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Bedsheets
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
BEDSHEETS
She opens the door to his bedroom and flounces in. He is quite
surprised; she is wearing a short, pleated grey skirt, a white
blouse under a dark-blue, almost black blazer, with red and purple
piping along the shoulders; her blonde hair is tucked up underneath
a cap of the same material, with an elaborate pentagram-like badge
on the front; her slim legs are clothed in calf-length white socks
and shiny black patent-leather shoes, with large silver buckles.
She bends over, putting her school-bag behind the door; the skirt is
so short that it rides up, revealing the smooth curves of her
behind, barely covered by a skimpy pair of white cotton underpants.
She straightens again, giving him an impish smile which makes his
heart-beat waver. Gods below, he thinks, she doesn't look more
that fourteen years old. He notes that she wears no makeup, which
makes her look even younger. She stands there for a moment,
grinning, and then rushes into his embrace, taking his hands in hers
and placing them around her waist, pressing them down to rest on her
behind. Once assured that his hold will remain there, she slips a
hand underneath and inside his wind-breaker, stroking his chest,
fingers entwining themselves in the crinkly hair, tweaking a nipple
between thumb and index finger. He hugs her close, teasing the
soft, wayward tufts of hair that poke out from underneath the cap,
eyes closed in the agony of wanting her but not daring to show it.
She insinuates her other hand down his back and underneath the
waist-band of his jeans, her little finger nestling in the hollow
just above the cleft of his buttocks; she throws her head back to
meet the kiss that he finally dares to offer. Although she is
smaller and younger than he, she takes the initiative; boldly
thrusting her tongue against his, pressing him backwards. His
knees buckle and he falls back into a sitting position on the bed,
where she can attack him from an approximation of an equal stance.
He is silent; she sighs, moans and breathes deeply through her
nostrils, forcing her lips against his painfully as she senses him
starting to retreat from her. As he falls back onto the bed - his
only avenue of escape - she climbs up onto the bed, sitting astride
him, drawing his wind-breaker up, locking her arms around his neck
and pressing herself against his naked chest, still writhing in the
passion of their kiss. He tries to turn away, deeply self-
conscious about their difference in age; she gives a small cry of
disappointment. His expression softens from alarm to resignation;
seeing this, she smiles with relief, playing the part of a child who
has not learned to deal with rejection. He grasps her shoulders,
turns her over onto her back gently, fixing her in position with the
softest of kisses. Each regards the other fondly; she makes a
subtle gesture, no more that the particular movement of an eyebrow,
and he knows which game she wants to play. He gives her a
questioning look, raising his own eyebrow; she smiles shyly and
nods. He cannot bring himself to deny her now.
She lies back, arms outspread, as he deftly undoes her blouse
buttons with his teeth; she, giggling when, in frustration, he tears
the last one off. He touches his tongue to the sensitive tip of
each budding breast in turn; evoking drawn-out moans of pleasure as
he caresses the soft skin that lies between. His fingers work at
the three buttons that hold closed the waist-band of her skirt,
freeing them and running his hands over her smooth stomach. His
hands momentarily cup the curves of her behind, lifting her so that
he can pull the skirt down, playfully digging his index fingers into
her quivering thigh-muscles, making her gasp. As his hands draw
the pleated cloth down towards her knees, he follows it with his
mouth and tongue, teasing its wetness over the bump of her hip,
rubbing his slightly stubbled jaw down her thigh with a tickling
feeling. She giggles, and then arches her back as he moves down
her legs, massaging the bulge of her calves, planting a dainty kiss
on both kneecaps, slowly levering off first one shoe, then the
other. She wiggles her toes, freed from the confinement of the
unyielding patent-leather; he hooks his index fingers under the
ribbed end of one sock, and slowly works it down her leg, tweaking
her toes as he grasps the end, drawing it off and kissing the arch
of her foot. She exhales raggedly, surprised at the intensity of
the sensations that his attention invokes. He smiles when he hears
a gasp as she draws breath, and removes her other sock, brushing his
lips over her ankle, applying a gentle suction, smiling again when
he senses her reaction; he circles her ankle with his tongue,
firmly holding her foot when she tries to draw it from his grasp.
He observes the dampness of her crotch; she is feverishly massaging
her aroused nipples, pressing the palms of her hands flat against
her small breasts and slowly rubbing them in a circular pattern.
He matches this motion with his tongue, sweeping over the twitching
tendons that ridge the top of her foot, and she is unable to stifle
the moan of pleasure which this synchronised stimulation elicits.
He judges that she has, for the moment, been brought to the proper
level, and, with a final parting kiss, he relinquishes her feet,
allowing her to draw her legs up. She moves to take off her
panties; he grabs her hands and slowly but insistently forces them
up over her head. She grins at him, pokes her tongue out; he
presses his lips against hers hungrily, and her grin dissolves in
their second passionate kiss.
After a few minutes, he has brought her to a state of heated,
surging expectation; distributing kisses and careful bites up and
down her throat, occasionally stopping off at either of her breasts
for similar treatment, all the while holding her hands helplessly
over her head. She begins to lose the strength to struggle with
him, and instead concentrates on rubbing her crotch against his
thigh, an insistent motion which he obviates by sliding up to sit
over her stomach, holding her down on the bed with her slim waist
firmly grasped between his thighs, but when he is sitting up that
far, their mouths cannot touch; a situation which they both rapidly
lose interest in. He releases her and indicates that she should
remove her blouse and panties. She does so, her small breasts
bouncing as she shrugs out of the soft white top, which she drops to
the floor next to her skirt, blazer, cap, shoes and socks; shortly
joined by her panties. She lies down again, naked, hands demurely
clasped before her breasts; he notes that she has shaved most of her
pubic hair off, leaving only a small, downy patch of fur,
appropriate to the development of the child's part which she is
playing. He reaches over her to tug the edge of the sheet from
underneath the mattress, brings it up over her arms, wrapping it
around her; he tucks it underneath and rolls her over. The sheet
winds around her four times, binding her arms to her sides, leaving
her exposed from the waist down. He stacks two of the pillows,
places her over them, face-down. Her eyes widen as he grasps her
legs just under her knees, slowly spreads her legs and plants a kiss
on her tender pubes, his tongue darting underneath to caress the
lips. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply and feeling the sheet
tighten against her arms as she does so. He finds another sheet,
bunches it up and thrusts it under the pillows, raising her behind a
few more inches and allowing better access to her cunt, which he is
gently probing with his tongue. Her legs tremble involuntarily,
and try to close; he holds them apart firmly, his fingers stroking
the incredibly soft skin of the insides of her thighs. He thinks
about someone - De Sade, perhaps - who once wanted to have a book
bound in leather made from the skin of a young girl's thighs,
stripped off by flogging.
Wheatley. she says.
Mmmph - I beg your pardon?
The guy who wanted to bind a book in thigh-skin, his name was
Wheatley. He freezes, withdrawing from her. Oh _come_on_, I
wasn't reading your mind... don't be so paranoid! I read that book
as well... and when you ran your fingers over my - ahhhhh, yes...
He resumes his ministrations, his nose brushing the cleft of her
buttocks as he dips his tongue into her, his lips brushing hers,
feeling the warmth as they swell; smearing her sweet fluids over his
face. Her breathing deepens, her hips move haltingly, to the rhythm
he sets with each stroke of his tongue. When he senses the moment
approaching, he withdraws, smiling. He relishes the sibilance of
her disappointed moan; induces a surprised squeak by digging his
thumbs into her thighs and, for a moment, wonders who ever had the
opportunity to play a musical instrument such as this.
He grasps her hips, (careful to keep the sheet tightly wound
around her waist and arms) and turns her over onto her back, removes
the bunched sheets and one of the pillows, dragging her towards him.
Holding her legs straight up, he touches his lips to her ankle, rubs
his crotch against the backs of her thighs. She stares into his
eyes, eyes wide, gasping with desire as he, holding her feet with
one hand, undoes the front of his jeans and levers them down with
the other. She closes her eyes as he exposes his erection,
pressing it between her thighs, slippery with the evidence of her
arousal, sliding it down until it rests against her pubes. Then, as
she tries to realize her desire to hold him, she discovers just how
frustrating it is to be tightly bound in the sheet. He sees her
sinuous writhing, and smiles, assured of his domination over her.
For the moment. He lifts her behind from the pillow, suspending her
by her ankles, sliding his index finger into her, idly folding her
lips back, stroking her, tacitly ignoring her moaned pleas to
complete the act, to stop teasing her! He almost abandons her then,
but looking down on her supine form, her divine face wreathed in a
most fetching look of despair, he smiles one-sidedly, thinking of a
line from a song by Peter Gabriel: No Self-Control and, ever so
slowly, slides his erection into her.
She finds that this is the moment she had been anticipating, as
she had dressed herself that morning, on the journey to his house,
even through the preliminaries they had just performed. His cock
isn't the twelve-inch battering-ram that usually accompanies their
fantasies; it is adequate, nonetheless, and its width certainly
makes its presence felt; she tries to relax as it enters, feels her
lips part around it as she presses her thighs together. He levers
her legs forward until her knees are pressing against her breasts,
pushing down so that his penis moves within her, then withdrawing
and rubbing the engorged head against her clitoris at the same time.
The sound she makes on his withdrawal - a combination of moan, gasp
and relieved laugh - arouses him almost to the point of losing
control and throwing himself into an uncontrolled frenzy; but ever-
present in his mind is the fact that in this relationship, he is
supposed to be the responsible one, the one who maintains some sense
of decorum. He thrusts again, pushing against the wilful resistance
that she presents; this time, she is silent, in the hope that he
will respond, through frustration, with more vigor. However, he
has played this game with her before, is not fooled that easily; he
maintains his unhurried pace, gently rocking her back and forth as
he thrusts. You would need a metronome to establish that his pace
is increasing; she finds that the welcome pressure of orgasm is
slowly mounting within her. Taking another image from his mind (she
_can_ read his thoughts!), she wonders how he can be thinking about
electronics at a time like this; he is thinking about low-pass
filters, capacitances, and - something she finds faintly ridiculous
until she sees the relationship - he is thinking of her as some sort
of switched-mode power supply! By now, the accelerated rhythm of
his thrusts has brought the level of stimulation to a continual
stream of sensation, no pauses distinguishable between one thrust
and the next. The sheet seems to be getting tighter around her arms
as she arches her back, gasping deeper with each breath; he is
slowly drawing her legs apart and back, thrusting from underneath
now, his shaft passing through her narrowly-separated lips at an
angle, pressing into the roof of her vagina. All she has to do is
close her eyes, concentrate for a moment; and there she is, stomach
muscles tight, her breath stopped in her throat, her pulse
thundering in her temples as she shudders into orgasm. She loses
herself in the feeling to such an extent that she doesn't have the
presence of mind to wonder if he will perform his usual trick, and
it is only when she, having fallen from the plateau of ecstasy,
finds herself rising swiftly again that she realizes he hasn't
stopped thrusting. This time, she cannot remain silent, but allows
a choked ahhhhh to escape from between her clenched teeth. They
lie there, pressed together, for half a minute; then he separates
her legs, leans down while still thrust all the way into her, and
brushes his lips across hers. She opens her eyes as he withdraws,
gets off the bed and puts his clothes back on. She struggles to
unwind the sheet, almost rolling over onto the floor before he comes
to her assistance. She gazes into his eyes, and says,
You didn't come, did you? The smallest of smiles appears
briefly on his lips.
No. It doesn't matter. He locates a loose, black jumper and
moves to the door. Clutching a sheet around her shoulders, she
follows him.
Where are you going?
The supermarket will be closed in half an hour, and we're almost
out of coffee, he replies in a carefully neutral tone. He closes
the door behind him. She returns to the bed, sits down and sighs.
Oh, Kolya.
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