent me; even now, he tries
to convince the drunken villagers that the Beast and the castle
are not his own lunacy."  Her laughter bites at Julie like
silver needles, as she comes closer.  She takes Julie's small
hands and places them on her own breasts.  The spirit's skin is
cool and smooth; Julie squeezes the soft domes of her breasts
gently, and takes one in her mouth.  The nipple is rough and
alive, and it stiffens under Julie's tongue.

"Who are you, spirit?" the girl asks, as the silver hands neatly
slice the fabric of her dress away from her body, and the cool
naked thighs slide over her skin.  Madness's tongue plays over
her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and Madness's fingers gently
open the flower between her legs.  Her head falls back, and she
sighs as pleasure enters her.

"Who am I?  Why, I suppose I am Whimsey, child, or a night
breeze, or an innocent traveler.  The Master of this castle
once did me a wrong, and I take some interest in his affairs."
How can Whimsey speak?  Her tongue, long and agile, is buried
deep in the femaleness of Julie, her fingers expertly working
labia and clitoris, the girl's body moving in slow gasping
spasms on the slope up to orgasm.  "But do not hope that I
will rescue you, sweet helpless thing; that is not part of
the bargain."  And again the silver laughter, and Julie's
muscles tense and clench around the tongue and fingers of
the spirit, waves of pleasure washing over and through her
young naked body, over her heaving breasts, up from the
wet penetrated ecstasy of her vulva.  She screams quietly,
the soft blossom of her mouth open to the night.

Then the beautiful silver body stretches out on top of
her, the agile tongue is in her mouth.  She groans and bucks
against the perfect cool softness.  She takes the glowing
breasts again in her hands and sucks, drinking madness and
lust into herself.  The spirit cries out, her perfect thighs
spread, and then she rises up, and her thighs are by Julie's
cheeks, and Julie's tongue is in the slick silver vagina, and
Julie's head is filled with the musk of mad female magic, and
the night crashes down on her in ecstasy and pain.

She slept dreamlessly.  The next morning, the light seemed
brighter.  Her nose caught a last lingering whiff of ardent
green scent, and she felt a vague warmth low in her body,
but she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and breathed
deeply.  The stale deadness of the air seemed Sanity itself.
When the doorknob announced again that the Master would be in
the West Wing, and she might have the run of the rest of the
house, she rose, the tatters of her dress falling from her
body to the floor.  When a flicker and a dustmote opened the
wardrobe, to show her a dozen fine dresses perfectly fitted to
her size, she felt no terror.

The smell of food drew her out into the corridors.  In a fine
dress of pale yellow silk, she walked a tapestried hall, and
guided by the suggestions of the walls, found a table in a
nook that was almost warm, and breakfast set for one.  She
ate, and then curiosity drew her onward.

The library was huge and lovely.  Shelves lined the walls,
ladders ascended the shelves, and above were galleries and
stairs, more shelves.  Glass doors led onto a balcony that
overlooked the garden; the graceful symmetry of the roses,
the wild trim fantasy of the shrubs reached up and touched her.
But when she went to the edge of the balcony, thinking of escape
and the long path home, the servants were there, sharp stones
pointing at her, something moving in the bushes, and from the
West Wing a hint of a roar, the teeth of the Beast and his heavy
footfalls.  She went back inside.

She sat curled on the long chaise in the library, gazing up at
the portrait over the hearth.  Gold-framed, done in rich old
oils, a man stands before a castle, this castle.  He is tall
and noble, black-bearded, flashing eyes, a strong mouth.  This,
she decided, was the true Master of the castle, and she wept to
imagine him driven out by the Beast, wounded or killed, driven
into the wild forest.  She sat reading his books and looking
into his painted eyes until twilight; dining on fruit and meat
brought by whom?  Brought, she was sure, by the captive shadows
of his servants, sorcelled to toil for the Beast.

Those shadows guided her back to her room, and the night closed
around her.  She nursed the image of the man in the portrait,
held tight to her hatred of the murderous Beast, and tried
not to think of the spirit's tongue between her thighs.  The
night plodded on without sleep.  She wept for loneliness and
pity.  Her nose betrayed her, finding the sweet feverish scent
of hot naked Loveliness in the empty air.  But no one came, and
in the dead middle of the night, Julie's fear of the spirit's
return was overcome by despair at her absence.  Julie's hands
crept down her body, and she gave herself release, laughing
and gasping and crying as she came, naked under the sheets,
and finally collided softly with numbness and sleep.

The next day, her body ached and groaned, but her mind was sharp
and eager.  She mapped out the castle in her mind, climbed the
towers, looked out over the garden, and over the lurking indrawn
darkness of the West Wing, imagining her enemy's lumbering there,
the male animal smell of his body, his rough destructive hands
crushing the delicate artifacts of her bearded dream-lover.  For
now she loved the man in the portrait, seeing the home he had
made; loved him with the quick deep innocent love of a young
woman.  She asked the unseen servants to tell her of him, but
the shadows only groaned and creaked.  She read, and ate, and
walked, and plotted revenge and freedom.  When darkness fell,
she slipped into a cool cotton nightdress from the wardrobe
and threw herself into bed, tired, sane, and determined to
resist fever and hopelessness.

But Fever came again, this time as a gentle golden glow at the
edges of her vision.  The air seemed warm, her skin sweaty as
she lay under the light sheet.  She threw off the sheet, twisted
and turned in the heat, unbuttoned the nightgown.  The air was
delicious and fiery on her breasts.  She slid the damp fabric
down her shoulders, over her breasts, her fingers lingering
there, squeezing her nipples.  Over her stomach, down her
thighs, the fabric crumpled and discarded, Julie lying naked
on the damp sheets, eyes closed, mouth open, thighs spread, her
hands ardent lovers on her own soft arching body.  One hand
squeezes her breasts and tugs her nipples, the other strokes
and presses in between her legs, and she writhes and moans and
licks her lips.

The golden glow strengthens and coalesces, and the spirit
stands, tonight clad in fire, her eyes like coals, her breasts
round and hot, her hair flames, her thighs sweet curves.  She
licks her lips, her eyes on Julie, her smile hungry, and she
lowers herself over the girl, and her mouth caresses the smooth
young body.

"Ah!  Ah, spirit!  Ah, I had despaired of you.  OOOOooooo!"  And
she presses herself against the hot lustful fingers, the sharp
aggressive tongue.  The long bare body of Ecstasy stretches
out on her back on the bed, and she lifts Julie effortlessly
onto her, holds Julie's head in her burning hands, presses
Julie's face into the delicious softness of her breasts.  Julie
moans in delight as again she takes the spirit's nipples in
her mouth, and the spirit's perfect body arches beneath her,
skin to skin, lust to lust, madness to madness.

"Tell me of the Beast, spirit," says Julie, raising her pink
mouth from the hard sensitive golden nipple, "and tell me of
the noble lord of the castle, whose portrait is in the library.
Does he live?  Did you know him?  Will you open your thighs,
that I may drink the sweetness between your legs, and give
pleasure to your perfect burning body?"

The spirit laughs, high and warm and poisonous.  She spreads
her knees, and the air is full of delirium, and Julie's mouth
kisses a line between her breasts and down over her stomach.
As Julie's tongue enters her vagina, the spirit laughs again,
and moans.  "Ah, child, ah sweet child, I cannot keep it from
you!  The world is not so simple.  The noble lord of the castle
IS the Beast, and the Beast is the noble lord."  Julie's mind
reels, but her tongue and hands belong to the spirit, and her
mouth tastes the spirit, and she is honey and desire and ashes.
Her lips close on the hot pulsing clitoris, her tongue ravages
it, her fingers slip in between the moist golden thighs.

Ecstasy groans and thrusts against Julie's open mouth, and
Ecstasy speaks.  "Once that noble lord denied me a thing,
and what I could not have, I changed.  I hope his new form
is pleasing to you, my flower, my innocent, my lovely."  And
Ecstasy's golden body tenses and arches and devours, and Ecstasy
cries out and comes and comes and wraps her thighs in a burning
circle around Julie's head.

Now Julie is on her stomach, her legs spread.  Fire has flared
and abated, and the spirit is a single glowing coal.  She holds
in her hand a thick black rod with a sultry red at its heart.
She smiles down at Julie, and opens her, and thrusts the rod
deep into her, and Julie cries out.  The rod is hot and rough
and perfect, and it slides slowly in and out of her, and it
swells and pulses between her legs and her soft violated inner
walls, and the spirit's face is calm and alien as Julie gasps
and screams and comes, and as she comes the coal goes out, and
the spirit is gone, and Julie's orgasm slides quickly down into
sleep.

The next day, the castle was different, filled with the Beast's
living presence.  Expressions of his will, his servants did
not frighten her.  "Ask your Master," she said, "if he would
sup with me."

Sitting at the other end of the long oak table, his breath
was loud and his voice still a growl, but his manners were
perfect, his consideration for her absolute.  He sat himself
as far from her as the table allowed, talked just loudly enough
to be heard, just often enough to be comfortable.  His eyes
were deep and magnificent.  In the diffuse light of day, his
fur shone clean and combed, his clothing elegant, claws
discreet.  They ate.  The food was strong and excellent.

Over dessert, she looked across at him, breathing his scent.
"My lord," she said, "the castle frightens me at night.
I would have one of your servants sleep in my room, if it
pleases you."  He looked up suddenly, frowning.  Their eyes
met, and she felt herself falling into his depths.

"Have you been disturbed?" he asked, his growl dangerous but
protective.  Her skin prickled, her nipples erect.  "Have you
had an unseely visitor?"  She nodded, lowering her gaze.  His
growl filled the room.  "My servants would be of no help to you.
But you shall not be disturbed tonight."

That night she lay stretched out under the sheets in white
lace, and the Beast himself sat guard across the room in an
armchair.  "You honor me," she whispered.  He sat silent through
the night, and she slept deep and warm and dreamless.  Somewhere
in the night, outside the castle, something screamed in
frustration.  At dawn, he slipped from the room.

She woke and stretched and bathed and dressed.  Ignoring the
whispers and rattles of the servants, she walked west, and
stood at the edge of the Beast's domain.  With her first step
over the threshold, he was there, and she stepped forward,
pressing herself against him, her face in the thick fur of
his chest, breathing his scent, his arms enfolding her, their
bodies together, his breath warm and even, his huge hands
on her.  A long moment of silence, and then he gently pulled
her away, and they went to breakfast.

She did not let him leave her side that day.  They walked in
the gardens, sat in the library, ate by the windows.  His
voice smoothed with practice, and their natures eased together.
In the late afternoon it rained, and captor and captive sat
by the fire in the library and read and watched the rain.
Music played softly from nowhere, and thunder rolled in the
distance.  It was raining as she got into bed, warmly conscious
of the Beast in his chair, the cotton against her skin, the
taste of lemon in her mouth, the flickering of the candles
on the wall.

Near midnight, she came softly awake, and lay listening to the
night.  She opened her eyes lazily, and found herself looking
again into his eyes.  She smiled.  His breath caught, and he
looked away.  Her heart ached.

Julie rises from the bed and crosses the room in the dimness,
to stand before his chair.  She puts her hands on his shoulders,
his wide furry shoulders, and feels the muscles beneath the
skin.  She sits on his lap, one knee on either side of him, her
body tiny against him, her head on his chest, her arms around
his shoulders.  She nuzzles into him, breathing with her nose
in his fur, quiet, relaxed, on the edge of sleep.

His body is tense at first, hard, restrained, unmoving.  But
the weight of the girl on his lap is sweet and warm, quiet and
trusting, and slowly his muscles relax.  She stirs, her lips
on his body.  She smiles and purrs and inhales the maleness of
him.  She raises her face to his and kisses him; he groans,
keeps himself immobile for a moment, but then her tongue
moves over his lips, and he wraps her in his arms, kisses
her mouth, pulls her tight and smothering against him.  She
is overwhelmed with delight, and her eyes fill with tears,
cocooned in his arms, eyes closed, her body softening and
opening to him.

He lifts her easily, lowers her backward onto the bed, and
stands undecided, looking down at her.  She unbuttons the
gown, sane and happy, and slips it down her body.  Her breasts
and her shoulders are soft and lovely in the light, her thighs
and the neat triangle of hair sweet and welcoming.  Slowly,
he slides out of his finery, his body large and wide and
powerful in the darkess.  She sees the struggle on his face,
the war within him, and loves him for it, and kicks the gown
aside, and naked she reaches her arms up to him.

He takes her, there on the bed, in the candlelight, naked
in his fur, his loneliness, his need.  He tries to be gentle
at first, but she opens so completely to him, urges him on,
urges him in, gasps and moans so compellingly as he moves over
her, that soon his body is pounding against her soft nakedness,
penetrating her deeply and completely, and she cries out and
laughs with the joy of it, the pain of his thick animal staff
thrusting into her, the bliss of his beloved body on hers,
his breath heavy, his arms holding his weight off of her,
his hips lifting and lowering, pushing into her, and she
grips the long coarse fur of his back with her long pale
fingers and urges him to do it faster and harder, and they
come together in long loud waves of joy.  The thunder rolls
again as she curls up beside him, and they fall asleep.

The next morning, Julie woke suddenly, to a cold empty bed,
and shouts in the distance.  Throwing on a shift, she ran
through the corridors, through the garden, to the outer
courtyard.  The air rang with shouts, and the Beast her lover
stood atop the wall, snarling down at something beyond it,
dodging flying rocks, spears, arrows, tossing down stones
which rang against metal and thudded against flesh.  With
horror, she recognized the voice of her father in the din,
and without thinking she climbed the wall, the morning air
cool on her thighs, just as a brick crashed into the Beast's
forehead and spun him around.  She went to his side as he
surged back to his feet.  Below at the edge of the wood
stood a dozen village bravos, and her father, armed with
stones and boar-spears and one longbow.  The bow came up,
an arrow nocked, and she rose up tall and shouted out at
them.  "No! I love him!".

Silence but for the whirr of the arrow through the air, the
solid thunk as it embeds itself deeply in the chest of the
distracted Beast, then another silence as he falls, and a
crash as his dear heavy solid form strikes the earth.  Then
her wails, her screams, the shouts of the villagers, and all
dissolves into hysteria.

Even as she went to him, he seemed to be smoothing out, his
body changing.  As they carried him to her bedroom, led by
servants who now had visible forms, almost physical substance,
his eyes never left her, nor hers him.  As the hours passed,
his fur receded, his heart continued to beat, her fingers lay
entwined with his, and somewhere far off in the woods a mad
pipe seemed to play an angry dirge.

Deep in the night, she still kneels by his bed.  She has had
the servants show her father a room, and send the villagers
home.  She sleeps, but is awakened by his fingers gentle on her
forehead.  Her eyes meet his, questioning, wondering.  He shows
her his chest.  The arrow has fallen out, the skin clean and
unwounded as though it had never been broken.  There is no fur,
only a mat of thick black human hair.  His fingers have no
claws.  Her face is radiant as she pulls his head down to hers,
and they kiss, and his arms, strong but now only human, pull
her up and on to him, and this time they make love slowly and
gently.  Her tongue circles his mouth, he caresses her rear.
She spreads herself and gradually engulfs him as they kiss
long and deeply, and he strokes her smooth lovely skin as
she moves her body up and down, and they purr and laugh and
gasp in wonder, and all is good, and clean, and as it should
be.

In the kitchen, the head cook lights a candle and stands,
looking with wonder at the solid opaque knuckles of her hand.


My Friends the Allens -- Julie and the Beast
by Mark Aster
The End

