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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 -- Atoms
by Mark Aster

= = =
Note: this story contains oblique references to sex and
other naughty bodily functions, and somewhat more direct
references to naughty body parts.  If you are a minor
and still subject to taboo, or if naughty subjects
bother you, don't read this.
= = =

Oh, I'm lazy!

Here are her toes, pink and still, small precise muscles
relaxed in sleep.  First toes round and compact, second toes
a millimeter longer.  This little piggy stayed home.

Her feet, small but not delicate, clean and tan.  Nineteen years
of callus on the soles; nineteen years of running barefoot,
laughing in the sun, splashing through streams, stepping on
thorns.  Feet tapering upwards to her ankles, up to the long
slender stems of her legs.

Her skin is smooth and even, young and taut.  A small scratch
here, low on her calf, almost healed.  Her skin is tight across
the fronts of her calves, and runs softly and round over the
languid muscles behind, still but prepared, sleeping panthers.
She is on her back, legs almost together, thighs just touching,
knees just apart.

Her knees are round and functional, skin wrinkly close up,
tiny white scars from kindergarten playgrounds.  I could
turn her over, kiss the thin sensitive skin on the backs
of her knees.  But that would wake her up.

Her thighs are tender curves, soft with the lovely saturated
softness of a woman's flesh.  My palms, my lips, my cheeks, the
touchpoints of my skin know the feels and tastes of her thighs,
tan above and delicate pale pink inside, strong but yielding,
fragrant, sensitive, wired intricately into her brain, the
seat of her pleasure and heat.  I bend down carefully and
silent, and kiss the inner slope of her left thigh, just
touching the skin with my lips, breathing for a moment the
warm female layer of air that surrounds her body.

Remember looking through the photo album, sitting in the living
room on an October afternoon, between her and her older sister,
jasmine tea steaming on the coffeetable.  She looks down from a
treehouse, grinning at the camera, dark blonde hair in her face,
long skinny legs swinging over the side.  Eight, maybe ten,
looking down at Dad with the camera, about to be tickled from
behind by her sister and to almost but not quite fall out of
the tree.

Stretched out on her stomach on the beach, a few years later,
making a sandcastle, her legs and her body still thin but less
gawky, sliding into womanhood, she looks back over her shoulder,
batting her eyelashes, lips practicing a pout, about to laugh.

Nineteen, naked, sleeping on her back, here beside me.  Her body
remembers being a girl, but is used to being a woman; long legs
now graceful, knees less often skinned, hips wider, waist small.
Her stomach is a low quiet hill, moving gently up and down with
her breath.  The slope leads down into curled honey-blonde hair,
the flower of her vulva quiet and closed, a single warm line in
her skin, pointing down between her thighs.  Her hips are subtle
peaks on either side, cliffs beyond them, her buttocks swelling
slightly outward, flattened gently under her by the weight of
her pelvis.

I touch her stomach, between her navel and her mons, one finger
sliding along her skin, careful not to tickle, just a taste of
her texture and her warmth.  She moves in her sleep, turning
her head and raising her eyebrows, then quiet again, her lips
slightly parted.

Her navel is the bottom point of a triangle, point down.  Its
upper points are her nipples, the tips of two small exquisite
breasts.  Within the triangle, an expanse of soft woman-flesh,
fine almost invisible downy hairs here and there, a mole, a few
freckles.  Her nipples are soft, collapsed, relaxed.  They also
are wired to the pleasure-centers of her brain, so a child
suckling, making them stiff with its tiny mouth and drawing
out her milk, will some day feel good to her.  When I suck on
her nipples, kiss her breasts, run my tongue over the welcoming
roughness of her aureolae, it also feels good; her nipples
harden, her vulva softens and opens, becomes moist and
receptive.  Is this a side-effect of the nursing reward, or
is her body designed to love my mouth on her breasts, to open
its most secret inwardnesses to me when I kiss her nipples, to
open as a woman to the pressure of my body on hers?

Above her breasts, her collarbones and upper chest are quiet
and modest, moving with the rest of her slowly up and down as
she breathes.  Her shoulders are round and slender, infinitely
kissable, bitable.  One elbow is bent outwards, and the skin of
that shoulder is delicately wrinkled, almost dimpled.  The other
arm is by her side.  Her arms are round and perfect, not the
thin sticks of a fat-free runway model, but solid and welcoming,
muscle and fat and bone and sinew.  Her elbows are as frank and
blunt and comfortable as her knees, functional, with the tiny
subtle white marks of old scars on the flexible skin.  The
undersides of her arms, leading across the delicious backs of
her elbows and up to the soft hollows of her armpits, are
blue-veined, sensitive, thin-skinned, enticing.  Sometimes
I hold her upper arms down on the floor, straight out from
her shoulders, and pin her there as I nuzzle her breasts,
rub myself across the gasping nakedness of her body, her
legs, kiss her mouth.  She laughs and struggles and moans,
and our skins touch joyfully.

Her ingenious hands, small but long-fingered, bare and
ringless, nails short and blunt, sleep relaxed and idle
at her sides.  Imagine those fingers moving over skin, over
my chest, over her sister's open thighs, over her own labia.
Imagine them typing, weaving, intertwined with other fingers
holding hands, fingers holding a pencil, a knife, a key.  On
the edge of one palm is a small recent cut, still red and
vivid on her skin.

Her neck, her throat, her head and face, ears, hair; almost too
rich to describe.  In her face is her whole self writ small:
her eyes, sleep-shuttered now, are clear windows into her mind,
her laughing girlhood, her present warm material womanhood, her
motherhood someday to come.  What will it be like to be her
child, to suckle at these breasts, to sleep in this lap
unknowing, her the atmosphere and her the world, her the warm
trusted center of the universe?

Her hair is long, dark blonde, twisted around behind her, under
her head.  Her ears are small and complex, deep, pink, subtle
artifacts nested in her hair.  There is a tiny beauty spot above
her upper lip, between the bow of her mouth and the curve of her
nose, waiting to be kissed.  Her mouth is lovely, calm, a
promise that makes my heart beat faster thinking of it.  I
smooth a few hairs from her forehead, a wide high intelligent
forehead, uncreased.  I watch her face, I listen to her breath.
We breathe, me here with her, her alone in her sleep.

Her parted lips draw me, and I bend and kiss her mouth, softly,
her lips utterly yielding, soft and heartbreaking.  Her eyelids
open just a crack, her lips curve slightly under mine, but still
she lies passive, her lips under my mouth with no resistance,
languid, lazy.  I run the tip of my tongue over her lips, slowly
and caressing.  She purrs low in her throat and her lips part
wider.  In the soft darkness within, the tip of her tongue
barely shows itself.

Some restraint within me breaks; I bend over her again, close
my mouth hot and hungry over hers, slide my tongue between her
quiet lips, slip an arm under her shoulders and draw her naked
body against me.  With a surprised little sound, she comes into
my arms, her mouth waking up and kissing me back, her lips
around my tongue, her leg over me, the smoothness of her thigh
running over my side.

She rolls with my embrace, and ends up on top of me, raised up
on her arms, her eyes still sleepy and slitted, her mouth
smiling, her hair drifting down over her neck and onto my
chest.  Her breasts are perfect domes suspended above me,
her stomach presses against mine.  She kisses my mouth, I
run my hands over the unseen skin of her back, her bottom.
I kiss her nipples, and her body softens, opens, she rubs
against me and purrs and gasps.  Her hips move slowly and
insistently, her hands touch me, her tongue licks my shoulder,
my neck, slips into my mouth.  Skin to skin, mouth to mouth,
face to face, we celebrate love, and life, and joy, and the
textures of time.


My Friends the Allens -- Atoms
by Mark Aster
The End

