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Lisa the Great - Part 1
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.
"Lisa the Great"
Part One
"Rice cakes are the work of the devil.", I murmered, to
no one in particular. Well, I did sort of say it directly to my dog, but
he's only paying attention because I have food in my hand. Can't say
as I blame him, he knows that he gets half my dinner anyway, and
I can't fathom dog food being too good. (Actually, I know it's horrible.
I had to eat some to convince my dog that it wasn't poison. Li'l fucker
is more paranoid than that nutcase my neighbor, Mike, hangs out with.)
"Don't sit there begging. You know you don't like these. You spit them
on my floor, and I have to clean it up." Aww, he's so cute. He's half
chow, half Mike's dog. (Chow/Newfoundland mix.) I think he's cuter than
Mike's dog, but he'd have a fit if I said that. Can't blame him...that
dog is the only creature in that house he can stand. He comes over here
because he needs to get away from his family. Not that *I* mind. He's
great. Funny, articulate, *gorgeous*. He's also three years older than me
and thinks of me more as a little sister than a possible romantic
interest.
I remember the first time I tried to tell him how I felt about
him. He said, and I'll never forget this, "One: if you got to know me,
really well, you wouldn't want me. Two: Always remember, Fifteen will
get you twenty, and then you don't have to worry about looking for a
woman, you have to worry about becoming a woman, and bubba won't put
you under to do it." That pissed me off. I do know him. I know everything
about him. He just doesn't know that I know. I've watched him. I know
the names of all of his ex-girlfriends. I know that he sits in the
computer lab many a night, typing some story or another. I know where
he is at almost any second of any day. Most of his friends can track
him down if he's in sight, and even then, most of them can't see through
the bullshit he feeds them as to why he was late, didn't call, whatever.
(He is so smooth. One time, he convinced his girlfriend that he couldn't
call because he was driving down Route 8, had a blow out, lost control,
and took out about 10 of the State Flower. (Those damned orange barrels.
They're everywhere. The roads never get any better. Stow road gets closed
every year for repaving, and every year, before they can even get their
shit together enough to start, it snows before any work gets done.)
When she asked why there were no marks on his car, he said, "Well,
the car *is* ding resistant, you know." (This was while he still had
the Saturn. What the hell happened to it, even I don't know. I'm not sure
if *he* knows.) He had an answer for every anomoly. Wanna know where
he really was? Golfing. He was at Brookledge. It's his passion. He's
the *worst* golfer ever to live, but tell him that and you'll break
his dear little heart. If there's light, and you can't find him,
try Brookledge or Fox Den. Guarantee you'll find him.) I know him better
than he knows himself, and he says that I don't know him well. Hmmmph.
But, gentle reader, if there's one bit of wisdom that he
imparted on me, that I shall now share with you, it's "Never, ever,
give up hope." He tells me that if I want something bad enough, I can
get it, no matter what my dream may be. And, dear reader, as I have
discovered, he is right. Shortly after my 18th birthday, something
wonderful happened.
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"Sound. Repetitive sound. Horrible. Must stop sound.", I
mumble, as I groggily pick up the phone.
"Hello?", I ask, into the dial tone.
The sound keeps droning. The word doorbell swims around in my
head, trying to find something to mean. Almost instinctively, I turn
off my clock. The vile tone persists. Finally, the meaning of the word
doorbell comes to mind. "Why am I thinking about doorbells?", I
wonder. It dawns on me that someone might be at the door.
I throw on a robe, run upstairs, and open the door.
There are certain things that I thought that I'd never see, and one
of them was, until this moment, Mike, shivering and naked, outside my door.
He was covering his genitals with a newspaper, and looking markedly blue.
I ushered him in, and offered him something warm to drink. (In retrospect,
it probably would have been more suitable to offer him a pair of sweats,
but.....)
"Why were you out there naked in the snow?", I asked, understandably
curious.
"D-d-d-don't kn-kn-know. W-w-w-oke up out th-there. N-n-need
hot sh-sh-shower.", he stammered. The poor dear was frozen. It's a miracle
he didn't die of hypothermia.
I escorted him upstairs, and into the bathroom. I showed him where
we keep towels, and he thanked me profusely. I left him alone to his
devices.
I decide that while I'm here, waiting for him to come out
of the shower, it would be nice for me to fetch him a robe or something.
One thing was clear...since his parents were vacationing with mine
in Chicago, if I hadn't let him in, he would have died. I decided to
use his debt to my advantage, and set upon my task.
Failing finding a decent robe, (the only good one I had was on
me, and it would have fit him like a pair of my underwear. I'm more than
slightly petite, and he's got quite a firm build. (It's all that golf.
Gives a man great shoulders. I watch him every morning when he goes
out into the front yard to practice...he never wears a shirt when he's
practicing his drive. Watching the muscles in his back roll over one
another is enough to make me wet for hours.)), I find a pair of
extra large sweats and a sweatshirt. I bring them back up, and sneak
into the bathroom to set them down so he'll have a nice surprise when he
turns off the water. I "accidentally" peek over at the glass door of the
shower, I see him curled up in a tiny ball, huddled in the stream of
the scalding hot shower. "That poor dear", I say to myself. "He must
have been frozen through." I don't think that he knows that I was even
in there, because he never looked up. He just sat there with his back
to the torrent of heat being flooded at him.
I figure that he'll probably be in there for a good long time,
thawing out, so I try to catch up on a little sleep. But sleep eludes
me, as my mind runs over the details of his body. His semi-broad chest,
with just a small amount of dark hair, a striking contrast to his
dishwater blonde hair. (Oooh, don't tell him I said that. He'd kick my
ass. "I have BROWN hair, dammit. There's not a blonde hair on my head."
Right. And I'm Shirley McLaine.) His arms, branching off of those
luscious shoulders, no longer hiding the muscle like it used to.
(Oooh...you should have seen him three years ago. We're talking pencil.
He was still running track and down to 105. He's gained about 70 lbs
since then, and filled out quite nicely.) He tries to hide the muscle in
his rugby shirts and his business suits, but I know it's there. The
always exposed forearms, which have grown from years of typing, guitar
playing, and, yes, you guessed it, swinging golf clubs, (as well as
fencing, raquetball, volleyball, some pick-up football and basketball,
tennis, and, when he thinks no-one's looking, wrestling with his dog,
(who outweighs him and pound for pound is stronger than any weightliter.).
He tries to make everyone think that he is a compu-jockey, but I know what
he hides. I've seen him lose his temper once in his life, when his
fiancee of a couple years left him (in fact, got married to someone else
without even having the decency to tell him that she was leaving him.).
He calmly, (he never, *ever* shows what he's thinking. A true Scorpio
to the last.), with immaculate precision, proceeded to snap an aluminum
baseball bat against the oak in his front yard. It took three hits. If
he ever tries to tell you he's a wimp, call him a liar.)- he's really
gotten a better body. My mind's eye follows further down...he's starting
to get that male-pattern spread that comes from spending one too many
nights out getting shitfaced with the boys. Oh, well. Can't have
everything. I drop past the newspaper to think about his legs. If there's
one thing running track did for him, it was give him legs to die for.
All the muscles in his thighs and calfs are so well defined, not
disgustingly so like Arnold Schwartzanagger (I know, I can't spell),
but where you know where each muscle is. Solid as a rock. At a dead run,
he can keep up with some of the cars going down our street, even though
he's somewhat out of shape. Those legs just make a girl want to....
rnnnnnnfff....God I want him. I'm so busy concentrating on his body that
I don't even notice that I've been stroking my thighs, ever so lightly,
ever so slowly getting closer and closer to my center. As my hand starts
to drift upwards, so do my thoughts. I begin to picture what he has
under that newspaper. I've talked to a few of his ex-girlfriends...
"He doesn't have the longest dick in the world", they say. "It's about
average length. But it's *thick*. And Honey, if you only *knew* what
he could do with it....", AND THIS IS FROM AN EX-GIRLFRIEND! And I
start imagining his thick hard dick, what it looks like, how it would
feel sliding up into me. My thoughts are complimented by my hands, as I
picture him stroking my breasts, so do I, as I feel his rod sliding into
my sopping womanhood, I impale myself on my fingers. I think about
him caressing me all over, him fucking me senseless, and I drop my
other hand down into my lap, massaging my pubis, as I come nearer and
nearer climax. I hear him say, "I love you Lisa", in my fantasy as I
go over the edge of an orgasm so intense that I almost scream.
I start to calm back down, realizing that he's in my house,
and could very well have been standing over me watching. From upstairs,
I hear the water running. For the first time since this crazy morning
started, I look at the clock. 6:21 am. Holy shit. I go upstairs and
ask if everything is alright.
"Fine, Leese, fine. I think I can move again. In fact-", he
said, and the water shut off. "I think I'll be ready to - Ooo!
Are these for li'l ol' moi?"
"Yeppers. I thought you'd like to have some clothes.", I said,
wishing that I had given him an excuse to come out naked. My little
excursion on the couch had only made me want him more.
A couple of minutes passed, with some rather voilent sounds
coming from the bathroom, (when he dries his hair, he practically
beats the shit out of himself), and he emerged.
In my life, I've never seen him in sweats. If he wasn't in a
suit, he'd be in a rugby shirt and dockers, or no shirt and jeans. I
was sort of disappointed to see that baggy clothes really took away
from his body, and then realized I had never seen him in tight clothes.
I asked him why he always kept himself hidden behind baggy stuff.
"'cause I'm a fatass tub-o-lard, Leese. Dids't thou not
open thine eyes when this frozen madman wert upon thy doorstep?", he
quipped. (I love that word. Quipped. That most accurately describes
almost every sentence that comes out of him. Everything's a joke,
sometimes sharp and biting, but you know he doesn't have the heart to
intentionally hurt a flea. (Not entirely true. If he ever sees his
ex-fiancee again, he's going to kill something. I know he cannot, under
any circumstances, bring himself to hit a woman, but you can make book
on the fact that she can piss him off enough to introduce the neighbor's
cat to his .38, and feed the little shit to his dog. (Never, in the
history of time, has there been a person with a more profound, pronounced
hatred of cats. He honestly beleives that the little "Satan-things" as
he calls them can tell who's allergic to cats, and are naturally attracted
to them, simply because they can inflict the optimum amount of disease
on them. (His words.) It's no surprise to him why most stories use cats
as witches familiars. He thinks that cats are the embodiment of evil,
and that the little bastards won't let us forget the mistakes that the
Egyptians made in worshipping the little furry demons. His dog shares
that viewpoint, and has been trying to kill the neighbor's cat for some
time.)) Whew...tangent city....) Didn't I open my eyes...sheesh. Wide
enough to fall out. Of course, he didn't see that. He saw warmth.
I can't blame him.
We sit down on the couch together and start talking. (I had
let my robe slip wider open than I should have, and tried to get him
to notice. Subtleties with Mike go over about as well as a lead balloon,
so this was getting nowhere.)
Now, I think it's only fair that I make a little break in time
here to tell you a little bit about me. (Lucky you.) My name's
Lisa Bryant, I just graduated from Stow HS, the incredible sinking
stinking school (so named because they forgot to drain the swamp they
built it on.), three years after Mike. (Want to watch Mike turn
white? Tell him that there is now less time until his 5 year reunion
than has passed since graduation. I've made him space out for over
10 minutes with that one. You can insult him, beat on him, hell, you
can probably shoot him, and it's like water off a duck's back. Remind
him that he's getting old. (Say old, not older. He thinks he's a 60
year old, trapped in a young man's body. Sometimes, I think he's telling
the truth. Anyway....) It devastates him.) I'm about 5' even, give or
take an inch. I won't ever tell my weight, let's just say that I
barely break 100. I'm well porportioned, Mike has said more than once
that if I were just a little bit older, he'd go for me in a heartbeat.
(And if you know Mike, you know that his standards are more than a
little high. Why shouldn't they be? He gets any girl he wants.)
Mike and I share a birthday, Hallowe'en. He turned 21 two nights ago.
I think his parents left town because they knew that this week would be
a semi continuous drunken fest. I just turned 18. He can't tell me that
he'd go to jail, anymore...I'd like to see him weasel his way out of this.
I used to be a shy, little mousy girl, who never took advantage of my
strengths, but thanks to the guidance of this wonderful man, I am now
a well known local actress, (Stow Players, Falls Shakespearean League),
know simply *everyone*, and am never dateless on the weekends. But,
I know what I want. He just doesn't seem to be interested in me. Anyway,
what can I say? I'm attractive, well liked, and popular, the three
things I always wanted since I was a young girl. Now, if I could just get
this one last thing....
As we talk, I slowly shift closer to him. I ask him why he was
naked in my front yard.
"Things got a bit hazy last night. Mass party. I think I was
chasing a couple guests out, as I wanted to get some sleep. Those
motherfuckers just don't know when to quit. Anyway, one of the bastards
thought it would be funny to lock the door on the way out. Since I
didn't particularly feel like chasing bear, I closed it behind me.
Not that he's smart enough to go at an open door, but I wasn't taking
any chances." (He's not kidding. His dog has *got* to be the dumbest
creature ever to live. I'm just glad that my puppy got his mommy's
brain instead of his Daddy's. Bear is, even for a dog, a moron. (Author's
note: It may sound like I hate my dog. I love my dog. He is the only
friend I have in my family. But I cannot lie, he is excruciatingly
stupid. I'll drop food to him, and it will bounce off his face before
he knows it's getting closer. No other self-respecting dog would let
food touch the floor. Bear is just an idiot. I know he's not blind,
he can pick out a chipmunk at 300 yards, (and he's dumb enough to think
that in his "stealth" mode (running full speed, barking up a storm), he can
catch one.), he just can't catch.) "I think I passed out. God, what
were we drinking last night. Oh, yeah. hairy buffalo with a Cuervo
chaser. And, WOW! does Siminske make a wicked buffalo. Puts all the
shit in this 30 gallon trash can, and - get this - caulks up a couple
of those little bumble balls, you know, those kids things, with the
soft plastic spikes that bounce all over hell and creation, he puts
a couple of them in to keep the shit stirring. The last about 6 hours,
and with the caulk around them, they don't get filled with the shit.
So, anyway, we were all more than a little fucked up when we cracked
out the hydroponic...I'm not sure when I lost my clothes. I think
I was playing strip poker with Cindy and Liz. I guess I lost. I do know
that I was already naked when Jeanette suggested we play trivial
pursuit. Oooh...I thought Jeff was going to kill me. You know how I'm
not allowed to play when I'm sober, just so whoever's after me gets
to at least roll the dice once before I get all 6 wedgies, right? And
you've seen me baked, I don't shut up for anything short of someone
sitting on my face (and what a pleasant idea that gave *me*.), so
I was answering *everyone's* questions. Apparently, I'm an even
better player when I'm stoned. One thing I remember *very* clearly
was when Jeff asked me what a polyorchidis man is. Hee hee hee. I
told him to whip out his thingie when he was good and roasted and count
them. If he got more than one, he was polyorchid. And he did it.
And you know Jeff, big, hairy, weightlifter type, right? He's sitting
there, counting his dicks (he came up with the number three.), and the
rest of us are sitting there wondering where in the hell he's even
getting one. I swear, he must have seen nine of the things to come
up with three. I'm no John Holmes, but my dick extends past my zipper.
I'm sure you care. Nevermind, I'll shut the fuck up."
I was sort of disappointed that he stopped describing his dick.
It was driving me crazy. By now, it was the only part of his body that
I didn't know well.
By now, I *knew* that he had a perfect view of both breasts,
(Because he glanced quite frequently, and kept pulling the neckline of
his sweatshirt back. He's too much a gentleman to come right out and
say something like, "Hey, your tits are hanging out!", but he'll be
the first to admit, breasts are his favorite part of the female
anatomy, so he wasn't exactly (forgive the pun), pressing the issue.),
and I was almost sitting in his lap. Now, normally, I'm a shy person
when it comes to making the first move, and he is downright obstinate
about it. As a matter of principle he won't. He says, "If she wants me,
she can come and get me. I'm oblivious to the obvious, so I miss the
little signs. It's a safe bet that any woman who jumps me, wants me,
and I know I won't piss her off by reciprocating." For a man who takes
on *everything* with the confidence of a pro, it sure is strange to
see how he handles that. So, me, being horny as hell, an him, being
oblivious, I tackled him.
My plan was to knock him down, off the couch, pin him, and
start kissing him. I forgot that he is about twice my weight, has
a low center of gravity, and is solid. So I just sort of land in his
lap. Pleasant surprise there, he was as hard as a rock. So he is interested.
Not wanting him to come up with anything to say or do to try and stop
me, I cover his mouth with my lips. He comes back with a vengeance,
his tongue searching my mouth like he's trying to find a lost diamond
in there. His hands are still only on my back, he's real careful about
not touching anything until it's made perfectly clear that his attempt
won't be thwarted. One of his hands comes around front and cups my breast-
tingles of excitement rush through my body. I can't believe it - I'm
finally getting the chance to have my way with Mike.
I've read his stories, and I know him well enough to know that
the ultimate, "Good doggie" pat on the head to him is to claw at his
back. I've just never seen it in action. So, I reach under his shirt, and,
starting at the base of his neck, drag my fingernails down his spine,
enough to cause slight pain, not enough to draw blood. (I didn't know
then that if he's not bleeding by the time he's done having sex, then
he's not done. To him, that's better than the actual copulation.
He's a strange one...)
He's told me before that sometimes he experiences what he
calls, "mental core dumps." That's when every thought in his mind goes out
the window, and he'll draw a complete blank on even the simplest of
questions, like, "What's your name?" He had one. Every muscle in his
body stiffened, his back arched, his eyes closed. He'd kill me for
comparing him to a feline, but he looked just like a cat taking a leisurely
stretch. And, like he said, he completely forgot what it was he was doing.
It took me starting the kiss back up to jog his memory. Not that I was
particularly bothered by the whole thought, I was rather turned on
by it.
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How does our intrepid heroine
handle her golden opportunity?
Will Mike chicken out?
Will *she*?
Tune in next time for...
Oh, oh, sorry about that. This isn't a TV show, is it.
Hmmm...nevermind. Back to the story.
_____________________________________
(End part one. Part two should be out sometime
soon, like, maybe, later tonight.)
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