	             ____________________________
                    |                            |
                  /)|     KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF    |(\
                 / )|         DIRECTORIES        |( \
              __(  (|____________________________|)  )__
             ((( \  \ >  /_)              ( \  < /  / )))
             (\\\ \  \_/  /                \  \_/  / ///)
              \          /                  \          /
               \      _/                     \_       /
                /    /                         \     \
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   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         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


Roll of the Dice (MF)
by Bernadette <by_bernadette@yahoo.com>
(c) 1998 

*


The pilot had just announced that we were flying in a
southwesterly direction over the edge of the Grand Canyon.
 
Unfortunately my view of this massive cracked and scarred terrain was
blocked by the wing.  I was seated alone in an isolated chair near an
exit window and there was only one empty seat next to me, preventing
any of my envious fellow passengers from exchanging their seats for
mine. 
 
I'd had been alone most of my life.  Except for "her".  She would not
have approved of what I'd just done.  But I had to know what it would
feel like.  She'd never find out, anyway.  I didn't feel very
guilty--after all, it was my life, not hers.

My return flight was a far cry from the inbound journey to Nevada, a
bumpy ride filled with noisily intoxicated soon-to-be-broke gamblers
eagerly awaiting their sojourn in Las Vegas. 

"Everyone should drink a Bloody Mary while flying into Vegas," shouted
a woman seated directly behind me. 
 
Her name was Kathy and she was in her late thirties.  By the end of
the trip I knew about her two failed marriages and the gamble she'd
taken moving to Vegas from a tiny Midwestern almost twenty years ago.
We were both raised Catholic. 

Then the pilot announced that service would be discontinued due to
unexpected turbulence.  Kathy quickly ordered two at once, and I broke
down and joined her. The pressure of flying and going to Vegas to do
what I was going to do was just too much
for me to handle without a drink.

The elderly woman next to me with Parkinson's was having problems
hooking up her headset for the in-flight movie.  After I helped her I
commiserated with Kathy and watched the Hollywood "summer fluff"
comedy without mine.  Through the exaggerated facial expressions of
the actors, I followed the entire plot as well as if it were a silent
movie.

About halfway through--when the poor little rebellious rich girl had
finally fallen in love with the hunk bumbling car thief who'd
accidentally kidnapped her--the old lady asked me, "Is this entire
movie going to be in Spanish?"  
 
Funny, that's how I'd always felt about my life.  As if I was watching
myself star in a play written in a language that I didn't speak in
which the main character searches for his own nature.  
 
Of course "she" played a big role, and I was about to do the one thing
that she may very well have feared most.  Discovering myself was a far
bigger wager than anyone around me was about to place.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

I saw her in person for the first time as soon as I stepped off the
flight in Vegas.

She was standing far back from the gate, leaning against the wall and
looking about as mysterious as an undercover FBI agent.

Smiling, but not overly emotional.

I almost didn't recognize her.  Margaret looked different than she
looked in her pictures.  Not as glamorous, and yet more attractive in
a subtle way that excited me immediately.

We hugged each other tightly.

"Welcome to Las Vegas.  Here, let me help you with that bag," she
offered. "Damn!  What do you have in here?"

I laughed.

"I'm "not" a light traveler.  Got a pair of boots in there, you know."

"You brought your cowboy boots?"  She laughed.

"How was your flight?"

"Rough. Bad turbulence. Even the couple next to me commented on how
bumpy the flight was and they are from Vegas."

I told her about the inbound flight and Margaret laughed--easily and
comfortably.  I was beginning to feel relaxed around her.  Perhaps
this weekend wasn't such a bad idea after all.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


The Vegas strip was a sight to behold, an adult Disney World filled
with bright lights, extravagant structures and million dollar
gimmicks.  She'd been there one night alone before I could manage to
arrive, so she pointed out the various legendary landmark hotels to me
as we passed them: Caesar's Palace, The
MGM Grand, the pyramid-shaped Lexor, Excalibur, and the
Stratosphere, piercing the barren desert background like a space
needle from beyond.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she drove the rental car:
black shiny hair, full lips and her face calm and naturally
attractive. She wasn't saying much as my fears and insecurities about
coming here began to make me a bit nervous.

She was not only attractive.   She was very, very sexy.

"You okay?  You seem a bit quiet?" I asked.

"Sure, I'm fine. This is just the way I am."

Why she was so much more reserved in person than she was during those
many hours we had shared, talking on the computer for weeks and then
on the phone when we could.

After a few more moments of silence, she asked quietly:
"Are you sure you're okay with this?"

I sighed.  There it was.  Despite our powerful mutual attraction and
all those sensuously passionate conversations, Margaret had always
expressed some reservations about my situation.  It all went back to
"her," of course.  She had been there before Margaret and would
certainly be there afterwards.  Whether I
liked it or not.

As we pulled into the hotel garage, I reassured her that I was indeed
really ready for the experience, I told her how beautiful she was, how
excited I felt, and how much I wanted her.

I was ready to take a chance in the city of chances. 


*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


Margaret had made reservations for dinner with some of her clients.  I
went to the room to freshen up before dinner.  Two couples awaited us
when we arrived at the steakhouse.  I wasn't sure if Margaret had
filled them in on our "situation," or whether or not they realized we
had never actually met before tonight. 

No one acted strangely as she introduced me with the ease of having
known me all her life. 

During appetizers, one of the women politely asked, "And Lee, Where
are you from?" 

I laughed and winked at her. "Guess!" 

"Oh, I guess the east coast--well, at least originally," chimed in her
husband.  The couple was from Maryland. 

Margaret giggled and I smiled with delicious pride. 

"No, try again." 

They all looked confused. 

"Born, bred and raised deep in the Deep South," I answered. 

"Really?" asked the gentleman next to me. I was acutely aware that I
was the only southerner at the table. "I would have never guessed . .
. the accent . . . so very slight." 

"Well, I'm originally from New Orleans. I teach European history at UT
Austin.  Been there about eight years now.  So, I guess my dialect is
a strange mixture of Texan and southern Louisiana. To make it
stranger, folks from "Nahlins" sound like they are from Brooklyn." 

They laughed.  I smiled knowing deep inside that they perceived me as
a novelty.  Perhaps they didn't know how much of a novelty this was
for me.

I stole a quick glance at Margaret, sultry and luminous in the
atmospheric light of the restaurant.  Her eyes danced and her smile
was mysterious in a way all its own. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

After dinner we decided to visit the historic downtown district with
one of Margaret's clients.  Vegas had been nothing more than a tiny
village before the mobster Bugsy Siegal had wagered that a large
gambling industry could be built there--a bet that had cost him his
life.  It didn't escape me that "she" hated
gambling like most conservatives and would think of me as a criminal
twice over for going there to meet Margaret.

The district was dominated by an eight block area covered with an
atrium in which a "psychedelic" light show with loud music took place
every thirty minutes.  It reminded me of a sanitized version of the
New Orleans French Quarter.

Once inside the legendary "Golden Nugget" I began to get a bit jealous
of Margaret's attention towards Tom Johnson, her associate.  He was
quite a bit older than me, less attractive and married.  Margaret and
I made such a perfect match that we could have passed as cousins--both
in our mid-thirties, with dark hair
and smooth, almost flawless, glowing skin.

My jealousy was probably unfounded--I thought to myself--but I was
riding a wave of soldering passion and increasing desire. 

All I knew was that I wanted Margaret very badly . . . and in every
possible way.  "Forbidden fruit smells sweeter than any other," as my
mother would always say.

During the cab ride back to the hotel, Margaret continued to pay
considerably more attention to Tom than to me.  She and I had spent
many nights on the phone, laughing and planning this fabulous weekend
get away, so exciting and adventurous. I was astonished by her
apparent lack of interest, and I sulked like a
big baby.

I wandered off to the slots while Margaret and Tom began to play
craps.  Another simple, yet complicated game based on a roll of the
dice.  The drinks were free and flowing, and I'd already had a bit too
much wine at dinner.  A seasoned social drinker, I indulged, knowing
Margaret drank minimally at best.  Time passed and they strolled off
to play in the casino amusement area built to resemble Coney Island. 
I ordered another beer, played the slots and flirted with a young
tourist from Paris.

The effects of the alcohol and the fatigue from the long journey
combined with my anticipation over meeting Margaret took its toll.  I
decided to call it a night around midnight.

Part of the agreement was that we would book two adjacent rooms but
slip our keys underneath the other person's door if we got separated
as a result of her "business obligations," an eventuality which seemed
unlikely to me at the time it was discussed.

I crawled into my bed and fell fast asleep, disappointed.  Here I was,
taking one of the biggest risks of my life, and my would-be lover
seemed to have no more than the most casual interest in me.

Her arrival awakened me sometime later.  I must have been there for a
while, because I'd been dreaming about a recent conference I'd
attended in London, at which I'd decided to ride the Channel train
over to France.  Only then had I realized how claustrophobic I was
when underground for long periods--somehow the entire weight of the
English Channel seemed to be pressing on my heart.  After all these
years she gave to me, how could I do this to "her."  And yet I had to
get to the other side.
 
"Margaret?"

"Lee, you awake? I didn't mean to disturb you." 

"It's okay," I replied. 

Our eyes locked in the darkness. 

"I wanted to apologize for spending so much time and energy on Tom. 
He's a big client and I have never met him before tonight either, and
he's leaving tomorrow and we will have the rest of the weekend alone."

She spoke quickly, almost as if she'd rehearsed the apology.

"It's okay."  

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness.  Margaret was in her
nightgown.  A sheer, light summer frock.  I could see her bare nipples
through the delicate cotton fabric, standing erect in the shadows.

Margaret sat perched on the edge of my bed. The silence was deafening.
  

"Can I kiss you?"  My voice seemed to cut through the air like a
shotgun rifle. 

"Yes," she answered. 

I was astonished that I asked, and shocked that she agreed, especially
after the events of the evening. It was unexpected, unpredicted and
sexually exciting. 

We began to kiss lightly--her lips were soft and intoxicating.

At that moment, it dawned on me suddenly that I was kissing another
woman.

I pushed the thoughts of my mother's mortification to the far corners
of my mind as I began to run my hands through Margaret's silky tresses.

I blocked out anything and everything I had back home—my community
service organizations, my social and professional clubs, my reputation
as a teacher and scholar, and my identity as a straight woman.

It all melted away like wax.  The wax dripping from a fine hand-dipped
candle.  Like the moisture dripping from my own heat between the
smooth flesh of my plump thighs.

I was wet, dripping wet for a woman, dripping wet for Margaret.

I wanted her to put her mouth on me, drink me, and suck me like a
fountain of pure feminine vitality.  An overflowing wealth of sexual
pleasure for her to drown her every desire in, probing me with her
tongue in every way and each crevice of my body and soul.  

She climbed into the bed with me. 

"Not many women kiss as well as you can," she whispered. 

"Not many people feel as good as you," I replied. 

Her breathing became harder and more intense as the passion between
our lips turned from warm heat into burning fire. 

"I've wanted you all evening," I said, surprised at my own candor.  I
was sober now, the desire stronger than ever. "Have you felt it?" 

Yes, Lee, yes.  I was thinking about it all night." 

"I am sorry if silly jealousy got the best of me." 

"Tom??  Now, don't be ridiculous.  He's just a friend, a business
associate.  And he's a man!  Besides, you looked like you were walking
around in a stupor."

"Southern Comfort," I answered, "It's our culture.  And a long,
tiresome day." 

My hands went beneath the light fabric top of her night clothes.  I
felt her breasts with my hands as my tongue naturally followed.    

She began to moan almost inaudibly.

"Are you excited?" I asked.  "Do you want me?" I was still unsure of
the boundaries.  This was all so foreign to me.  

"Why don't you feel how much I want you?" she replied as her hand
guided me.  I stroked her juicy, soaked flesh as the quiet, reserved
Margaret began to moan louder and louder. 

"Oh, baby--are you sure you've never done this before?" 

"I promise." 

Her hard, aroused diamond felt just like my own.  It didn't take any
special knowledge to do what I did.  
 
I circled her with my fingertips in much the way I did it to myself,
penetrating her with my other hands.  

Digging deep, finding gold, striking oil.  

Fingers covered with honey, in my mouth, in  hers.  Tasting each
other, tongues wanting, legs entwined, hands groping.

She came loud and hard.  I licked it off my hands like icing from a
cake.

Margaret immediately went down on me like a tiger on its prey.  Her
tongue was merciless, she ate me like a starved cat--movement,
penetration, the sounds of her swallowing filled the air . . . I was
overflowing.

****************************

I grabbed her head gently, pushing it between my outspread legs as far
as I could.  I wanted her to suck the life from me, from my center,
from my core.

Her mouth couldn't do enough--and yet it did it all--as she flicked
her tongue and milked me like a young cow.

My juices spurting over her dark hair like confetti.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

I awoke the next morning--frisky, happy, content and in love.

Margaret had already showered, dressed and was ready to go downstairs
for coffee.

"Sweetheart?" I asked as I pulled her near me. "I'm alive in the
morning, you know. Very alive."  She had a different perfume this
morning.

"Sorry, love, I am not really into it in the morning," she said
demurely, with a sensual shrug. "I like it at night, so you can go to
sleep afterwards."

I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that, but I figured it was a
girlie thing.  I like such a man, fully aroused upon awakening.

"Want anything?" She was still somewhat affectionate. Her arm lay
gently across my stomach. But there was a wall there, almost as though
we had a one-night stand.  Perhaps we had.

"Sure, black coffee would be fine, thanks," I replied,
frustrated and confused.

"Hey!" I pulled her close. "You okay?"

"Must you analyze everything?" she replied.

"I guess not," I answered, letting go of her with a growing feeling of
helpless.

Margaret casually left the room for coffee as I rolled over, hoping to
get a little sleep before we went to spend the day at Caesar’s Palace.  
 
But my mind was racing too quickly.
 
Did I really love her, or was this only an illusion?  Was "she" right,
that God had created men and women to love each other, and therefore
that this could only be a strange mixture of lust and infatuation?  My
mother was not a woman of the world and had passed away when I was in
college, yet her religious convictions
haunted me like the ghost of Sundays past.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Later that afternoon, I watched Margaret sit on the bed, opening the
present I'd brought.

Like a delighted child, her brown eyes sparked as she tore open the
neatly wrapped package.  I'd brought her a Louisiana Mud Painting--a
beautiful white blossom matted in burgundy and framed with ornate gold
leaf.

"Oh, it's beautiful," she whispered. "I have the perfect spot in my
house for it!" 

"The Magnolia's the Louisiana state flower.  See how it blooms, with
petals that unfold, revealing a center filled with fragrant pollen." 

"I love it, but you shouldn't have done it." 

"Why not?  You invited me here to meet you.  Accept it as a token of
gratitude for the invitation.  When I was a kid, this was my
grandmother's favorite flower. I never appreciated the beauty until I
grew up and began to return home for visits."

"But I told you not to make a big fuss over this.  We both knew going
into it we were taking a big chance, and well, you certainly shouldn't
have done this."

"I know."  I sighed.  We'd talked about the issues in such depth that
at times we both felt as if we'd beaten a dead horse into gelatin. 
And still . . . oddly . . . I wasn't certain how the gamble had turned
out.  
 
Still, I was grateful to Margaret for being patient with my concerns
and letting me have the chance to know myself.  A wave of desire crept
over me as I looked into her eyes.

"Just give me some sugar." 

"Sugar?"

"It's the southern way of asking for a kiss, Sweetheart." 

I leaned forward to kiss her.  Although she didn't pull away, she
jumped up after a few minutes and abruptly said, "Why don't you lie
down and nap? I'm going downstairs to shop a bit." 

I felt an old frustration as I saw the woman I thought I knew so well
shut the door again.  Being with her sexually had been so beautifully
different and yet the emotional barriers were nothing new.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

We decided to catch a club after dinner the next evening, but stopped
by the hotel on the way out.  I'd hoped that perhaps my affections
were going to be reciprocated as we lay across the bed, talking
intimately about our families and growing up. 

"You know, I was raised in a very unaffectionate family," I told her
as I stroked her long, silky hair. 

"Really?  You seem very affectionate to me," she replied, obviously
enjoying my caresses, but giving none in return. 

"Yeah, I guess that is why I crave it so much." I paused. "You are
such a beautiful woman, Margaret." 

She smiled and thanked me. 

"Can I have some more sugar?"  We began to kiss again, and the club
didn't seem like such a great idea any more. 

She suddenly moved away. "I need to go brush my teeth. I'll be right
back." 

I lay on the bed waiting when the phone rang.  It was 10:30 at
night--who'd be calling either of us in Vegas?

"Hello?" 

"Is Margaret there?" a female voice asked. 

"She's in the restroom right now," I answered. 

"I will hold . . ." The woman sounded irritated and a little sarcastic. 

Margaret emerged from the restroom. 

"For you." 

"Is it a man or a woman?" 

"A woman." 

She took the receiver from my hand. 

There was silence at first. Then Margaret began to cry. 

"Oh, no!  You can't be for real. No! No!!!"

There was a pause.  I wanted to comfort her, but somehow the distance
she'd placed between us made me pause.

"Was there a lot of blood?  Which hospital did you bring her to?  What
did the doctor say?  They think her neck is broken?  Oh, not my
"baby!"  Oh, thank God!  Why aren't you there with her? Please, will
they let you stay with her?  My baby!" 

She was crying and sobbing.  I lay motionless on the bed, feeling
helpless.

"Yes. I will. Yes.  Let me know in the morning.  I have to talk to Lee
now. Bye." 

She hung up the phone and looked at me.  By this time I was anxiously
standing by her side.  Whatever the situation between us, I had to be
there for her.

"My dog got in a fight with another dog while Melinda was out walking
her.  Ruby was torn apart." 

I took her in my arms instinctively.  She sobbed and wailed like a
mother whose child had been badly injured. 

Finally, we lay down again on the bed.  Margaret clung to me and
wrapped her legs around me, kissing my cheek ever so gently.  I
brushed her soft hair out of her face. 

"Margaret, do you believe in God?" I realized the question had never
come up before in our many conversations. 

"Yes," she muttered. 

"Margaret--look at me.  You've got to have faith, okay?  Faith.  Will
you pray with me?" 

She nodded, tears cascading down her face like a waterfall. 

"I'm going to ask my guardian angel to give you one of my favors," I
said. 

"Thank you, you are so sweet." 

"Pray with me, Margaret." 

As a cynic in most contexts, a rare church attendee, and a woman who'd
just violated her mother's most treasured beliefs about sexuality and
gender, I suppose I had little right to invoke my faith.  But there it
was.  Comforting me in order that I could comfort her.

"I'm so glad you're here," she cried. 

I held her close and stroked her face. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Margaret flew out of Las Vegas the following morning.  Our carefully
planned weekend had been truncated.  The first and last time we would
ever see each other came and went in a fleeting moment of
disappointment and failed expectations. 

When I awoke, she was gone.  Her suitcase, clothes,
everything - gone.  The painting of the Magnolia blossom was left on
the bed without a note. 

My heart heavy, I began to pack myself.  I'd decided that being in
Vegas all alone under these circumstances wasn't very appealing.

Suddenly the door opened and Margaret walked in. 

"I thought you were gone," I said. 

"No, I just checked out and got my luggage set to go. I wouldn't leave
you with out a goodbye." 

"Hey, I didn't know, the way this whole weekend turned out to be such
a disaster." 

"A disaster?"  Her voice rose sharply. "A disaster?  Why was this
weekend a disaster for you, Lee?!  My dog is half dead in the
hospital." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way . . . but the whole time, I just
knew, I knew something wasn't right." 

"You and I both knew we were taking a chance coming out here.  Neither
of us had ever flown to meet a total stranger before.  Stop feeling
sorry for yourself.  You knew what you were getting yourself into from
the beginning.  Besides, it could've
never worked.  We live too far apart." 

"I know . . . but I'd hoped . . ." 

Margaret sat and stared into my eyes for a long time. 

"I wish you the best of luck, I really do, Lee." 

She walked over and hugged me tightly.  Her lips lightly brushed mine. 

"Thank you," I said. "Will you let me know how Ruby is?" 

"I will e-mail you.  Goodbye Lee, and have a safe trip." 

I sat numb in the room as she walked out the door one last time.  A
roller coaster filled with screaming thrill-seekers whizzed past my
window.  The clanking of change falling from the slots could be heard
in the distance. 

People taking chances.  A role of the dice. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The plane landed safely at the Dallas/Fort Worth International
Airport.  The fierce Texas humidity welcomed me back like a strong
wind hitting me in the guts.  It was good to be home again, away from
the noise, bright lights, and gaudy attractions.

I knew now, that I could love a woman, but not that she could love me.
 I wondered how long the pain would last--or if it would be left
behind in the town of chances.

Funny how the trip back always seems so much shorter. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 Subj:      Re: Ruby 
 Date:      98-05-23 23:44:24 EDT 
 From:      margaret@abc.com 
 Reply-to:  margaret@abc.com 
 To:        LeeKnapp@netbet.com 

Ruby came home today, and she seems to be doing better. I think she's
very happy to be in her home again.  The doctor thinks she'll improve
quickly now that she's in her normal surroundings.  Gracie, my other
dog, is keeping a safe distance - somehow she knows that her sister
isn't feeling well. So, the family is back together again and all is
well for the
moment. 

As far as us remaining friends: I harbor no bad feelings for you, Lee.
 I tried to make that clear on Saturday. But, to be honest with you, I
don't think that we have a lot in common.

Certainly not enough upon which to base a true friendship.

That's just reality--as unfortunate as it may be.  So, I think it
would be a mistake to promise that we'll be friends.  I just don't see
that happening.  And I don't think that you do either.  We can
continue to e-mail one another for awhile, but we must acknowledge
that eventually it will drop off. 

You are a beautiful, kind, gentle and vivacious person.  You deserve
to have a life filled with love, laughter and happiness.  I hope
you'll find someone soon that can help give you those things. 

Thinking of you fondly, 
Margaret


(c) Bernadette 1998

