From: (Alyosha Bourgea)

Subject: Aphatos

Keywords: mf teen

Description: consensual, non-kinky, mf teen sex. Not good wanking material;
more of a story with an erotic element.

This is my first attempt at writing erotica. Comments, questions, and
criticisms (constructive, please) would be much welcomed.


by Yosha Bourgea

"A dream like this must die."
--"Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns",
Mother Love Bone

The memory comes at me like a dream. I cannot trust it. Pictures shift in
my mind and slide over each other in a pastiche of light and darkness, like
leaves moving in the wind. Smells come to me from nowhere, more distinct
than the pictures but shifting just as quickly; the smell of moss, of the
loam of needles in the forest, of the sweet decay of wood. The smell of
woodsmoke, shifting to the smell of smoky tea, first hot and then cold. The
smell of rain in the sky and rain on the grass. The smell of damp wool, the
smell of sweat. The smell of musk. Each of these pull at different chords
in my mind and my heart, deeper and more powerful than words can follow.
The memory comes at me like a dream. I want to write it out, but I am
afraid of the limits of words. I am afraid I will get it wrong, that the
lie I write will replace the flickering truth I now hold in my head. But I
must try.
The pictures slide over each other, but slower now, slow enough that I can
write what I see. There is the empty pasture, overgrown with milkweed and
lush grass. The wooden posts of the fence have a silver sheen from the fog.
Now the rush of the swollen river comes into focus, somewhere off to the
right. Or is it the left? My focus shifts and now I am looking at the
pasture from a different angle. Suddenly, I see the top of a blond head
rise over the embankment at the pasture's edge, and my heart quickens. I
feel again the giddy drop of my stomach, the strange mixture of dread and
Now the head and the body have reached the top of the embankment, and
behind them follows another head, brown. That's my head. I look much as I
do today: skinny, nervous, pale-skinned, awkwardly dressed. My hair is
short, still at the rice-bowl length I kept throughout puberty.
Another picture slides slowly past. We are at the "bridge", three boards
laid across a small stream. I am still following her. Just beyond the
bridge, the forest starts. Behind us, the fog creeps across the meadow in
our direction. The ground is wet and spongy with layers of slick brown
leaves and crumbling needles. The air is thick with moisture.
The smell of the humus comes in sharply, and close after, the sound of
"How old are you?"
That's my voice. Higher and thinner, but recognizable.
She looks back over her shoulder.
"How old do you think I am?" she says.
"I asked you first."
"I asked you second."
"I don't know. Fourteen," I guess.
"Well, what?"
"I'm not going to tell you. You have to guess."
We keep walking, marching up a gentle slope. The path has curved up and
around back toward the stream. It continues this way for as far as I have
gone, which isn't very far. In a few moments we will have to cross another
plank bridge.
"Fifteen," I guess.
"Close." She brushes her long, blond hair back over her right shoulder.
The love/dread grows stronger in me without warning, and as I feel it sink
into the pit of my stomach, a picture flashes into my sight: her hand
brushing back her hair as she leans forward to kiss me. And another
picture, a picture of her breasts bared as she raises her shirt over her
head. And the smell of her sweat.
But I shut this out. I am losing continuity. I am in danger of slipping
back into an incoherent dream. I must try to remember, not just see. I must
try to remember how it really was.
"Just tell me," I say.
She sighs. "I'm sixteen."
"Oh." I'm thirteen.
The fog has risen fast. We are coming out into a clearing, and I can see
the forest below. We're about halfway up the hill. Fog is tangled in the
trees, finding its slow way up the hillside toward us. The meadow and
pasture are hidden in a blank, white sea. I yawn a little, feel the tired
ache around my eyes. I don't usually get up this early.
"Isn't that beautiful?" she says, stopping to look.
When she says "Isn't that beautiful", she isn't gushing it like some girls
would do. She isn't asking me. She isn't saying it rhetorically, to fill a
gap in conversation. She means it.
"Yeah," I say. "It is."
After going up a bit more, the path turns back down again toward the
stream. We cross another set of damp boards. Up ahead, I see a wooden
structure in the trees.
"That's not it, is it?" I ask.
"No. You haven't been here before?"
"That's the fort that never got finished. It was supposed to be a couple of
stories high, but I guess they got tired of building it or ran out of wood
or something."
"Can we stop for a sec?" I say. "I'm tired." I'm not used to walking this
much, and I'm out of breath.
"Sure," she says, and smiles at me. It's a nice smile, with no malice in
it. I feel the love/dread again. How long have I felt this, for how many
months? When did I first meet her? I don't remember. But for weeks now,
every time I see her, I've felt that giddy terror and delight. She is the
most beautiful person I've ever seen, I tell myself. My pubescent stirrings
are about a year old, still tentative, still mysterious. Still a little
This unfinished fort, which is built against five redwood trees standing in
a square, has a floor but no roof, and only two walls. The floor is raised
an inch off the ground, but is still damp. We sit on the edge while I catch
my breath. The fog has caught up with us, filling the space between the
trees. I can see a patch of the sky, shifting from light to dark gray.
Looking back down at my feet, I see a clump of goldenback ferns growing
near the base of one of the redwood supports.
"Oh," I say, bending over to pick some of them. "Have you ever seen these?"

"Ferns?" She looks at me incredulously.
"Goldenback ferns. Here, stretch out your leg."
"Just do it." She shifts, moving a little closer to me. "Here," I say,
"I'll do it on your knee." I take one of the ferns and press it against her
blue jeans. I hold it there for a minute, suddenly conscious of _my hand on
her knee_, and then take my hand and the fern away. On her knee is an
imprint of the fern in gold dust.
"Wow," she says, impressed. "That's beautiful." Again, I know she means it.
"Sure." I turn away, embarrassed, and press another of the ferns against my
knee. We are quiet for a while.
"What are you thinking?" she asks me.
I glance over at her. "I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" She smiles. "What are you thinking?"
Suddenly I find myself unable to look at her. I stammer, trying to remember
what I was thinking. What I'm thinking of now is the way she looks, but I
can hardly say that.
Then I remember.
"I was thinking about how I'd like to live in the woods."
"Yeah? Really? Me too."
I glance at her. She's not lying, I can tell. In fact, she has never lied
to me, not once in the short time we've known each other. We have become
friends over this past month. Not deep friends, but close enough to take a
walk at dawn in the woods near where we both live. She wants to show me a
house that she found just over the edge of her mother's property, out past
the hill in the thick of the forest.
"Have you ever dreamed about living in the woods?" she asks.
"Yeah, lots of times."
"Tell me about it." She draws her feet up onto the platform and hugs her
knees to her chest.
I think. "Well, in the dream I'm kind of like a hermit. I live in a
hollowed-out tree trunk by a river, next to this waterfall. In the summer I
sleep under the stars. And I have a garden where I grow my own food so I
never have to leave the forest. And I have a rope ladder that goes up to
the top of the highest tree, and I go up the top and sit there every
morning to watch the sun rise. None of the animals are afraid of me."
I stop. She doesn't say anything, and I look over at her. Her mouth is a
little bit open, and she's staring at me.
"What is it?" I say.
She doesn't answer.
She lowers her eyes for a second, then looks at me again.
Picture slides past, a series of pictures like a slow movie. Pictures of
her mouth moving, saying "I had the same dream." Smell of woodsmoke coming
from somewhere far away. Smell of wet bark, damp wood.
The sudden picture of her mouth kissing mine.
Heavy, damp silence.
I am flipping over and over inside, and I think I'm starting to shake. And
I don't think I can stop.
She stands up, steps off the platform, walks out onto the path. "Come on,"
she says, looking at me. I am in shock, and cannot respond. She says it
again. "Come on. Let's go."
Now I see a picture of the stream. The banks are high and steep, covered
with moss and ferns. The stream is flowing toward me, down over boulders
and rock ledges. It's small, about the width of my arm. It comes out of a
dark hole of trees.
The path follows the stream for a long time. It switches now and then from
bank to bank, but stays parallel. We walk in silence. She is about six
steps ahead of me. The shaking has taken over my body, and my teeth are
chattering. I don't dare to say anything, but I want desperately to act
"I think it might rain," she says, without looking back. I don't know
whether I should respond, whether it's a piece of conversation or just a
statement. I can't think of anything to say.
We walk like this for some time. I almost ask her how much farther it is,
but I reconsider. I don't want to sound like a child. But I have to do
something! I can't be invisible. I don't want to scare her off.
Suddenly, without thinking about it, I break into a run. I don't slow down
as I pass her, but keep running. I don't know what the hell I'm doing; I
just know that I have to do something to break the tension. The path comes
out into a clearing. I hear her running behind me, calling out, "Wait!
I look back and grin at her, feeling strangely confident, although I'm
still shaking terribly. She's gaining on me. I run faster, veering off the
path and up the foggy slope of the hill.
"Come back," she calls, still running along the path. "The house is this
way." I change direction and come shooting down the hillside back into the
trees, a good ten yards ahead of her now. I'm shivering from the cold and I
start to slow down, feeling my ribs knit on the left side. My body isn't
used to strain. As she comes up behind me, the path turns and I see the
Picture: under a dark sky, hardly recognizable as morning, a pane of glass.
Through the pane of glass: she is kneeling at a woodstove, putting in a
handful of sticks.
The house isn't really a house, just a small room. One large window by the
door lets in the cool, gray light. There is a big, broken couch, old brown
velvet with the smell of mildew and a spring showing, against the wall at
the far end of the room. There is the woodstove, of course, with a small
pile of wood and a few logs beside it. A chest of drawers stands just past
the door, tilted on a short leg. A page ripped out of a magazine is
thumbtacked to the inside of the door, showing a bottle of Absolut vodka
surrounded by green leaves and purple berries. An axe-head lies on top of a
pile of old newspapers next to the couch. And at the back corner of the
room is a wooden ladder that leads up to a loft.
I sit on one of the arms of the couch, my hands clasped, watching her fill
the stove. "How are you going to light it without any matches?" I ask.
She smiles. "Just a minute." She stands up and walks over to the chest of
drawers. "Why don't you wad up some of that newspaper and throw it in?"
I take a newspaper off the top of the stack. The axe-head slides off and
makes a heavy thud as it hits the floor. She pulls out one of the drawers.
"I come up here a lot," she says. "I've made a few preparations." She
brings out a box of matches. "Would you like some tea?"
"I have a teapot in here, and some tea, and a cup," she says. "Just one
cup. We'll have to share."
The pictures are starting to shift again, moving faster. I can barely track
my mouth asking what kind of tea it is. The shaking is turning into a
fever. I think even then, before it became a memory, I knew what was
happening. And it scared me.
The sound of rain hitting the roof filters in. The room is warm, the tea is
warm, but my body still shivers. Less violently now, more of a humming
through my blood. We sit beside each other on the couch, taking turns
sipping from the cup.
"Aren't you worried someone's going to come up here and find you?" I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders and brushes her hair back. "No, I don't think
anyone's been up here but me in a long time. I mean, it's really isolated.
Probably the guy who owns the property built it for a getaway cabin or
something, but he doesn't use it any more. Those newspapers are from last
"Oh." I take the cup from her. Our fingers touch, slide over each other.
Hers are colder than mine, and somehow I find that comforting. "What do you
do up here?" I ask.
She pauses before answering. "I write. Poems."
"Really? Can I see them?"
"No," she says, sort of laughing, blushing and looking down. "No."
"Why not?"
"You just can't. No one gets to see them." She sees my look of
disappointment. "If I showed them to anyone, it would be you."
"Maybe someday?"
We're quiet for a while. She finishes the tea. The rain is coming down
harder now, splattering against the roof. I am absorbed in my senses, which
are keyed to a fever pitch. I notice everything subtle, turn it into
passion in my mind. The sound of the rain. The way her long yellow hair
captures what little light there is and holds it, like gold. The warm tea
in my stomach, the trembling and nausea I feel. The heat of the woodstove.
The dank smell of the couch, the mushroom scent of the forest coming in
through a crack somewhere. The image in my mind of the kiss, the ghost of
her pressure on my lips. My feverish, unspoken questions: _Why?_ _What does
this mean?_ _Will you kiss me again?_ _How can I ask?_
"I was right," she says, breaking the silence. "It's raining."
"Raining pretty hard."
I can barely say the word for the spinning in my head: "Yeah."
"Do you..."
I look at her.
"Do you want to go back?" she asks.
No. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here, and I want you to kiss me
again. Like you did before.
I can't say the words. I can't speak. The pressure in me is almost more
than I can bear; I feel like I'm going to cry.
So I do the only thing I can do, the only thing that makes sense, beyond
fear or dread: I follow my need. I reach out for her hand and hold it,
shaking, pressing lightly. And I lean in, and I kiss her lips.
There is no picture. There are no smells, no sounds, nothing. My mind is
blank. For a time, an undefinable length of time, the only contact to this
world is the feeling of our lips touching. We hold the moment, and then
move out of it as her mouth moves and I feel the wet underside of her upper
lip slide in. Everything so slow...the soft vitality of her tongue entering
my mouth, touching my tongue. I don't know how this is done. My tongue
ventures forward, sliding along hers. Everything soft, softer than I could
have imagined. I feel a tear breaking loose from my eye, rolling swiftly
down my cheek to my jawbone. I regain my mind, and the kiss has become
definite, deliberate. This is no mistake. This is what we want. We are
making it happen.
Fears still hover around me as we move in closer to each other, deepening
the kiss. They are vague fears about the three-year difference between us,
which I never knew until today. I fear that this isn't real, that somewhere
I've fooled myself or made a fool of myself, for how could someone so
beautiful and confident be attracted to me? But my body does not hesitate.
The kiss continues. I explore her mouth, the boundary of teeth, the water
under her tongue. The hum in my blood has evened out into a pulse that I
can feel.
I am afraid to stop kissing her, because it means I will have to look at
her, to acknowledge the truth of what we are doing. But I feel her moving
away. I close my eyes on the steady stream of tears. I feel her fingers
moving over my face, rubbing the tears into my skin. She places a finger on
my lips. I open my eyes.
The rain hurries onto the roof, drumming faster and faster. The pictures
move by in a blur. I don't think I can slow them down; the memory rushes
forward out of control, and the images come out of place, heated, as in a
fever dream. The recurring image of her arms pulling her shirt over her
head, baring her breasts. The smell of mushrooms and smoke, of the damp
wool of her sweater, of the gentle salt of her sweat. The heat coming from
her body as I press my face against her neck. The rigid place between my
legs, that place I am afraid to name. I feel like a child standing in the
wilderness, soaking in the rain. Someone's skin is cold. Cold and moist.
Hers. I press warmth into it.
We are in the loft. Dark here, only just enough light to see the seashell
curves of her backbone. The profile of a breast in shadow. The tendon of
her neck, a thick, straight line. The marble-statue contour of her
shoulder. Her hair, like a waterfall of sun.
There are no words. We are unable to speak, unwilling to break the spell. I
kiss the cup at the base of her throat and feel a shudder run the length of
her body. She wants me, and that knowledge pushes away all remaining fears.
This is right. This is what is supposed to be; oh God, finally something so
pure as this, something so clear. This is what is supposed to be.
Floating in, the musky smell of her juices. I have never smelled it before,
but it is instantly familiar. It smells like the secret, dark places in the
forest that I never dared to go as a child. It smells like the deepest
earth that a gardener kneads with his hands before planting. I am
inexplicably frightened by it, even as I am intrigued. It is almost too
I touch her breasts. The motions I make are ones I know instinctively to be
right, though I've never made them before. My thumbs slide down over her
brown nipples, which start up from the areolae like gooseflesh. I reach
forward with my tongue tensed into an arrow, moving like a newt underwater.
I suck in the nipple, fainly hearing the intake of her breath. My hand
caresses the other breast. It is different from what I expected. The
breasts of models I had seen in magazines looked like rock-hard sculptures,
and so the softness of her skin surprises me. As my tongue slides over it,
I hear her moaning quietly, a low, uncontrolled sound.
My hand slides down between her breasts, down over the arch of her ribcage
onto her belly. A finger hooks into the hole of her navel. Her moaning
grows deeper and breaks off in a sigh. hand slides
down and further down, and I feel crinkly hair at the base of my palm. I
feel the throb of expectancy in my penis. We are set into the tempo of the
pulse of our blood. With each beat she makes another sound, my hand slips
down the smallest bit. And I begin to feel the slick vertical line of her
sex at the center of my palm.
That's the word I am thinking of, sex. It is the first time it has occurred
to me today. It fits what I feel more than the other dirty words or
clinical terms I know. This is sex. We are having sex. I am touching her
And now the tips of my fingers enter as they pass the top of the slit. A
strange incoherent sound comes from her throat. I move in. I have never,
never in my life, felt anything this soft and yielding. It feels limitless.
My fingers travel farther and farther in. When I am in to my knuckles, I
slide them back out. And in again.
There is a pain building between my legs. A dull pain, growing sharp. I am
very close to the breaking point. I look at her, about to ask, but her eyes
are unfocused, unseeing.
I take my fingers out of her sex and trail them back up her belly. I move
up on the bed, holding my penis with one hand as I search for the opening.
My hands move under her back and hold her shoulders as I move into her. My
focus is narrow and complete. There is nothing in my mind but the feeling
of sliding into her. All the way in. All the way in...all the way in...
And it is the fitting of key and lock. It is the drawing of a magnet. It is
the completion of a circuit. What I have put into her is no longer mine,
and what she has opened up to me is no longer hers. This is the connection
of man and woman. I feel my manhood for the first time.
We hold in place for a moment.
Then her hands come up around my back, pressing into my ribs. I slide
partially out of her, then back in, a motion like the throb of a heart. We
hold each other close. Out, in. Stop. Again: out, in. Out, in. A rhythm.
Out, in. Out, in. We are pressed into one body, rocking back and forth.
Blind motion. Out, in. And I feel it coming, like the flowing of water,
mounting steadily. A pleasure so vital it could almost be pain. My mind has
ceased functioning, and my body moves unbidden. There is nothing I could
do, even if I wanted to. I am moving toward the inevitable. My body tenses,
tightens. Her fingernails dig into my back. Tightening, tightening, drawing
closer. Out, in, out, in, rocking faster, climbing like a geometric curve.
An arch. I arch my back, drawing her up with me, closing in on
the crest


and! OH
flood, rain flooding down upon the roof,

The silence that we shudder into lasts for a moment, and then I hear a
small sound coming from her. I raise my head and I see that she is crying.
I move up to a level with her, kissing away the tears.
She looks as though she wants to say something, but can't find the words.
She doesn't have to speak. I know what she's feeling. It's not that this
was wrong, far from it. There has never been anything so right. It's just
that it was so unexpected, such a quick rise of passion, such an
uncontrollable unfolding of our private selves. It is the trust we have
found that makes us cry. We cry in relief that the chance we both have
taken has come to this.
We hold to each other for a long time. The rain slackens and gradually
tapers away altogether. And the pictures turn and flip in the cool wind
that comes after rain. My memory begins to fail me now; it was such a long
time ago, such a different place in my life. It falls away so quickly.
Heavy drops of rain fall from the trees, and the dark places of the forest
become darker.
Where did she go? I have pictures, but some of them contradict each other
and I'm no longer certain which ones are real and which are dreams. In many
of them, she is dancing away into the forest, or down a sloping meadow.
Sometimes she is naked and sometimes not. Sometimes it is raining. One of
the clearest of the pictures has her running through the trees in a storm,
covered in mud and leaves, but I fear that is only a dream. I do not think
she found the hermit's tree we dreamt about. If she had, I think I would be
there with her. But the cave is no longer accessible to me. I don't know
the path through the woods that leads to it. I cannot remember how I made
the journey from that boy of thirteen to the man I am now. I have lost the
All I have left are my memories. Walking has become a habit of mine, and on
my walks I sometimes catch the scent of things that bring back the memory
sharply. I have, of course, doubted in my mind that any of this was more
than a dream, but when I smell the smoke from a fireplace or the odor of
wild mushrooms in the fields as I walk under an overcast sky, there is no
There are some places that language cannot go. I know, as I write these
words, that when I look back over what I have written I will be
disappointed. Something will be missing. There will be a bit of literary
gloss here or a rough approximation there, and the flickering truth I hold
will waver and go out. So it must be. Such is the fate of all memories, and
the more beloved they are, the quicker they die. I am resigned to this.
The pictures slow and begin to fade. Her face looks out at me, smiling
softly. The light grows dimmer. She turns away, taking the light with her.


Yosha X. Bourgea, Grand High Dispensor of Arbitrary Illogic
"I met a strange lady, she made me nervous, But she took me in and gave me
breakfast." --Men At Work