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Reply-To: jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org (John Fitzgerald Porter)
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} A Head Start {jfporter} (MF, oral, hist, inc, Halloween)
Date: Sun, 11 Nov 2001 21:10:08 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

//
// Paraphrased from comments overheard on IRC in July of 2001:
//
//   "You say they were simulating nuclear explosions on Pentium
//    II's in 1997?  Try again.  Feynman and Von Neumann were
//    simulating nuclear explosions on rooms full of coeds with
//    slide rules in the 1940s.  I mean, progress is great, but:
//    I learned programming on a 1MHz 6510, and now I'm running a
//    dual Celeron at 400MHz.  So I feel like I should be having
//    eight hundred times as much fun now, but I'm not.  Sometimes
//    I'd much rather have the slide rule girls."
//

A Head Start

OK, you got your tape on?  (Yes, go ahead.)

Hi, my name is Jason Head.  No jokes about the name, please; I've
heard them all already.  My family's lived here and had that name ever
since this town was settled, and it just isn't fucking funny anymore,
you know?  Sorry, I guess I'm a little hypersensitive about it.  You
would be too, but that's not the point.  Actually, I guess my name
doesn't matter anyway because you'll be editing it out in your
write-up, but there you go.

Anyway, I heard you were looking for local ghost stories, and I've
sort of got one.  First of all, let me say that I never used to
believe in ghosts and I'm still not sure I do.  If you're looking for
someone to give you conclusive proof of the supernatural, I don't have
any.  Most of the time I think I just met an unusual but very much
alive human being and I drew some stupid conclusions because of
coincidence.  But here goes.

In the Fall of 2000 I had a job minding the circulation desk at the
University library, the late shift, weekday nights.  It was a pretty
good job for me because I was living on campus at the time, just a
short walk away from the library.  It cut into my free time in the
evenings a lot, but I was never very busy anyway.  It's not like I
ever got any dates or anything.  My classes let out before three
o'clock each afternoon, earlier on Wednesdays and Fridays, so I'd go
home, do a little homework and eat an early supper, and then come back
to the library for a six-hour shift, five to eleven.  My duties
weren't particularly onerous; mostly I just had to run people's books
through the scanner, hand out the blue "millennium" bookmarks - don't
get me started about the whole 2000-is-not-the-millennium thing - and
occasionally help people with special searches in the computer.

I had Thanksgiving off, of course - oh, I guess I should remind you:
If you'll be putting this on your Web site, you should mention that
here in Canada we have Thanksgiving in October.  Stupid US-centric Web
surfers.  Yeah, anyway, I did the whole family thing.  My parents and
I and my sister all trucked over to my grandparents' house, and we had
a big dinner, and what passed for conversation.  My Grandma Dot
dominated the conversation like she always did.  I call her Grandma
Dot because that's what I always used to call her, ever since I was a
little kid.  Her name was actually Dorothy.  Anyway, she'd had her
70th birthday recently and was full of stories about the old days. 

She sat there at the table after dinner puffing on one of her
incessant cigarettes and talking about the war.  The room was close
and dim, lit mostly by the candles on the table.  I didn't know that
it was the last time I'd see my grandmother alive.  Mostly what I
remember of that night was staring across the table at the pattern of
freckles over her nose, listening to her stories and being bored to
tears.  Freckles are sort of the family thing; Grandma Dot had them,
my mother has them, and as you can see, I have them too.  I guess
there are worse things I could inherit.

Dot eventually started talking about her eldest sister, Ruth, who had
disappeared mysteriously in 1941 at the age of 24. That sounded sort
of interesting, and I paid more attention to that part of the
reminiscence than I'd been paying when she was talking about victory
gardens and rationing.  But her story was disconnected and
unsatisfactory.  My great-aunt Ruth, I already knew, was 13 years
older than Dot, and the eldest child in their large family.  Dot was
the youngest.  "Ruth was like a second mother to us," Grandma Dot
said; attending university herself on some kind of special scholarship
for exceptionally brilliant girls, but also taking a part-time job to
help support the family and still finding time to do housework and
entertain her younger siblings.  "She was a computer."

That statement rather startled me.  Grandma Dot caught the puzzled
look on my face and started laughing; that triggered one of her
coughing fits.  When she regained her breath she explained that her
sister's part-time work was for some professors at the University,
doing arithmetic.  She would sit with her slide rule at a long table
with about a dozen other young women, and they would pass around cards
with numbers and instructions on them.  Each girl would do one step in
a complicated calculation.  It was difficult because the slide rule
calculations weren't very accurate, and they would have to circulate
extra cards with correction factors every time anyone made a mistake,
but the system did work.  The women were called "computers" because
they "computed".  That was the state of the art of numerical analysis
at the time.  Electrical calculating machines, the things we call
"computers" now, were just being invented, and it would be years
before those saw much practical use.  Great-Aunt Ruth's job was part
of the war effort, but my grandmother didn't understand exactly how.

On a Friday at the end of October 1941, Ruth left her physics class,
where she was both the eldest student and the only female, and was
never seen again.  It occurred to me that she might have chosen to
disappear to escape what must have been an incredibly stressful home
situation; maybe she'd hopped on a train, found a job somewhere else,
and made an independent life for herself.  God forgive me, I'd have
done that if I were her.  But it didn't seem tactful to mention it. 
Grandma Dot, and apparently the rest of the family as well, seemed to
take it on faith that the young woman had been kidnapped and forced
into what my grandmother described as "the white slave trade".  "She
was such a pretty girl," said Grandma, "the men were always chasing
after her; but she kept her nose in her books and didn't pay them any
mind.  She'd probably have been one of those famous rocket scientists,
if she was a man."

I was a little shocked that my grandmother was so matter-of-fact about
the whole thing.  It didn't seem that they'd done a whole lot to
search for Ruth or to mourn her; they just went on with their business
without her.  Heh, they went on Ruth-lessly, if you'll pardon the pun. 
In fairness, it was the middle of the Second World War and I guess
everyone had plenty of other worries.  The bombing of Pearl Harbour
happened just over a month later; Canada had already been in the war
for a couple of years.  Still, it seemed like a peculiar story, and I
was sorry when Grandma Dot spun off onto a tangent and never returned
to the topic of Great-Aunt Ruth.

And I had pretty much forgotten about that when I started my shift at
the library on Tuesday, October 31.  I had considered putting on some
sort of costume but decided against it; I had on just my usual jeans
and tee shirt.  I figured if anyone asked, I'd tell them I was dressed
as a psycho killer.  "They look just like us, you know."  That's not
original with me, but I thought it'd get a laugh anyway.  Business was
slow at the start of my shift, I guess because everyone was out
partying or whatever.  It always slows down almost to nil after about
8 o'clock anyway; we only keep the library open to 11 for the benefit
of those desperate people who leave assignments until the night before
they're due and then absolutely have to check out books in the middle
of the night.

At about 6:30 a young woman walked into the library, hung her coat on
one of the hooks near the door, and headed off into the periodicals
section.  People had been walking in and out of the place all evening,
of course, but I noticed this woman more than the others because she
was so attractive.  She was slightly older than most of the
undergraduate students, about my age: I was 23, going on 24, at the
time.  She was a little shorter than me, maybe five foot six, and on
the heavy side of average weight, every curve of her body softly
padded.  She had thick, lustrous red-brown hair that fell to her
shoulders, and long perfect bare legs.  Her shoes were heavy black
leather, a little bit scuffed, as if she'd had them for a long time
and not paid much attention to their care.

When she took off her heavy grey coat to hang it up, I saw that she
was wearing a knee-length skirt of some thick bluish material, and a
white blouse with shoulder pads that was drawn in at the waist by the
belt built into her skirt, giving her upper body a sort of triangular
shape.  I don't know the right word for this, but there was a sort of
rectangular decorated area on the front of her blouse, where the
fabric was gathered into little folds.  I remember that clearly
because it's not a style I've seen very often - and besides, I was
staring at her breasts.  They were not large but they stuck out
noticeably in front, pushing the material forward, two sweetly
curved mounds there on her chest.  I would have done almost anything
to touch them.

After hanging her coat in the rack we kept near the door, she turned
and looked all around the library.  She saw me, sitting behind the
counter, staring dumbly at her body, but she didn't seem to mind.  In
fact, she smiled at me.  I was struck by her large green eyes and the
freckles across her nose and cheekbones.  I wanted to smile back, but
I couldn't move; I just sat there, gaping in shock, as she turned and
walked off into the racks of newspapers and magazines.  I watched the
lower edge of her skirt swish across the backs of her legs and then
she was gone.  There was a middle-aged man waiting at the desk for me
to check out his books.  He'd been watching my reaction to the girl,
and he looked slightly amused, but didn't say anything.  I ran his
books through the scanner, gave him a blue millennium bookmark, and
sent him on his way.

Now, I'm not much of a storyteller, and I think I've probably already
blown the suspense completely.  I guess you know who the girl was, and
you can probably predict most of the important parts of the rest of
the story.  But at the time, I never would have dreamed of what ended
up happening.  And besides, this is true.  Maybe if I were an author
writing a fictional story I could make all the pieces work together
for a sudden revelation at the end, but real life doesn't work like
that.  I had lots of clues all along the way and I just wasn't smart
enough to figure out what was going on at the time.  After all, I was
distracted.  I dunno, maybe it sounds like I'm exaggerating how
beautiful she was, but I'm trying to describe this as much the way it
happened as possible.  You have to understand that I was really very,
very lonely and vulnerable that particular night.  I once read that
people used to think the curtain between the worlds was especially
thin on the night of Halloween; maybe my loneliness itself was enough
to break through.

So, anyway, maybe twenty or thirty minutes later I saw the girl come
down the stairs from the main stacks with a heavy pile of books and go
over to one of the tables in the reference section.  She sat down
facing me, spread the books around, and started reading them.  I had a
book of my own there, behind the counter, and I tried to read it when
I wasn't busy dealing with customers, but I just couldn't concentrate. 
Every time I looked up I saw the girl across the room, studying one
book after another.  She seemed to be getting through them very fast;
maybe she was a speed reader.

Sometimes when I looked at her, she was looking back at me.  I didn't
know how to react when that happened; I felt flustered and silly.  But
she didn't seem to mind.  Usually, she smiled across the room at me
when she saw me looking, sort of a half-smile.  The left corner of her
mouth would rise, and she'd sort of tilt her head to the right, her
deep green eyes stabbing into mine if I dared to meet them.  Then
she'd look back down into the book on the table in front of her.

It was coming up on 9:30, and I had watched her work her way through
countless thick books, occasionally making trips up the stairs to the
stacks to replenish her supply.  It was as she returned from one of
those trips, with a large red volume labelled _Nuclear Techniques in
Chemistry_, that instead of returning to her seat she made her way to
the desk where I sat.  I took a deep breath and held it as I saw her
approach.  "Is something wrong with the card catalogue?" she asked,
"There seem to be a lot of books on the shelves that don't have
cards."  Her voice was low and matter-of-fact, almost conspiratorial. 
Everything she said to me, she said as if she was letting me in on
some important and wonderful secret; or anyhow, that's how I heard it.

"Well," I said carefully, "the card catalogue only covers books we
acquired before 1970.  All the more recent stuff is in the computer."
"In the computer," she repeated oddly.  I gestured at the rank of high
desks covered with catalogue search terminals, which at this hour were
all unoccupied.  The girl still seemed confused.  I sighed - purely an
automatic reaction, because I was actually delighted at the chance to
interact with her some more - and I made my way out from behind the
counter and walked over to the terminals with the girl trailing
behind.  I felt short of breath, afraid to screw up and look silly.  I
tried to relax.  OK, I was thinking to myself, come on, you're good
with computers, you can do this.

I gestured for her to stand in front of one of the terminals, and told
her to click on the "Begin search" button.  She peered, confused, at
the keyboard.  "With the mouse," I instructed.  She picked up the
mouse, cradled it upside down in one large thick hand, and looked at
it.  I started to reach for her hand to guide it back down to the
table, but stopped.  I was afraid to touch her.

She seemed to sense my hesitancy, and she set the mouse carefully back
beside the keyboard and took a step back.  I stepped in front of the
computer and quickly demonstrated how to search for books.  She seemed
to grasp the general concepts rapidly.  As I was about to lift my hand
from the mouse and move aside I became aware that she was standing
directly behind me, almost breathing down my neck.  "Let me try," she
said.  She brought her right arm around, placing her hand heavily over
mine on the mouse, and raised her left arm to the keyboard on my other
side, trapping me between them.  Unable to escape, feeling nervous and
shaky, I stood there with her arms around me as she did a search for
books on the concept of time in particle physics, deftly typing
one-handed while she manipulated the mouse with her other hand.  A
quick study, obviously.  When the computer presented a list she
murmured her thanks into the back of my ear and dropped her arms,
allowing me to walk slowly back to my counter.

I sat watching as she wrote call numbers down on scraps of paper from
the bin beside the terminal, then disappeared up the stairs into the
stacks.  She came back quickly with a couple more books, took them to
the table, read a few pages from each, then, seeming unsatisfied, she
hurried back to the computer terminal and did another search.  She
went to the stairs again but this time took them downwards, into the
basement.  She returned immediately and came to my desk, laying a slip
of paper in front of me.  "I'd like this book," she said, "it's in the
closed part downstairs." Some of the shelves down there were closed to
the public because of renovations; there were big signs up saying that
anyone who wanted a book from the closed shelves was supposed to ask
for it by number at the desk.

I left the desk and her waiting at it and made my way down the stairs
with the slip of paper in my hand.  It was dim and spooky down there;
many of the fluorescent lights were doing that slow wave thing they do
near the end of their life cycle.  I edged in between the shelves,
scanning for the right call number.  Fortunately, it was reasonably
simple to find; a decrepit volume on local history, from a row of a
hundred similar volumes, some kind of genealogy reference.  I only
glanced at it, not much caring what it was about.

When I returned with the book, she took it off to her table for a few
minutes, poked through it, making notes, then did a computer search
and soon returned with another slip of paper and call number for me to
fetch.  I felt bold enough to make a comment: "You sure are reading a
lot!"  Damn, that came out sounding stupid.  But she laughed, just as
if I'd said something witty.  "I have a lot of exams coming up, and
I'd like to get a head start."

As I started to walk toward the stairs she called me back, saying,
"Hey, look, I'm going to have a lot of things to look up, would it be
okay if I just come down there with you and browse the shelves?  I
promise not to get killed in the construction area."  I stared at her
for a moment, and she seemed to wilt.  "Sorry," she said, "I -" "No,
it's OK," I said, thinking that really, there was no good reason she
couldn't get the books herself.  "Come on."  And she accompanied me
down the stairs.

She went ahead of me and hurried along the row of shelves, checking
the signs that indicated which call numbers were shelved where.  I
followed her in between the shelves, not really sure what I ought to
do.  She seemed quite capable of dealing with the books herself, and
unlikely to do anything bad that I could prevent - I didn't need to be
there - but I also didn't need to be anywhere else.  At this hour
there probably wouldn't be anyone needing me at the desk, and one of
the other staff members would come out of the office to deal with
anyone who did happen to show up with books to check out.  I had
stayed too long to be able to leave gracefully, so I just stood there
watching her.

She made her way along the rows of history books, fingering them
gently, every so often stopping to take one off the shelf, look in it
for a few moments, and replace it.  I couldn't tell what she was
looking for or whether she was finding it.  I considered asking if she
needed any help - maybe we could split the job in half and get it done
twice as fast - but I didn't want to sound like I was prying; probably
safer to just keep quiet.  "Oh, excuse me," she said, and pointed,
apparently at my abdomen.  "Hmm?" I asked, dumbly.  "I want to look at
some books on the other side of you," she said.  I realised that she
wanted to switch places with me.

The space between the shelves was not really wide enough for her to
squeeze past.  Normally at such a moment I would have just moved
backwards.  And even in a long aisle where they had to pass each
other, I think it would have been more usual for two strangers to
turn, each facing into the shelves, and edge past each other back to
back, the less to invade each other's space.  But whether she arranged
it or I arranged it or luck did, what actually happened was that we
each put our back to the books and she moved sideways to pass me
face-to-face.  I was careful not to take any undue liberties during
this maneuver, keeping my hands strictly by my sides.  I must admit
that I enjoyed it, nonetheless.  I couldn't help noticing the scent of
her skin and hair.  She smelled sweet and clean like the world after a
thunderstorm.

Halfway through the delicate passing operation, when her breasts were
poking into my chest and my nose was filled with the smell of her, she
stopped.  My heart began to pound; I felt sure she must be able to
feel it.

I didn't trust myself to move.  If I raised my arms from my sides I
thought that I'd surely grab her body, crushing it to me, yank her
clothes off, and rape her right there between the bookshelves.  I
stood fearful, hoping she'd save me.  Against my will I felt my penis
hardening.  It was crushed painfully between our bodies, separated
from her crotch only by a few layers of fabric.  I felt sure she must
feel it and I knew she'd be horrified and disgusted by my
inappropriate desire.  And still she didn't finish passing me, but
just stayed there, body firmly held against mine, unaware of the
danger she was in.  I prayed that she'd move; and at the same time I
desperately wished that she wouldn't, and that I could enjoy the
contact for as long as possible.  I couldn't do anything.  I was
utterly captivated by her.

She spoke quietly:  "It's been a while, huh?"  Actually, it had been
forever.  I was a virgin.  I'd been reading about sex for a long time,
which made it all the worse that I couldn't get any in real life.  But
I wouldn't, couldn't tell her that.  "It's been a while for me too,"
she said directly into my ear.  Her cheek was pressed against mine,
cool and soft; her breath made my ear tingle.  My own face felt hot,
and I could feel my blood pounding through the veins in my cheeks. 
"It's OK," she said, "You don't have to blush.  It's OK." Maybe this
will sound silly, but in just a matter of seconds I felt all my shame
turning to pleasure and relief.  She knew I wanted her, she had seen
into my heart... but it was OK anyway!

"Don't worry, don't be afraid," she cooed, "us people with freckles
have to stick together."  I felt her grasp my limp hands, squeeze them
for a moment, and then slide her fingertips up my arms on either side. 
The short hairs on my skin tingled wherever she touched.  I was still
transfixed.  Her hands moved over the thin cloth of my tee shirt,
around the curve of my shoulders, and travelled up my neck, and for
half a giddy instant I thought she was going to strangle me right then
and that would have been just fine with me if that was what she
wanted, but she had grasped the frame of my glasses and was pulling
them off.  She folded them up, elegantly, one-handed, and placed them
carefully on top of the books on a shelf above and behind my head. 
Then she took my hands and laid them on her own hips.  The navy-blue
fabric of her skirt was some kind of scratchy synthetic; it caught at
my hands.

A switch flipped inside me and my head automatically lunged forward and
she perfectly anticipated me and her lips were right there parted to
welcome my tongue as it plunged between them.  A blur of freckles was
the last thing I saw before her hair obstructed the fluorescent tube's
illumination.  She tasted as good as she smelled, and I slid my tongue
across her teeth feeling their perfect even sharpness and then I ran
out of breath and our mouths fell apart for a moment, joined by a tiny
thread of saliva, me still able to taste her on my lips, and then she
made a tiny sound and pushed her face into mine again; I surrendered
and felt her firm tongue invade my own mouth and we fought back and
forth unable to decide who lusted the more, me for her or she for me.

My hands on her hips slid backwards, over her buttocks.  I expected my
knuckles would hit the bookshelf that held her body pressed against
mine, but they didn't.  Although my fingers were magnetically drawn to
her body, I lifted them for a moment to feel for the shelf, just
curious.  It was at least twenty centimeters away.  There had actually
been plenty of room for her to pass me with no or minimal contact. 
She had been rubbing herself all over me deliberately from the first. 
Marvelling, I returned my hand to her bottom and felt its curves
shifting as she ground her hips into my own.  I squeezed, and she
trembled.

Her hands had worked their way between me and the shelf at my back,
and were rubbing at my shoulder blades through my thin shirt, her
strong arms clutching me to her.  Then she pulled away from me,
breaking the kiss, and her hands slid down and away.  Was this going
to be the end of it?  I couldn't breathe.  Her hands latched onto my
upper arms and slid down and I thought she was about to grab my
wrists, take my hands away from the forbidden territory they had
ventured into, and I wondered if maybe I ought to use the fraction of
a second's head start to stop touching her buttocks myself, maybe that
would be better, and I was even starting to formulate an apology
somewhere in the back of my muddled head - I'm sorry, I don't know
what got into me, I'll never do anything like that again - for the
moment I had forgotten her earlier promise that I had no need to
blush.  But she let go my arms and her hands slid into the waistband
of her skirt, under my wrists, and I felt her digging around in there. 
Of course.  She wasn't rejecting me.  She was just taking off her
blouse.

She slithered out of the blouse, balled it up and hefted it in one
hand, and chucked it some distance down the aisle, out of the way; all
of this so smoothly and gracefully that her hips, under my clutching
hands, barely moved at all.  Then she smiled up at me, seeming to
apologise for the moment of delay and insecurity - and then I thought
she must have truly been reading my thoughts because she actually
said, "Sorry!" just before kissing me again.

I felt her fingers encircle my wrists but I no longer was afraid she'd
push my hands away; she only guided them to a spot at the base of her
spine.  I felt around for a moment and realised that I was touching a
sort of buckle that held closed the belt built into her skirt.  It
took me a moment to get up the nerve to undo it, and several more
moments to figure out how.  Her pelvis thrusting repeatedly against
mine, crushing her crotch through our clothing upon my painfully
confined erection, did nothing to help matters.  But I managed to
loosen the belt, and she pulled back reluctantly for a moment to allow
the skirt to fall from her hips.  She stepped out of it nimbly and
kicked it away as I placed my hands again on her curved waist.

I was touching something unfamiliar, and I had to stop kissing her and
turn my head down to take a look.  She was wearing some kind of
undergarment that I'd never seen before - not that I was any expert on
women's underwear, but still.  The top part was like a bra, but then
it continued down, all in one piece, sheathing her body all around
right down to a point on her upper hips.  It was complicated and
baffling.  I felt that I must remove it from her, but I had no idea
where to start.

Desperately, I slid my right hand up between her legs and was rewarded
with a brief tantalizing contact of my fingers to something hot and
furry, and even a hint of moisture - at least she wasn't wearing any
panties under the thing - but the hard edge of the garment cut into my
wrist and I couldn't go any further or get any more than that tiny
sample.  My fingers tingled with electricity in the spot where they
had brushed her labia, even so briefly.

Again she seemed to sense my trouble and she smoothly reached down,
grabbed my hand, and guided it up to the small of her back.  My
fingers contacted the hard edges of a crudely-made metal zipper pull. 
It felt burning hot, heated by her body.  I slid it carefully down
along her spine until the garment parted.  I took a moment to stroke
the newly-revealed skin of her buttocks where they curved into her
legs.  Her bottom felt softer, more rounded, now that it was freed of
the confining undergarment.  Then I reached up to her shoulders and
gently slid the straps down over her arms.  That done and with her
carefully moving her arms to make it easy for me, I was able to peel
her underwear off and toss it aside.  She told a step back - not to
get away from me, but just to give me a better view - and stood
smiling radiantly under my gaze, her green eyes flashing.  She
murmured something barely audible that sounded like, "All yours...
all for you."

I had to return the smile as I surveyed her body.  Her skin seemed to
glow even in the meagre fluorescent light, shading from the rich
creamy tone of her face and neck down to the paler skin that had been
covered by that undergarment.  She had pulled her shoulders back and
it made her breasts stand out, presenting her large erect nipples to
my view.  Below, my eyes traced the lower edge of her ribs and the
curve of her waist, her wide soft hips and the triangle of dense
red-brown pubic hair between them, concealing the delights within.  As
my gaze shifted to her strong thighs, which were firmly pressed
together, she separated her knees a little, opening for me.  I quickly
looked up, and met her gaze again.  Her expression hadn't changed - or
had it?  I couldn't tell whether the new urgency in those wide green
eyes was hers or a reflection of my own.

The cute splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose was
mirrored, larger, on her chest, from the base of her neck out across
her shoulders and the tops of her breasts to her armpits, and down
into her cleavage, stopping just at the level of her nipples, with the
undersides of her breasts looking milky pure, soft and virginal by
comparison.  The tiny brown dots seemed so perfectly arranged as to
have been tattooed on.  I wanted to hold and squeeze her breasts in my
hands, to follow the freckles with the tip of my tongue down into the
secret space between her breasts.

My mind was not functioning normally; I stood in painful need for
several moments before I realised that I was welcome to touch and
explore her.  I stepped forward and she turned, resting her back
against the shelves, preparing for it, and I stood mild before her and
bowed my head and brought my lips to the surface of her skin, just
above her collarbone.  I sucked there for a moment, enjoying the taste
of her body and her sweat: a little saltier here than in her mouth,
and with a bitter alkaline note.  I almost wanted to suck harder, to
give her a hickey, to mark her as my own, but I couldn't quite dare.

Instead my tongue slid out, and I licked gently along the top of her
collarbone.  Above I heard her sigh, and I felt the tight muscles of
her neck shift as she tilted her head away, exposing the length of her
neck to my attentions.  I touched it with my cheek, brushed it with my
eyelashes; my head settled nicely into the curve, her hair tickling my
face, as I kissed and licked along the ridge of muscles in her neck
and across the top of her right shoulder.

I brought my hands up to her waist and across her abdomen, first on
the left and then on the right.  As my fingertips brushed her skin she
flinched, ticklish, but her body relaxed again as I laid my hands more
firmly upon it, rubbing my palms up over her softly rounded abdomen. 
She purred, and whispered "Yes..." as I reached the lower curves of
her breasts.  I took one breast in each hand, cupping them lightly and
lifting them as I lowered my head further to lick their upper
surfaces, lapping my tongue in wide circles over each.

I imagined that I could taste her freckles, a warm subtle flavour like
cinnamon sprinkled over her body.  I closed my eyes and tried to trace
their pattern with my tongue from just ahead of her right armpit up
over the dome of the breast on that side, onto her other breast and
back, down between exploring her cleavage until my entire face was
snuggled into her chest, one firm breast on each side.  I could hear
her heart pounding; it was almost as fast as my own.

I withdrew my face and looked into hers.  Her eyes were closed, head
resting back against a row of dusty books, and she was breathing
rapidly through parted lips.  I kissed her mouth again, sliding my
tongue under her lower lip, across the front of her teeth and then up
into the space between them.  She closed her jaw a little, biting my
tongue gently for a moment, then released me, and I turned to her
breasts again.  I held them in my hands, digging my thumbs into the
undersides so that her nipples popped up, and I admired the wide dark
circles of her areolae and the crown of her large nipple at the centre
of each.

I stroked her right breast with my tongue, licking up to the tiny
bumps marking the edge of the dark circle but no further, flirting
with the boundary, then rubbing firmly down and in a wide circuit
around her nipple, lapping its underside with my tongue, stopping as I
heard her softly respond.  I paused for a moment, the nipple resting
on my unmoving tongue, then I drew in my tongue, closed my lips into a
little tunnel around her nipple, and sucked softly at it.  I worked my
puckered lips around, brushing lightly at the areola.

"Bite them," she demanded fiercely.  I did not want to use my teeth on
her because I was afraid that I would hurt her and I could not bear to
cause her pain.  But I closed my mouth just a tiny bit, enough to
bring the edges of my teeth as lightly as possible into contact with
the end of her nipple.  The woman grunted and thrust her chest
forward, crushing her breast into my mouth.  I dared to close my jaws
a little further, and tilted my head to one side, scraping my incisors
across the velvet surface of her nipple.  I poked at its tip with the
end of my tongue, then licked it up and down, pressing it into my
teeth.  She made a small high-pitched cry.  I licked the nipple up and
down some more, enjoying its texture and the sound of her breathing,
the way her breath would catch unsteadily when I dug into her nipple
with the point of my tongue.

When I relaxed my grip on her right nipple and lifted my mouth away,
she immediately understood my intent and shifted around to present to
me her left breast.  I licked up the underside of the breast, then
caught a fold of her soft flesh between my teeth, bearing down, but
releasing it in a moment, suddenly fearful that I might have marred
her perfect white skin.  I rubbed the area with my tongue trying to
soothe away whatever damage I might have done.  Her hand came up under
my chin, lifting me to her nipple, but I refused to be hurried.  I
held my mouth wide open over the long sensitive cone, breathing on it
only, as my tongue caressed the edge of her areola, all around, then I
grabbed the nipple with my teeth, harder now than before because I
knew what she wanted, and I twisted it and pulled back, stretching her
breast.  I heard her gasp and say, "Oh, yes, please!" and my hands
below her breasts felt her muscles contract spasmodically.  She
squirmed against the bookshelf in her pleasure, pulling her left
nipple this way and that as my teeth dug firmly into it.

I let go, and paused a moment for her to catch her breath.  A blotchy
strawberry flush had crept up over her stomach.  I slid my hands down,
rubbing the warmth into her skin, then lifted them away.  I grabbed at
the shelf to either side for support as I carefully lowered myself to
kneel before the woman.  The undersides of her breasts softly brushed
the top of my head.  I bent my face down, kissing along the lower edge
of her ribcage, then extended my tongue to trace patterns on her
quivering skin.  I worked it in her navel for a few moments, then
moved down into the tangle of thick hair over her mons veneris.

Her reddish-brown curls caught at my teeth and tickled my tongue as I
used its tip to massage the hairy pad of flesh over her pubic bone. 
She placed her hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly through my tee
shirt, a shiver of pleasure travelling down my spine at her touch, and
I dipped my head lower, feeling her pubic hair scrape my cheek and I
ran my tongue down into the deep sweaty groove to one side of her
genitalia.  The woman shifted, bending her knees slightly and
spreading her legs just a little bit further, to give me better
access.

I could now smell clearly the heavy sweet odour of her vagina, could
feel traces of hot moisture on my cheek, and I wanted to dive right
in, thrust my tongue deep between her labia, lap up her fluids, but I
forced myself to wait.  Slowly I pressed my tongue down the groove
until it reached the base of her thick labium, then as lightly as
possible I flicked it inward, across the tight skin of her perineum. 
She drew a sharp breath and pushed her pelvis down at me; taking the
hint, I brought one hand up between her legs, scraping my fingernails
against her pale inner thighs on the way, and pressed the tip of my
index finger into the skin just below her vulva.  I rubbed in a
circular motion, feeling the throbbing blood and the tight muscles
just under my touch, and my lover's breathing became steadier and
deeper.  She murmured something soft and encouraging.

Now I turned my mouth to her other labium, pulling back my lips to
nibble gently at it with my teeth, remembering her enjoyment of my
soft biting of her nipples.  Grasping the fold of flesh in my teeth I
lifted it back, exposing the sensitive places beneath to the air and
my breath.  I released it and took another bite a little higher up,
gradually moving along bite by bite until I reached the top, all the
time rubbing with my finger just below her vulva.  Then as I released
my bite for the last time I pushed my finger up to caress the lower
margin of her opening, working it in the slick juice there, and I slid
deeper, exploring the entrance of her vagina with my smooth fingertip. 
I licked down with my tongue, now finally tasting her secretions,
thick and salty, as sweet as I had imagined.  With the tip of my
tongue I traced the swollen flaps of her inner lips, the soft arch of
her vaginal opening above my finger, the folds of skin on either side
of her clitoris.  But I avoided touching that organ directly just yet.

The spongy floor of her vagina rose and fell beneath my finger,
squeezing and fluttering but not quite tight enough to grasp it all
around.  I slid in a second finger, filling the gap, and rotated my
wrist so I could press my fingertips into her vaginal roof.  She was
already contracting around me as I dug them in there and began to
slowly rub.

I tilted my head a little to one side, pushing my mouth in closer, and
felt around with my tongue, searching for the tiny lump of her
clitoris.  I knew when I had found it by the way she suddenly,
reflexively thrust her hips into my face, driving the delicate organ
against my tongue.  I flicked it gently; then, feeling that she needed
more, pressed firmly with the flat of my tongue and rubbed up and down
and around.  She quivered under the steady caress of my mouth, and I
felt her moisture, already coating my fingers, slick against my lower
lip.  I carefully moved my jaw, trying to lap some of her fluid into
my mouth, soon tasting the salty bitter flavour of her all around my
slowly rubbing tongue.  Her clitoris had retracted almost completely
into its little hood, so I bore down hard on that, rolling it around
with my tongue, pressing firmly on the organ within, offering her no
respite from the stimulation.

Her hips gyrated under me.  I pulled my fingers out of her vagina,
prompting a soft cry of "Oh!" as they popped out and the cold air
briefly reached the delicate inside of her, and then I grabbed her
thighs, one in each hand, digging my thumbs in and feeling the
arteries pulsing beneath them.  The fingers of my right hand which had
been inside were still coated with her mucous, and they felt cold and
sticky resting on her hip.  My muscles strained against hers; I forced
her to stop moving and pressed her bottom into the edge of the shelf
behind, holding her still to take my caresses.

Now I expanded the area over which I moved my tongue, sliding it down
into the upper margin of her vaginal opening on each stroke, picking
up traces of sticky fluid there and softly catching at the edge, then
over the tiny tight opening of her urethra, itself weeping with a thin
salty fluid, over the corrugations above, her inner lips and the folds
of her clitoral hood, pressing hard on her engorged clitoris and
finally lifting as I reached her tangled pubic hair to begin again at
her moist opening.  The girl strained against my hands and cried out
but I held tight to her thighs, and my tongue was merciless in
stroking and rubbing her delicate sexual organs, grinding my saliva
and her bitter mucous into them as her body peaked.  Her abdomen shook
and her breath came in gasps; I could feel the blood pounding through
the flesh under my hands as I massaged her clitoris, rolling it back
and forth under her clitoral hood, poking up under the hood to roll
the hardened tip around and around, inhaling her dark sweet scent and
tasting the fluid that now flowed freely over my lips and chin,
feeling her fine pubic hair brush softly over my cheek.

Finally amid her wild breathing I heard the woman gasp weakly, "Stop,
stop" and I withdrew my face from her crotch and tilted it up,
blinking against the gritty fluorescent light, to stare up across her
abdomen and her heaving breasts, into her freckled face.  Her look of
breathless intensity dissolved into a blissful smile as her orgasm
subsided, and she opened her eyes to meet mine.  She was still
trembling.

My lover relaxed her grip on my shoulders and raised one hand,
brushing the back of my neck, making the hair there stand up.  Then as
I straightened a little, bringing my face up out of her crotch, she
brought her fingertips forward over my cheek, holding it gently.  With
her other hand she caressed my neck, then slid both hands down to cup
my head, her thumbs caressing my ears.  She said, "sweet... yes...
love..." and other disconnected words; I understood perfectly.

The moment was shattered by the sound of a voice calling, low but
insistent.  "Um, hello?  Yoohoo, anyone down here?" The smile drained
from my lover's face to be replaced by a look of horror; she yanked
her hands away from me as if burnt, clutching them over her breasts. 
I couldn't help noticing how cute she looked doing that.  Her thighs
slapped together, trying to close and hide her quivering crotch. 
Then, realising that these measures were nowhere near sufficient to
cover her naked flesh, she hastily looked to either side, spotted the
pile of discarded clothing, and dove for it.  It took a second or two
for my mind to start working, but when it did, I got to my feet,
batted ineffectively at the bulge in the front of my jeans, trying to
force it down, and then I made my way painfully to the end of the
aisle, hoping to head off whoever it was and buy the girl some time to
put her clothes back on.

I hurried in the direction of the stairs, which was where the voice
had come from, and managed to meet the person halfway.  It was a very
young man, probably a first-year student, wearing a trenchcoat, a
wispy beard, and thick glasses.  He had a stack of books so tall he
could barely carry it.  "Um, could you check these out?  You do work
here, right?  Uh, not to be rude, but I've been waiting upstairs for
more than -" "Fine," I cut him off, "come on." I wondered what had
happened to the guy in the office who was supposed to come out and
deal with anyone who showed up while I was away from my desk.  No time
to sort that out now.  I had to get this annoying person back
upstairs.

I led him brusquely back to the circulation desk, took my place behind
it, and checked out his books as fast as I could.  He at least had the
presence of mind to open each book to present me with the bar code as
he handed it to me, so I could just stick it under the scanner.  There
were about twenty books in the pile, mostly computer graphics
conference proceedings.  As we were working through the stack he tried
to start a friendly conversation: "What were you doing down there
anyway?"  I just grunted.

When I had checked out the last book I gave him a broad, artificial
smile, told him they were due in two weeks and to have a very!
pleasant evening, and handed him a blue millennium bookmark.  He
seemed about to say something, but sort of wilted under my manic grin,
and bit the comment off.  He trudged out carrying the stack of books. 
I wiped the smile off my face, waited five seconds only to be sure he
had really left, and then I bolted back down the stairs.

She was gone.

I stood in the middle of the aisle where we had been, looking through
eyes that started to tear at the space she had occupied, now empty.  I
imagined that I could see a slight disturbance in the dust on some of
the books - it had been wiped away where her hair had brushed them. 
My glasses were sitting on top of the books on one high shelf, where
she had laid them; I picked them up, unfolded them, and put them on. 
I ran my finger along the row of book spines where her body had been
pressed, and I could almost feel the last traces of her heat; but if
it was even there at all beyond my imagination, then it was fading
fast.  I sighed, and began a systematic search of the basement. 
Halfway through I suddenly thought that most likely, she was in the
women's washroom, and so I barged right in, heedless to the
possibility that some other woman might be there.  But the place was
empty.

As I emerged from the women's washroom it occurred to me that she must
have heard my interaction with the young man; probably she had
followed me upstairs.  I ran up the stairs and looked around.  Nobody
there.  The books she had left on the table in the reading area were
still untouched.  After staring at them for several seconds I thought
to look at the coat rack, with a sickening premonition that was
confirmed when I did look:  her coat was gone.

I was all ready to begin a systematic search of the building when the
night librarian stuck his head out of the office and said, "Hey,
Jason?  Could you try to spend more time on the job, eh?  Seems like
every time I look out here you're not at the desk."  I wondered for a
moment whether to tell him to shove it.  Finding the girl again was
more important than any possible consequence of upsetting him.  But
she appeared to be already gone, and anyway she couldn't leave the
building without passing right by my desk, so it might be best to stay
there anyway.  There'd be no point causing trouble.  I sat down at the
desk and tried to calm down.

I had no further customers.  Just before 11 o'clock the night
librarian left.  I stayed right to the bitter end and even a few
minutes after the end of my shift, still hoping, but at 11:10 I
eventually decided I had to give it up.  One of the last things I did
was to go over to the table, pick up all the books the girl had left
scattered there, and dump them into one of the reshelving bins for the
next morning's shift to deal with.  (Wasn't that kind of
inconsiderate?)  No, it was the morning people's job to shelve the
books from the previous night; I wasn't expected or trained to do it.

Anyway, I remember that there was a copy of Stephen Hawking's _Brief
History of Time_, in the heavy library hardback binding, right on top
of the pile in the bin.  The girl had left a few sheets of scrap
paper, covered with calculus, on the table also.  Lots of triple
integrals and little vector diagrams, you know the sort of thing, in
smeared black ink.  I almost folded the pages up and kept them as a
souvenir; I don't know why I didn't.  They ended up in the recycling. 
I went back to my dorm and maybe that was really the end of it all,
but something else happened that I thought was sort of connected, so
keep your tape running.

First of all, it's none of your business and I'm not sure it's at all
connected anyway, but my love life really picked up at about that
time.  Ever since that night I found myself actually having the nerve
to ask girls for dates.  I lost my virginity just a couple months
later, New Year's Eve in fact, the end up the century.  Depending on
how you count it; actually, just for myself I feel like the mystery
girl was my "first" even though we didn't technically go all the way. 
Maybe all I needed was sort of a head start, a shove in the right
direction.  It's been about a year now and I haven't found anyone yet
who turns me on so absolutely as that woman did, but I really think I
will, you know?

But that wasn't the important thing.  I mean, it's plenty important to
me, but it's not what's important for your ghost story project.  The
important thing, well, part of it was that the cigarettes finally
caught up to Grandma Dot, and she died in early 2001.  I dunno, it
might have been sort of for the best.  She was only 70, but in that
time she'd gotten to see and do a lot of things I can't even imagine,
and at least she didn't have to live through a long horrific decline
like a lot of old people do.  Anyway, I got the phone call from my
mother early one morning and she said that my grandmother had left me
some stuff.  Not money or anything really useful:  a week or so later
my mother showed up in the station wagon with the back full of boxes
of old books out of Grandma's attic.  But I like books, so it was all
right.

When I started unpacking the boxes I realised that these weren't my
grandmother's books.  They were all science and math, not Grandma's
thing at all.  There was even a decrepit paper bag full of pulp sci-fi
magazines which I thought might be worth some real money.  I might
have been able to guess the original owner, but I didn't need to.  As
soon as I started opening the books, I read the name "Ruth Talbot",
written on the inside cover of each in smudged black ink.

(I thought you said your family name was Head?)  Oh, sorry.  I thought
I'd made that clear: Great-Aunt Ruth was my mother's mother's sister,
so she had a different surname from me.  She never was married before
she disappeared.  Grandma Dot changed her name from Talbot to Atwood
when she married my grandfather on that side, and my mother went from
Nancy Atwood to Nancy Head when she married my father.  (OK,
understood.)

I was talking about the books.  Some of the books were in pretty bad
shape; some looked like they'd been chewed by rodents, and there were
dust and cobwebs all over all of them.  However many years of storage
in the attic hadn't done them any good.  But they were still basically
good enough to read.  People really built books properly in those
days, even if they didn't have the fancy acid-free paper we have
today.  I lined them up on my own shelf feeling a sort of greedy
pleasure that now they were all mine and all for me, and I ran my
fingers along the spines, enjoying the feel of the old cloth and
leather bindings.  I stopped on a thick calculus text, pulled it off
and flipped it open.

I said before that I wasn't really much of a story teller, and if
you've been paying attention you'll have a pretty good idea of what's
coming next.  But at the time, I didn't; it was a genuine surprise to
me.  There in the middle of the book, marking the discussion on
Green's Theorem for line integrals, was a blue library millennium
bookmark with "2000" printed clearly on it in garish orange type, just
like the ones I used to hand out to library patrons.

It was kind of brittle, and faded around the edges, and when I thought
about it later I thought that that was the creepiest thing of all -
the bookmark looked like it had been there marking that place ever
since Great-Aunt Ruth put it there in 1941, notwithstanding that none
of those bookmarks were manufactured until 1999.  I remember staring
at it for several seconds and thinking, "Why am I staring at this?"
and then I realised why, my brain connected with the fact that I was
seeing something that could not be true, and I started laughing, just
because I didn't know how else to react to it.  I think it hit me
extra hard just because it was such an ordinary thing - just a little
slip of cardboard, just like hundreds I had distributed at work.  BUT
HOW DID IT GET INTO THAT BOOK?

Really, I have no conclusive evidence to support the idea that on the
last Halloween of the 20th Century, I had oral sex in the library
basement with the ghost of my great-aunt, the computer, who had
disappeared on that night 59 years earlier.  I mean, what an idea!  My
mother probably put that bookmark there when she was loading the books
into her car, or I did it myself unconsciously or something, and my
perception of the bookmark's age could have been just a hyperactive
imagination.  I never got my lover's name, and since there are so many
thousands of students on campus, it may not be such a surprise that I
never saw her again.  Although God knows, I searched for her.

It's sort of plausible, I guess, that there are these to-die-for but
perfectly alive women running around seducing lonely men, just out of
the goodness of their own sweet hearts and with no supernatural
connection.  If that kind of thing didn't ever happen in real life,
then life wouldn't be worth living.  I mean, she sure felt like a real
live woman, you know?  Her body was absolutely solid and substantial,
exactly as firm as a woman's body ought to be.  She tasted like a
girl.  This is probably not a ghost story at all; I'm jumping to
conclusions.  But I can't help wondering.

 ---- --- -- - 

The standard disclaimers apply.  This story may not be distributed by
any Web site that participates in "Adult Check Gold" or any other age
verification scheme.  Such schemes are an abomination before the Lord.
Other use and distribution is permitted if this notice is left intact.
Please forward all comments, criticism, reviews, etc., to me by email
to my pseudonym.  My access to the newsgroups is sometimes unreliable.

Story 2, revision 1, date 20011111

This story is fictional, but the stories are all too real of the human
beings whose lives were and are touched by war.  We are free to spend
our time reading and writing fantasies like this one, only by virtue
of the sacrifices of others.  Let us not squander that gift.  Human
beings have fundamental needs for peace and security as well as the
sexual needs we discuss here.  Let us pray for all people everywhere
to have everything they need.  Let every word we speak, hear, write,
or read, be in performance of our duty to dream.  Let us relegate
violence, suffering, and denial to the pages of fiction.
So mote it be.

John Fitzgerald Porter
jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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