Message-ID: <838eli$9705182340@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: MyFrThAl@aol.com Subject: REPOST: Mark Aster: Rocks (no obvious sex) This IS a My Friends the Allens story, and while it contains no obvious sex, I've been told that it is a very sexy story, at least for some people who know and love the characters. For later and more overtly sexual adventures of these sisters, see as always http://users.aol.com/myfrthal/ .. Mark My Friends the Allens -- Rocks by Mark Aster = = = Note: this story does not contain explicit sex of any kind. If non-sexual stories offend you, please stop reading at once. = = = A storm is burning itself out a hundred miles offshore. Here, in a sheltered place below the dunes, only a little wind penetrates, and the sound of waves crashing on the beach, beyond the jumble of rocks. Late afternoon. Pat, thirteen, in a pale green t-shirt and cutoff jeans, appears on the top of the dune, standing up on her toes, barefoot. She cranes her neck and looks out at the rocks and the water. Julie, eight, comes up behind her, pulling herself up by handfuls of beach grass, straightens up to stand beside her sister. She is small and skinny, nut-brown like Pat from long weeks of the summer that is about to end. Sweat beads on her skin. Her tank-top lies abandoned somewhere in the sand behind her; all she has left is a worn pair of boy's swim-trunks. She looks up at Pat's face, and then out at the rocks and the sea. Her back and her chest are nearly as brown as her nose and her legs. Pat smiles seriously at Julie, and makes her way quickly but carefully down the face of the dune, to the quiet place below. She holds her arms out and reaches with her legs, feeling ahead with her bare feet, hopping from hummock to hummock. She is tall for her age, not as awkward as she was last year, confident of her step. She reaches the bottom cleanly, and jumps lightly to the beach. Turns to look up at the sky and her sister. Julie looks down at Pat, the beach, the face of the dune. Her arms are crossed, and she stands for just a moment in the wind, lightly moving her hands on the skin of her upper arms. Then she grins, and throws her arms up above her head, and jumps forward, thumping down onto her bottom, and sliding pell-mell down the dune, shrieking with glee as she rolls and slips between the hummocks and comes to a sandy chaotic landing at her sister's feet. She looks up at Pat, and smiles, and reaches up her arm, and says "Ouch!" Along Julie's left arm, just at the shoulder, is a long white and red scrape, where the sand on the way down was a little slow getting out of her way. In the center of the scrape, a few drops of blood are oozing out in a fine straight line. Pat, her eyes warm and sisterly, kneels down, takes Julie's arm theatrically in her hands, and puckers her lips. She kisses the scrape, her lips on the line of blood. Julie giggles, and shudders, as Pat's mouth presses firmly against her skin. Pat's eyes close, the wind dies entirely. Then she raises her head and makes a face, her lower lip back, canines exposed, eyes wide and eyebrows up. "Vampire!" shouts Julie, and she screams, and Pat screams, and they both run shrieking, arms waving, across the sand and up onto the biggest rock, up its flat sloping back, where you can see the beach and the white breakers where the waves crash in. Pat gets to the peak first, and she stands panting as Julie catches up. "Down!" whispers Pat, and the girls throw themselves to their stomachs on the rough dry sun-warmed rock, Pat's arm over Julie's back, heads close together. "What is it?" breathes the eight-year-old, panting from the tumble down the dune and the run up the rock. "Them!" Pat replies, and they lift their heads and look out over the lip of the rock. On the beach, five small boys, eight or ten or twelve, are running in the surf, gathering stones, whirling their arms and shouting and throwing the stones in wild arcs out over the water, shouting into the noise of the breakers as the stones hit and splash and vanish, pushing each other, gouging the sand with their heels, throwing more stones, tearing along the beach in all directions. The girls watch silently, catching their breaths, pressed against the hard platform of the rock. The boys throw and shout and splash out along the beach, away from them, getting smaller and quieter in the distance, until they are gone around the bend of the coastline, hidden by the next jumble of old red and black rocks. "Why do boys always throw rocks?" Julie asks when they stand up. Pat is quiet and concentrated as they pick their way down off of the biggest rock and onto the outer beach. "I don't know. Some boy thing." "Girls don't throw rocks much, right?" Julie asks. "Guess not," Pat says, still thinking, weaving between the smaller rocks and onto the flat sand, wet and gleaming in the lowering sun. They walk over the dry part, down to the waveline, and their feet are wet and sandy. A few more waves, and the footprints and heel-gouges of the vanished boys are utterly gone, and Pat and Julie stand alone on the beach, sun in their hair, waves crashing in from the distant storm, gulls wheeling over the rocks. Julie sits down on a broad flat stone just at the waterline, watches the waves slide up and flatten themselves at her feet, clear water and salty foam, cool tickling on her soles. "Are they all still there, do you think?" she asks Pat. "Who, all?" "Daddy and Aunt Kate and everybody. Back at the house. Do you think they're all still there?" Pat looks down at her, tilts her head. "Of course, silly! Where would they go, and leave us behind?" "But they might go somewhere just while we're gone, and come back just before we come back. They might!" "Silly!" Pat says, and grins, and stands for a minute just looking at Julie, her hair tangled and sandy, her body thin and smooth and perfect, face relaxed and wondering. Pat wanders along the shore, the waves coming up to the tops of her ankles. She reaches down and picks up a large stone, solid and black and rough, and weighs it in her hand. The sun sinks toward a bank of clouds in the southwest. >From somewhere far ahead, the wind carries the hint of a shout. A wave crashes against a half-submerged rock, and the spray hangs in the air for a long time, like smoke. Julie sits with her legs apart, feeling the coolness of the wet sand on her toes, humming to herself and not thinking anything, watching Pat watching the ocean, rocking gently back and forth on her stone. Pat takes a step, stops; takes another step, cocks her arm back, stops. Julie stops rocking. Pat draws her arm far back, then sweeps it forward over her head, and the stone, heavy and wet, arcs out over the water. It slips through the air quickly, not hanging like the spray, but moving as fast as the eye can follow, hitting the water suddenly and finally, vanishing under a splash of sea that is instantly swallowed up in a large splash of breaker, and then it is gone completely. Pat stands looking out after it, and the wind whips at her hair. Julie comes up beside her, moving delicately through the restless water, and puts her hand in Pat's. Pat squeezes Julie's fingers gently, but doesn't turn. "Do you know now?" Julie asks, looking at her sister's profile, the wind flinging her hair around her eyes. Pat turns, looks at Julie, reaches out and takes her other hand. "No, no I think I still don't know," she says, and she pulls her sister toward her and puts her arms around her, and they stand with the water moving around their ankles, arms around each other, looking out at the ocean with the sun setting, until they get cold, and then they slip like shadows back up the beach, through the rocks, over the dune. Two more joyful shrieks drift back over the waves, and then the beach is alone again, and the waves slowly get quieter as the distant storm wears itself out, and the night comes down. My Friends the Allens -- Rocks by Mark Aster The End -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /