IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law 
to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else. 

This material is Copyright, 2001, 2003, Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading 
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long 
as this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous 
permission.

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.


                           #  #  #  #
                           HEART BALL 
                       by Uther Pendragon
                    nogardneprethu@gmail.com
 
Part 1:

 

Allison Bryant had got home physically, but her mind was  
still selling real estate as she fitted her key in the door.  The  
new couple looked interested in the Westerall house.  There would  
be a nice commission if they took it.  

Her daughter, Shannon was coming towards her carrying two 
cans  of soft drinks.  "Oh, hi mom," she said.  "I didn't expect 
you home."  She headed up the stairs.  If she hadn't expected 
her home, why did she have two cans?  And they were one Coke and 
one root beer.  Shannon had some weird tastes, but she wouldn't 
drink both at the same time.  

Allison followed her up the stairs.  "Getting it?" Shannon  
asked.  

"I think the modem is plugged in," came a boy's voice from 
her room.  "Try it, and I'll stay here."  

There was a boy lying on Shannon's bed!  "What are you doing?  
And who are you?"  

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Bryant.  I'm Steve Anderson.  We're trying to  
get Shannon's new computer set up."  Why she asked who he was,  
Steve couldn't tell.  He'd met her and Shannon's dad on his first  
time taking Shannon out.  Damn near gave him a third degree, 
too.  

Oh, Steven, Allison thought.  He looked different lying down   
with his arms stretched out.  Well, it could have been worse.   
Shannon wasn't on the bed with him.  Still Allison wasn't happy  
seeing a boy in her daughter's bedroom, much less her daughter's  
bed.  

Shannon sat down at her new computer.  "What should I 
type?"  

"Don't use the keyboard," Steve said.  "Use the mouse.  It  
should say something like 'Internet Explorer' or 'AOL' on one of  
those boxes."  

"It has both."  Shannon thought that Steve should give her  
step-by-step directions.  All these choices were more than she  
wanted. And couldn't her mom go do something else?  Steve would  
set her up next.  

Allison was frustrated.  These kids were ignoring her,  
ignoring that she could see what they were doing.  Well, what  
they were doing seemed to be getting a computer up and running.   
Still, did they have to be doing it in a bedroom, for God's 
sake?  

Steve was uncomfortable.  He'd said that he would set up  
Shannon's mom on AOL, too.  But he had to deal with one computer  
at a time.  And hiding the phone jack under the head of Shannon's  
bed was idiotic.  Still, setting up the computer was his business  
-- rearranging her bedroom was not.  And he hadn't had his root  
beer yet, and Shannon shouldn't have opened her Coke right over  
the computer keyboard.  Still, he wasn't going to nag her in  
front of her mom.  "Click on the Explorer."  He wanted to be at  
the computer when he set up AOL.  

"Did that."  

"Let me look at the screen."  Steve got up from the bed to 
see the Explorer log-in.  "Okay, click the top-right X.  We 
don't want to use it, we wanted to know that the modem 
connection  worked."  He turned to Shannon's mom, who seemed to 
be waiting  for him to go to work on her installation.  "I'll 
take a while  here.  Then I'll do yours.  Your office, right?"  
Shannon got up,  and he sat down at the keyboard.  

Allison knew when she had been dismissed.  She just wasn't  
about to be dismissed from her daughter's bedroom in her own  
house by a teenage boy.  "Look," she said, "do you have to do  
this here?"  

"Mom," asked Shannon, "where do you expect me to set up my 
new  computer?  Where do I have any space if not here?"  

Steve could see a fight brewing, and he didn't want to be in  
the middle of it.  Shannon was right, and her mom was being  
unreasonable -- as Shannon often told him she was.  Still, if he  
was part of the argument, even an audience for it, then her mom  
would remember it when they wanted to extend a curfew or have  
another privilege.  "Where is your AOL disk?" he asked Shannon to  
distract her.  

She handed it to him, and he went to work.  He'd already  
chosen a password for her, "stVlvSshN."  It didn't matter that  
her mom knew her password, he'd tell her to change it anyway.   
Still, he didn't want her mom seeing *that* message.  Seeing 
it in the middle of a fight would be worse.  

"Now, you want screen names for each of your parents, too?" 
he asked.  He turned to her mom.  "If you get an account with 
AOL, you get multiple screen names.  Shannon asked me to set 
each one of you up with a screen name.  All your identity online 
is that screen name.  Each one has its own password.  I'll give 
you 'SHANMOM' and your husband 'SHANDAD.'  Change those 
passwords.  Nobody should know yours, and I certainly don't want 
to.  I'll  set up the accounts from this machine, and then we'll 
go install  AOL on your machine.  I understand that your husband 
can get AOL  from work."  

"I think he already has an account from the hospital."  

"Maybe so.  Shannon told me to set each of you up with your  
own account.  He doesn't have a computer here?"    

"Not one connected to the Internet."  Allison was angry 
enough at this boy invading Shannon's room; she certainly wasn't 
going to invite him into hers.  "I think he likes it that 
way."  

"That's fine."  In the first place, the man worked with  
computers, big ones; he couldn't be so ignorant that he couldn't  
set up AOL.  In the second, while this was an easy way to impress  
Shannon, Steve didn't want to do any work which wouldn't gain him  
anything.  In the third, the obvious reason that a man with  
Internet access at work might want one at home -- downloading  
porn -- wasn't one he was about to suggest to the man's wife and  
daughter.  He didn't want Shannon even suspecting that he, Steve,  
was aware of the possibility.  For that matter, her dad might not  
have any interest in that sort of stuff.  "If you want me in your  
office, I'll install AOL on your computer.  You could probably do  
it yourself."  She couldn't be as computer-ignorant as Shannon,  
but -- then -- maybe it ran in the genes.  

Allison thought it weird that he would think nothing of being  
in Shannon's bedroom -- Shannon's bed -- and then ask politely  
whether she wanted him in her office.  But that seemed the only  
way to get him out of the bedroom.  Anyway, she did want an AOL  
connection.  "That would be nice."  

"Let me drink some of this."  Steve moved to the center of 
the room before he popped the tab on his root beer.  "You don't 
want pop anywhere near a keyboard."  He hoped Shannon would take 
that hint.  "You're already set up -- 'bryant-dash-a at AOL dot 
com.'  It's all lowercase letters -- small letters.  That's how 
screen names work.  But you can't access from your own computer 
until AOL is installed there."  Steve had told Shannon this 
several times.  He suspected it had flown in one ear and out the 
other, and repeating it to her mom was one way to repeat it 
without expressing how deep he felt Shannon's ignorance was.  
Deep, and a little weird; Shannon got good grades in school, 
better -- if anything -- than his own; you'd think she could get 
this stuff which was so simple.  

Steve installed AOL on Shannon's mom's computer, finished his  
root beer -- he'd left the can on the hall floor, and took his  
leave.  He'd expected a kiss from Shannon.  Hell, he'd deserved  
one; but he knew he wasn't going to get it with her mom watching.  
For that matter, her mom seemed in a bad mood.  

When he'd walked his bike to the sidewalk and pedaled away,  
Shannon turned to her mom.  "He did me a favor -- did you one for  
that matter.  You didn't have to treat him like dirt."  

"I come home to find a strange boy in your bedroom, and you  
criticize how *I* act?"  

"You knew I was getting a new computer.  You wrote the 
check."  Shannon had savings from her job, but the money was in 
her mother's account.  Money in Shannon's hands tended to be 
spent very quickly.  "Did you really expect me to set it up 
myself?"  

"I come home to find a strange boy lying in your bed."  

"Steve isn't strange.  Well, he's strange in some ways -- he  
could set up a computer, after all.  But we've been going  
together for months now.  You've met him before.  And he was  
plugging in the cord for the modem.  Do you think he should have  
been lying on the floor?  There isn't space.  You have a bedroom  
and an office; when you want to entertain your friends, you can  
do it in the living room or the dining room.  I have *one* 
room.   This is my office, my living room.  It's the only room 
which is mine.  When I told you that I was going to put you and 
dad on AOL, you said it was generous of me.  Then you object to 
my being on AOL."  

It had been generous of Shannon.  Allison might worry about  
her daughter's spendthrift ways, but you couldn't deny that she  
was generous.  And it was the only place that she could set up  
her computer; they'd even discussed where it would go.  Still,  
she was seventeen, a high-school senior.  Didn't she have any  
consciousness of appearances?  For that matter, Steven was a 
senior, too.  Did he think that he should be lying on a girl's 
bed in the presence of her mother?  And lying on her bed when 
her mother wasn't home was worse.  She never doubted that 
Shannon petted; she came home from a two-hour date much less 
neatly dressed than she did from a full day in school.  But she 
wanted limits.  She figured that she and Wayne had taught their 
daughter limits, but what they taught and what Shannon learned 
were two entirely different things.     

                              - = -

Steve had invited Ken over.  He'd visited less this last year  
than he had before, but he was one of the kids his parents really  
liked.  Several of the teachers liked Ken, too, which was  
something of a puzzle.  The kids liked him because he was a  
joker, often in trouble.  You'd think that the adults would hate  
him for that reason.  

In Steve's room, Ken talked about beginning AP calc that 
week.  Steve enjoyed the idea of taking calc; he'd need it for 
what he  wanted to do.  Actually enjoying the subject, the 
contents of the  course?  That seemed to go against the 
unofficial high-school  code of conduct.  "You're going to be 
busy, taking AP in both  calc and physics," he pointed out.  "Do 
you really want to run  for student-council president?"  

"It's too late to change my mind about that.  I've been  
running for the last two years.  Besides, the schools look at  
that when they are doing admittance."  

"You could get in anywhere.  You got an 800 on the 
*junior*  math College Boards."  

"Everybody applying to Chicago did something like that.   
Remember Jerry, president of the chess club our freshman 
year?"  

"Yeah, and first board.  I could see working at being first  
board; club president looks like more work, and less prestige, as  
you should know."  

"I asked him that.  The players respect first board; they  
don't much respect president, and non-players laugh at the entire  
club. Well, he told me that schools look at things like that.   
He'd been a good student with no extra-curricular activities.   
Mr. Babaian thought up the chess club to give him an office.   
First board wants to be president, you vote for him."  

"You were first board by the end of that year.  Why didn't 
you  run for president?"  

"I did.  I just took my time.  But, if president of the chess  
club will make the schools look at you, a major office will make  
them look closer.  So I looked at the major offices."  

"And you're running for the highest one."  

"Class president is less prestige with more competition.   
Anyway, I supported people running for class offices in return  
for their promise of support for me later.  They aren't all  
keeping their promises, but enough are.  And the chess players  
and the jokers are supporting me.  You should run for student  
council; it would look good on your record, too."  

"No. I'm not even sure I can keep up in the chess club.  I'll  
be working for Hauksbee in the drug store as much time as I can  
and he'll let me."  

"And as much time as Shannon lets you free."  

"Shannon knows I have to work.  She ushers, too.  She's an  
understanding girl.  And didn't inherit that from her mom."  

"Mom doesn't like dear daughter dating a dork?"  

"It's not that."  And Steve told him the whole story of his  
working on Shannon's computer.  "And I can't understand it. This  
is *my* room.  Now, my mom and dad like you; but they'd 
never say  who I can have visit here.  They haven't since I was a 
little  kid."  

"Yeah, but her mom is a married lady."  

"So what?  Most moms are."  

Not all moms.  His mom wasn't, which Steve knew.  She'd never  
been, which he'd never told Steve.  He kept few secrets from his  
closest friend, but that was one of them.  "You won't talk about  
my reasons for running for council president?" he asked 
suddenly.  

"No.  What about Shannon's mom?  What did you mean?"  

"Well, she's a married lady.  She has sex in her bed.  That's  
what a bed means to her, what a bedroom means."  Not that they  
had to be married to have sex, not that they always kept sex in  
the bedroom.  He'd heard his mom too many times, seen her once on  
the couch with a visitor, not that he'd ever say any of that to  
Steve.  "Wouldn't you have funny feelings about Shannon riding in  
the back seat with another boy?  Perfectly innocent use of the  
back seat -- but you have another experience."  

"Boy!  Have you ever seen the back seat of a Honda?  I don't  
get in the back seat with Shannon.  I don't know if she's ever  
even sat there."  

"But you get my point."  If Ken had things he didn't share  
with Steve, Steve had things he didn't share with Ken.  How far  
had they gone?  Ken didn't know, and Steve didn't say.  Unlike a  
lot of kids who'd tell you all about their conquests -- imaginary  
conquests, probably.  

Steve had been known to refuse to say whether he'd ever 
kissed  Shannon, which was ridiculous.  The school had rules 
about "PDA,"  public displays of affection on school property.  
Some couples  protested by ostentatiously kissing as soon as they 
were across  the street and off school property.  Steve and 
Shannon had soon  tired of that game, but they'd played it for a 
few days in the  spring.  

"I'd rather have you on the Council than not," Ken said,  
reminded that some kids liked and/or respected Steve.  "Still,  
it's your decision.  You will campaign for me, though?"  

"Sure.  I've said so.  Even though I still think this is one  
of your elaborate practical jokes."  

"Would I do that to you?"  Ken didn't bother to deny that 
he'd  do that to the student body.  

"Yup!"  At which time, there was a knock on the door.  It was  
time for supper.  

Steve often bitched about his parents to Ken.  Ken listened,  
that's what friends did.  Still, he envied him his parents --  
even his dad.  There were two or three teachers who had been a  
great help to Ken, all of them male.  His own dad was a  
programmer; Ken got -- aside from the checks which only his mom  
saw -- two weeks a year with him, even if those weeks were fun.  
Steve's mom was the closest thing to a mother figure in Ken's  
life.  

"So, Ken," said Steve's dad, "Steve tells us you are running  
for president of the student council.  Isn't that a major step?  
Shouldn't you have done something lesser beforehand?"  

"Well, I am president of the chess club.  Was president last  
year and the vee-pee the year before.  But I think I've got a  
good chance at this.  Besides, you have to understand what  
student council is."  

"And what's that?  It's the government of the school."  

"Not quite.  Look, school is a bunch of classes.  It's more,  
but that is the center.  Now, the principal is in charge; he's  
paid more than the teachers, and can give them orders.  But he  
can't control how Mr. Babaian teaches physics.  He doesn't know  
what goes on in the classroom day by day; he doesn't know enough  
physics, for that matter."  

"So?"  

"So, everything which is really important is out of the  
principal's control.  All he can control is Mickey-Mouse stuff.  
And, as Steve will have told you, that means that the school is  
full of Mickey-Mouse rules.  I'll bet the president of your  
company doesn't have a loudspeaker which he gets on a half dozen  
times a day to make announcements to the factory workers.  So the  
teachers control what happens in class; the principal and his  
administration controls what they can -- making up rules for the  
most part.  That doesn't leave much for the student council to  
decide.  They mostly run the dances; that and they have great fun  
with parliamentary rules.  I'll bet the average student-council  
member raises more points of order in a year than the entire US  
Congress."  

"Your take on school government is interesting," Rachel  
Anderson said.  "You don't intend to tie the council in knots  
just to prove your point do you?"  

"Well...."  

"Promise us you'll do the best job you can if you do get 
in."  

"Oh, he'll get in," said Steve.  He had great faith in Ken's  
scheming.  Some of the schemes blew up, though the t-shirts  
they'd tried to turn into guncotton hadn't.  He wouldn't take any  
bets against unintended consequences, but the direct results of  
one of his schemes was fairly certain to be what Ken intended.   
He wouldn't make the mistake of counting his votes wrong.  

"I didn't hear his promise," said his mom.  

"I promise.  I'll be the best student-council president I can  
be."  

"When you get older," said Steve's dad, "you might see the  
point to some of the rules which seem pointless now.  I can  
remember Steve complaining about the PDA rule."  

"Oh, I can see that one.  Not that it limits me in any way.  
Before you can display affection, you have to have someone you  
feel affectionate about.  And nobody is ever going to feel  
affection towards me."  

"You aren't as hard to like as you think, Ken,"  Mrs. 
Anderson  said.  "Roger and I managed."  

"You have a generous heart.  With two kids of your own, you  
looked at the stray your son brought home with him and opened  
another ventricle of mother-love."  

"Ken!" Mrs. Anderson looked as shocked at what he had said as  
he felt.  He'd always had a problem evading the truth around her.  
He took a deep breath and settled down.  Steve's next question  
was about chess, and he answered it well enough.  He didn't  
reveal himself another time during the meal.     

 

Shannon was a little surprised at the energy Steve put into  
Ken's campaign.  She didn't put in any great effort, herself.   
For that matter, Ken didn't seem to put out any effort, either.   
He won on his reputation as a joker -- but also he got support  
from a surprising number of leaders in the sophomore and junior  
classes.  

The important part of student government went on 
substantially  unchanged.  The dances were held on schedule.  
Steve took her to  the first one.  They danced the slow dances 
together, and sat out  half the fast dances together.  They 
parked on their way home.  

Steve didn't really think that making out was something that  
Shannon owed him.  As much as he wanted to bare her lovely  
breasts, he didn't want her to permit him *because* he had  
taken her to the first dance of their senior year.  But 
still.... 

Shannon buttoned her blouse up again, before moving back into  
his arms.  She really liked Steve, loved him, loved his kisses.   
But she felt so exposed in the seat of his mother's Honda. 

"But this summer, you... we...." Steve said.    

   

All summer they had ridden their bikes out in the mornings  
while their friends slept in.  They'd both had jobs that  
interfered with their afternoons and evenings.  He'd made  
deliveries for old man Hauksbee's drugstore; Shannon had ushered  
at the movie theater four evenings a week and sat for Mrs. Green  
on the other three.  Mornings were their times together. 

They had found a meadow on an abandoned farm where they could  
talk in absolute privacy; and, when they would stop talking, the  
privacy had been even more important.  He had felt her breasts,  
and then seen her breasts, and then kissed her breasts.    

    

"It's not the same, Steve," she said, wondering why he  
couldn't see that.  It was one thing to be alone in the meadow,  
sharing all their thoughts, no one to see them but God; and then  
they shared some other things, too, things that she wouldn't have  
mentioned to another soul.  "We were clean, then." 

"After a five-mile bike ride?  I showered before picking you  
up tonight." 

"We were sweaty, but what we did was clean," she said.  "Now  
we are just a couple of kids making out in a car.  And anybody  
could come by.  It's not the same.  And I have to be home in  
fifteen minutes." 

The last was inarguable.  He kissed her with closed lips and  
with his hands off her covered breasts.  "I love you," he said.   
"I don't understand you, but I love you."  He started the 
car. 

She loved him, too.  She even understood him a little bit,  
sometimes.  She had enjoyed their summertime making out, and it 
didn't make sense to feel more exposed in the dark car than she 
had in the sunlit field.  She just did.  And, he *did* back 
off when she asked.  Finally she said, "I love you, too.  Just 
have a little patience with me." 

He'd thought that the conversation was over.  They were 
nearly  to her house, having driven in silence.  "Patience" 
didn't sound  that bad to him; not good, but better than 
"never." 

They kissed chastely at her door.  Her parents might be  
watching. 

As a matter of fact, her mother was.  She was favorably  
impressed that Steven always walked Shannon to the door as Curt  
almost never had; she was happy that they hadn't made a spectacle  
of themselves for the neighbors.  Still, Allison Bryant didn't  
think for one minute that this kiss represented the extent of the  
last hour's activities.  "Did you have a nice time at the dance?"  
she asked.  From the state of Shannon's hair and lipstick, she'd  
clearly had a nice time afterwards. 

"It was great," Shannon said with a lack of enthusiasm even  
she could hear.  "Actually, it was.  It's just that neither Jones  
at the theater nor Hauksbee at the drugstore have much respect  
for their peons' social needs."  Which was a constant annoyance,  
even if not one that she had thought about that night.    

 
 

Steve stopped his mother's car at a gas station to fill the  
tank. His earnings, after current expenses, went into a savings  
account intended for college.  The money in there was probably  
enough to buy a beater; he was tired of having to explain to his  
parents before every date just why he needed to use one of their  
cars. Kids who worked much less than he, younger kids, kids doing  
worse in school, kids who had been in trouble with the law for  
God's sake, drove their own cars to school every day. 

Later, lying in bed, he thought that his having to ask for 
the  car was typical of his life.  Bill, a year ahead of him in 
school  and Hauksbee's delivery boy two years ago, had worked in 
the  store and been trusted with the cash register *his* 
senior  year. With Bill gone, Hauksbee or Thompson handled the 
register.   Steve was still just a delivery boy. 

Steve got good grades, and had been sent to the principal's  
office only twice in the three previous years.  Both times were  
with Ken, and the principal had little to say to him except "Stay  
away from Ken; he'll just lead you into trouble."  Now Ken was  
president of Student Council, and Steve was nobody.  Well, that  
was unfair; he'd helped Ken win, and Ken had wanted him to run  
for Council.  Steve just hadn't wanted to put in the time.  And  
Ken was even brighter than his grades showed; when Mr. Jenkins  
was teaching them the evils of sentence fragments, he'd handed  
one of Ken's themes back with the comment:  "Laughed out loud;  
grade of F."  Ken had written the whole thing in sentence  
fragments. 

But still, Steve colored within the lines and got  
diddleysquat. Even Shannon (especially Shannon because Shannon  
was what mattered most) didn't want them to be "a couple of kids  
making out in a car."  Well, what did she think they were?  That  
was as good as saying that she would give him less than his  
classmates were getting, and some of those guys treated their  
girlfriends like shit. 

To be fair, though, some of those girlfriends were shit.  And  
some of the others were nice girls except for a terrible taste in  
guys.  But not one of them was as nice as Shannon.  That was the  
problem, really.  It wasn't only that he wanted to touch some  
breasts; he wanted to touch Shannon's breasts. 

To be honest, he wanted a lot more than that.  He wanted to  
fuck her, but Shannon wasn't the sort of girl who would do that.   
Not now, at least, and it was too long to wait for any future in  
which she would.  He could imagine it, though.  And he did. 

He would remove Shannon's bra and see those smooth breasts  
again; he would kiss them until she was panting, much more  
excited than she had ever been in the summer.  Then he would  
strip her flowered panties down and see the heart-shaped hair  
again.    

    

Maybe it was the way he'd seen it, on their last free day  
before school opened.  She had lain back on their two shirts  
while he picked her a bouquet of wild flowers.  After handing her  
the flowers, Steve had knelt at her head and kissed her eyebrows.   
He kissed her nose where it was peeling ever so slightly, and  
then her chin.  They'd tried for a meeting of tongues, but that  
is hard when one face is upside down from the other.  He'd kissed  
her breasts, and she'd kissed his chest.  He'd pressed on to lick  
her bellybutton.  Then he had pushed down on her shorts.  She  
hadn't objected.  He'd had no idea why, but he'd accepted his  
luck.  It had been that sort of day. 

The shorts had moved down revealing a line of pale skin, then  
the panties which he'd pushed too, and then the hair.  It had  
been an arrow pointing at him, not at all like the slight arc on  
his body.  It had been fine, darker than her head, but he'd been  
able to see the pale skin through it. 

"Oh Shannon," he'd said.  He couldn't express his wonder.   
She'd raised her hips to let him push the shorts and panties down  
to her thighs.  The hair was pointing towards him, and then it  
broadened.  At the very end, hard to see from his position, it  
parted into two lobes.  "That's where they get it," he'd said.  
The hair was a perfect heart shape. 

She had pulled her panties back up.  He noticed, when they 
had  covered that revelation of beauty, that they were pretty, 
white  with blue flowers and a line of lace at the top.  Then 
she'd  pulled up her shorts, too.  The magic moment had ended.    

    

Someday, she wouldn't stop him.  He would remove her panties  
completely and kneel between her legs.  Then her hands would  
replace his, guiding his cock into her and he would stroke and  
stroke inside her.  At that point, he reached for the Kleenex. He  
wrapped it around the head of his cock and imagined his entrance  
into Shannon's body one more time.  He erupted, and then stroked  
until it all had come out. 

Satisfied, but somehow feeling dissatisfied, he slid into  
sleep.    

 


The next week, Hauksbee began showing him how to operate the  
cash register.  Kevin, a junior whom he knew slightly, started  
working one night a week on deliveries.  It was how Steve had  
started. He got a fifteen-cents-an-hour raise, but still was  
making less per week than he had made in the summer. 

His parents fought his idea of buying a car when he brought 
it  up Sunday afternoon.  "You need that money for college," his  
father said.  A representative of a fertilizer company, he was  
getting ready to start a three-day road trip visiting dealers.  
"You don't need a car." 

"What would I have done if I hadn't found a job?" he  
responded. "I'm tired of having to get down on my knees every  
time that I need a car.  I want my own." 

"That's quite an exaggeration.  It's not your car; you have 
to  expect to ask." 

"That's just the point.  The cars aren't my property.  So I  
can't say that I will drive somewhere with my friends or tell  
Shannon that I can take her on a date.  I have to tell them all  
that I will *try*; I will *ask*. 

"I'm not going to break the law, speed, run away from home.  
I  just want a car which I can decide to drive somewhere; which  
allows me to tell people that I will go there tomorrow or next  
week."  It didn't work; talking to his parents almost never 
did. 

He was still in a negative mood when Ken turned his way as  
they left AP Calculus the next day.  "You know, we really need  
your input on the Harvest Ball," Ken said.  The school had dances  
to records more Friday nights than not, but the fancier, rarer  
Saturday-night "Balls" were done by committees.  Ken was  
responsible for getting those committees together and having the  
dances a success.  It was the real work of the student council  
president. 

The idea of Ken being responsible was funny on the face of 
it,  but not funny enough to lighten his mood.  "Not this time, 
Ken.  I'll ask Shannon to the dance, but I don't have time to be 
on a  committee."  Ken was actually walking away from his next 
class;  not having much time to argue, he switched lanes and 
hurried  back.    



Wednesday night, Roger Anderson muted the commercial.   
"Getting down on his knees," he said to his wife.  "You ought to  
make him get down on his knees next time he asks." 

Rachel had almost forgotten the exaggeration, but had been  
thinking about the incident.  "I can see what Steve means about  
making plans.  Still kids have very flexible positions on  
property and privacy.  What's yours is theirs; what's theirs is  
private.  He was rooting around in our closet just the other day  
for one of your ties." 

"Well, he did ask after he found it." 

"Still, would you dare go through his closet or drawers if he  
had forgotten to return it?"  She wondered if she should mention  
the incident with their daughter when she was home from 
college. 

"Nope."  Roger said, and clicked "Ed" back up. 

She was the one who clicked the ending commercials down.  
"Mallory is just as bad, maybe worse.  Last summer, she was  
looking through my lingerie drawer for a half slip...." 

"Hmmm." 

"She found the vibrator," Rachel continued. 

"And you caught her with it in her hands?" 

"No.  She *confronted* me with it.  She thought it was  
disgusting that a woman of my age used one.  But she knew what it  
was, and never considered that it had another use."  The  
straight-wand shape wasn't *that* suggestive.  "And she had  
been looking for a half-slip." 

"Huh?"  He'd been thinking about the vibrator.  They only 
used  it occasionally, but he had spent the last two nights in 
motels.  And Steve was out of the house for more than the next 
hour. 

"A half-slip, my dear innocent, is what a girl wears so the  
boy can reach her breasts without fully undressing her."  As  
Roger should have remembered, she thought as she clicked to  
change channels. 

"Do you really want to watch 'West Wing?'" Roger asked.  The  
picture of some boy molesting Mallory's breasts was disturbing.  
The picture of her with the vibrator in her hand was almost as  
bad.  But the vibrator evoked other pictures as well. 

Not when she considered the alternative.  "Is there anything  
better on?" 

"I thought we might check out whether Mallory damaged the  
vibrator.  Whether it still works, you know." 

He was in pajamas when she came back from inserting the  
diaphragm.  She dug out the magic wand while he took his own  
bathroom time.  The shower didn't run three minutes. 

He shed his pajamas to join her in bed.  Skin a little cool  
for a hug, he gently scratched her back.  All Rachel's emotions  
melted into a puddle; this was bliss.  Minutes later, she reached  
her leg back and parted his with her foot.  "Mmmmm," she said.  
"Don't really need the vibrator." 

But much as the scratching pleased her, it had never seemed 
to  him that she was actually turned on.  Grateful, yes, 
receptive,  but not eager for him.  Besides, vibrator times were 
special.  "All that tells us is that the fingernails still 
work." 

They took a while, kissing, fondling, rubbing, before he  
started the tests.  The vibrator still worked on her breasts, and  
it still worked on her thighs.  As he stroked it around her lower  
lips, he kissed from one breast to the other.  The taste of the  
prominent nipple, combined with his sense of her arousal, was  
almost enough to keep him firm.  The move dropped his dick onto  
her thigh; the quivers ran from the vibrator, down her thigh, and  
onto the sensitive head of his dick. 

She was enjoying the feeling of his lips on her nipple when 
he  finally brought the wand to the top of her thighs.  Much as 
she  loved that climbing excitement, she didn't want to climax 
empty.  She reached over to where his erection was pressed 
against her  leg.  She brushed up the shaft to reach his balls, 
while he  raised his top leg to accommodate her.  She cuddled the 
sack,  letting the balls move against her fingers, while the 
shaft  hardened against her wrist.  It would be there when she 
needed  it.  Meanwhile, she relaxed her attention to let the wand 
carry  her higher and higher. 

He was kissing her tightening belly when her hand shoved his  
away.  He turned off and dropped the vibrator while climbing  
between her legs.  Guided by her hand, he journeyed the route he  
knew best in all the world, so familiar but always dramatically  
new.  The light touch of her fingers in his shaft, the moist  
caress of her lips, the mock-resistant hug of her portal, the  
slick yielding of her tunnel -- all built the same excitement in  
him, each contributing in its own unique way. 

She led him just where she needed him most.  The warmth, the  
breadth, the *humanness* gave her sensations which the wand  
never did.  Slowly, he entered her; slowly he widened her; slowly  
he filled her.  And every millimeter scratched an itch more acute  
than he ever scratched on her back.  Only when he was fully  
inside, his groin pressed against hers, pushing her legs outward  
and upward, did she reach for the wand.  She turned the speed all  
the way down before turning it on. 

When he heard the growl of the vibrator on low, Roger pulled  
out half way.  Rachel raised her knees around his waist.  Then  
she moved the wand slowly across her hips towards him.  She could  
feel the shaking deep inside her when the contact was made.  With  
the vibrator against the bottom of his dick and her warm  
slickness trembling around him, Roger stroked in and out as his  
excitement soared. 

Her mind knew that she needed only the shaking of his organ  
deep within her to take her over, but her body still answered  
his. She dropped her feet to the bed to drive her groin up around  
his organ as it drove down into her; it dropped back as he  
withdrew. Meanwhile, her spirit soared. 

Surrendering to his needs, and hers, Roger stroked faster and  
faster.  Much as he luxuriated in the slick friction, the  
shaking, the warm grip and her drive against him, he knew that  
even more was coming and he wanted that.  He desperately needed  
that.  Then it came for her first. 

Rachel spun upwards, tightening as she rose.  Then the  
tightness caught her and shook her.  She dropped the wand,  
clutched the bed, spasmed as Roger drove into her and into her.   
Roger felt her clutch around him once -- he pulled back, almost  
coming out -- twice -- he drove into her, felt his knees slip on  
the sheets from his force -- thrice -- then he joined her, his  
dick pounding as he thrust again and again. 

It was a long time before they parted.  He recovered the  
vibrator, turned it off, wiped the fluids off its surface.  "That  
was something, but I need you," he said. 

"I need you, too, darling.  This is a banquet.  Alone it is  
like the meals, MREs, you ate in the National Guard.  It  
satisfies all the physical needs, just not very tasty." 

He checked the clock.  "Steve's still in the store.  He won't  
get here on his bike for half an hour." 

"You know," Rachel said, "he won't really be able to handle  
the deliveries when it's two feet deep in snow.  He couldn't last  
year."  She snuggled back against him. 

"So let him get down on his knees." 

"I think we might be a little more permissive.  Staying home  
on his work nights isn't that much of an imposition, and we still  
have your car when you're here."  And her car, Gertrude, didn't  
sneak into the driveway like his bike did.  Still, she felt  
protective of her little Honda Civic. 

Roger felt generous towards all the world, so long as he  
didn't have to move.  "It's your car."  She rolled over to lie on  
his shoulder.  In that position, his fingers just reached the  
sharpest curve of her butt.  Later, though, he scratched her back  
a few more times.  Arching her back in response pushed her  
breasts tighter against his side. 

While Steve rode up to the house, he toyed with the idea of  
joining his parents for the end of "Law and Order."  The rest of  
his homework could be done afterwards.  Once inside, he found  
that they had already gone to bed.  He renewed his decision that  
he wouldn't let himself turn so sedate and inactive when  
*he* got old. 

He went up and finished his homework.  But, conscious of 
being  the opposite of sedate, he took a centerfold to bed with 
him to  study before he turned off the light.    

 

Shannon had once thought that getting paid to watch a movie  
was heaven on earth.  But she'd seen too many, and the hours  
sucked. 

"I have a date Friday night," she told Mr. Jones. 

"Cancel it!" he said.  "I have only so many usherettes, and  
Cathy can neither work an R-rated show nor handle the booth.   
Besides, this one will be full without the high-school crowd.   
When the show starts, come out and take the booth from Julie."   
Julie, older, was allowed to watch the show.  She also was paid  
significantly more because she handled the booth.  Jones didn't  
say anything about paying Shannon a bonus. 

"I'm going to quit the theater," Shannon told her mother the  
next evening.  She'd started dinner as a peace offering. 

"What are you going to do for spending money?"  Shannon 
bought  her own clothes, school lunch, and incidentals. 

"Babysitting.  It is less regular, but it pays more per hour.  
What's my balance these days?"  Her mother was also her banker;  
Shannon shopped on her mother's charge card, and -- until the  
double employment of that summer -- she'd run a deficit more  
often than not.  "Besides, I can do homework there, half the  
time; and I can set my hours better, instead of always working  
when Steve's not." 

"I think that you are letting your life revolve around  
Steven." Well, she knew that Shannon was; she just wished that  
she weren't. 

"I know that you do."  Actually, while many of her thoughts  
revolved around Steve, almost none of her actions did. 

"Well, it's your life."  Mrs. Bryant wanted so much for her  
daughter, and feared so much for her.  And she realized that  
neither the hopes nor the fears would make a damn bit of  
difference. 

Oddly enough, Steve's question was the same as her mother's.  
"What are you going to do for money?  Will your parents put you  
back on an allowance?" 

"No, silly.  But I saved a ton over the summer, and I have  
nearly two weeks coming from the theater.  More than that, I have  
old babysitting customers and can get more.  Anyway, lay out your  
schedule for me." 

He was glad to do so.  But he had to check with Old Man  
Hauksbee first. 

"You two getting serious, aren't you?" the druggist asked.   
Once, Carl Hauksbee had been serious about Carol Thunborg.  He  
had been a pharmacist at County Hospital, courting a girl who  
wanted a solid place in the town in which she had grown up.   
Winning one of the lesser prizes in the then-new lottery, he'd  
used it for the down payment on the drug store and to establish  
himself in the town.  He felt a little nostalgic, and more than a  
little jealous. 

"Well," he continued, "it depends on Mrs. Thompson's health,  
and Kevin of course.  But I can use you Saturday mornings and  
Monday and Wednesday evenings, regular.  Your girl going to  
forgive you if there is an emergency?"  He was a lot more  
protective of his employees than he wanted anybody to know.  No  
kid was going to work for him two school nights running and ruin  
his grades. 

"I think she would."  Steve hoped so.  Shannon was really not  
one of those demanding girls who got jealous of jobs and parents.   
On the other hand, it was going to be hard to persuade his folks  
that he should date on Tuesdays when he had work the day before  
and the day after.  Even so, Fridays were what counted most. 

"But not forgive me?" Hauksbee asked.  He figured he could  
live with that.  "Now, you would have to get up early on  
Saturday." 

"Not really early."  The place opened at nine-thirty, 
sweeping  out started at nine; weekdays, he had to be in school 
at eight-  fifteen.  He didn't find that particularly difficult.    



"Can you work those hours and still get your schoolwork 
done?"  his mother asked. 

"Sure I can.  I just have to actually study during study  
hall." It was a concept which would ruin his reputation if he  
spread it around, but he'd done it before. 

"Look, you know my schedule.  It's still my car, you have to  
ask, but you can assume that you can use it when I don't need  
it."    

 

Shannon found that getting babysitting business back was  
harder than she had expected.  She had abandoned everyone else  
for Mrs. Green in the spring; other girls were now the regular  
sitters for her old customers.  "Just keep me in mind," she said.   
"And, if your friends ask, please give them my number."  Finally,  
out of desperation, she considered Mrs. Green.  But Mrs. Green's  
hours ran from four to midnight. 

"Mom, remember when I babysat for Mrs. Green?" 

"Indeed I do.  And your dad and I were real proud about how  
you kept it up despite the boys' behavior." 

"Remember how I got up early the next morning?" 

"Well, you could nap there."  And Shannon had got up early 
for  Steven.  Allison Bryant wasn't sure that any other 
motivation  would have worked.  The negotiations took some time, 
partly  because Allison checked with Wayne before giving 
permission. 

"I know that you have a regular sitter, but I'm not ushering  
anymore.  So, when you need me, I might well be available one  
night in a week.  And could you tell your friends about me?"  She  
figured that Mrs. Green's friends would respect the skills of  
anybody who could handle those brats. 

The first job, however, was for Mrs. Lundberg whose older kid  
had changed critically in the year since Shannon had seen her  
last. Cheryl's added height was nothing, but her added curiosity  
was a problem.  Shannon told Steve about it when he took her out  
on a burger-and-movie date.  They'd picked up the food and driven  
out to where they could watch the sunset while they ate.  She was  
in the middle of describing her embarrassment at being the target  
of sex-related questions when he looked at his watch. 

"Look," he said, "this is entertaining me more than the movie  
would, but you already know the punch line.  Do you want to get  
back in time for the start of the show?" 

"I don't care if I never see another movie again.  Can I  
finish?" 

"So what did you do?"  Steve was nowhere near as bored with  
movies as Shannon was, but the change in plans suited him quite  
well.  Shannon's tales from the front were always entertaining,  
and this particular one was somewhat arousing.  While neither he  
nor Shannon had any ignorance of where babies come from, that  
wasn't something that they usually discussed. 

"For ten minutes, I wished that I was back sitting for Mrs.  
Green.  She's a nurse, I know that she would want her kids told.  
Anyway, Billy was listening to Cheryl's question, and he started  
in...."  It was funny, and she took a while to finish the whole  
story.  They did nothing more physical than hold hands until the  
last light from the sun was gone.  When they finally kissed,  
however, it was intense. 

Whatever reservations Shannon had felt over being a couple of  
kids making out in a car faded with the glow of the sunset.  This  
was Steve, and he had dropped his plan for the evening as soon as  
she had asked.  His mouth was salty on hers, and the kiss was  
thrilling.  Even through the bra, his hand excited her breast.  
So, when he finally unbuttoned her blouse, her only response was  
to lean forwards so that he could reach the bra, too. 

Again, he felt those smooth breasts.  He was so hard that he  
ached, but that was only one sensation.  Her tongue welcomed his  
back into her mouth; her nipple firmed against his palm. 

Shannon got back home fifteen minutes before her school-night  
curfew of ten.  She was neatly dressed and unmussed, albeit with  
a grease stain on her blouse.  She had enjoyed the date more than  
any since school began.  It was strange.  She and Steve talked  
almost every day in school, but sitting in his car talking made  
her feel closer to him than dancing with him for an evening. 

And talking had been the key to the evening, if not the whole  
thing.  She dressed in a nightgown and brought a history book to  
bed with her, but more recent events held her interest.  She  
remembered the exciting feelings when Steve had held her breasts  
and brushed her nipples.  She tried to evoke those feelings with  
her own fingers, but they weren't quite the same.  For one thing,  
nobody was kissing her.  And Steve's kisses had been particularly  
exciting that evening. 

Soon her right hand wandered to the center of her excitement.  
For the first time, she pretended that Steve was the one touching  
her.  Even in imagination, it was a little embarrassing; she  
would hardly want Steve to feel the moisture that she produced.  
Soon, however, she swept herself up to the peak.  When she  
returned, she had a vague memory of calling Steve's name, or  
imagining doing so.  She desperately hoped that she had imagined  
it.    

 

Steve had come home from the date particularly happy.  His  
very-real enjoyment of Shannon's imaginary presence in his bed  
had been tinged with belief that his goal was nearer if not near.   
He greeted the next morning more cheerfully than he had greeted  
any in weeks. 

The morning didn't reciprocate.  It was a dull and dreary day  
with light rain.  His father gave him a ride to school in the  
Jeep.  Coming home was another matter.  He forgot that he was  
without his bike until after the bus left.  He had to walk or  
hitch; and he didn't connect to those of his friends whom he  
could ask.  His walk home soaked him to the skin despite his  
raincoat.  Dried and fed, he rose from the dinner table to go to  
his work. 

"Do you want to drive Gertrude?" his mother asked.  The rain  
was coming down nearly as hard as it had been when school let  
out. Steve's long raincoat was hanging in the entrance hall still  
wringing wet; he'd have to wear a jacket.  She didn't want her  
son working for three hours after having been soaked below the  
waist.  She had Wednesdays off from her job.  Maybe, on days like  
this, when the weather was too rotten for her to go out anyway,  
she'd let him drive to school. 

"Thanks Mom.  You're wonderful."  And she usually was,  
although he never would understand her.  She fussed over his  
borrowing the car when it was a social necessity, and then  
volunteered to lend it to him when it was a minor 
convenience. 

He used the car for deliveries and left it for his mother 
with  less in the tank than he would have wanted to.  He left a 
note,  however, warning her of that.  He ended: "I'll pay.  I 
just  wasn't carrying the cash last night." 

"The car was fine, dear," she said the next night.  "Why 
don't  you just take the mileage off the speedometer.  If it's 
close to  empty, fill it up and leave me the receipt.  We'll 
settle up the  balance."  Since Steve's savings weren't going to 
cover anywhere  near the cost of tuition, the difference between 
her purse and  his savings was merely a matter of his learning 
about the real  world.  Settling up on his paydays was a fine way 
to teach him  what he had spent. 

Steve figured that if his father hadn't yet taught her the  
difference between an odometer and a speedometer, she wasn't  
going to learn from her son.  Besides, she was being nice.  He  
bit his tongue. 

Kevin missed too many days.  Mr. Hauksbee hired another 
junior  named Martin, but Steve was back on delivery duty much 
more often  than he worked inside for a while. 

"Listen," Hauksbee told him one day.  "Not the booze and  
cigarettes, which you can't buy or sell legally, not the  
prescription drugs of course; but anything else in the store that  
you want, but maybe don't want to mention to me, you take it and  
ring it up on the register.  I'll trust you to do it right." 

Steve bought a few magazines that way; but, as time went on,  
the boxes of Trojans kept catching his eye. 

Not that his need for them seemed immediately pressing.  He  
and Shannon watched a few more sunsets.  The dark, which came  
earlier each time, brought more making out and more kisses.  One  
Thursday, nearly drowning in her welcoming mouth, he petted her  
breasts and felt the nipples harden in response.  When she broke  
the kiss to breathe, he nibbled all over her face and neck.  A  
greater smoothness was calling him, though.  "Please, darling,"  
he said, "let me."  He felt her stiffen before he dropped his  
head to kiss the softness of her breast.  She gradually relaxed  
in his arms, and then stiffened again as he sucked on her 
nipple. 

Shannon had completely misinterpreted his request.  She'd  
fought her way out of the haze of desire in a desperate effort to  
protect her virginity.  Before she could say a word, however, she  
realized that her breasts were his only goal.  How could she deny  
these to him when his tongue and lips there brought her such  
pleasure?  Only when he had walked her to her door and she had  
climbed to the safety of her room, did she remember her error.  
And she wasn't sure that her reaction had all been negative. 

In bed, she remembered Steve's hands and mouth on her 
breasts.  Then she imagined Steve's hands caressing her more 
intimately.  She tried imagining Steve entering her, but went 
back to his  mouth on her breasts and his hand between her legs.  
With the  stimulus of her real fingers supplemented by Steve's 
imagined  ones, she climaxed with a moan. 

She got a call from an old customer the next night.  "This is  
William Jensen, Amy's father.  I hear that you are babysitting  
again." 

"Yes."  She was puzzled.  The Jensens had a new baby and were  
staying home.  "Mrs. Jensen told me that you weren't going  
anywhere these days." 

"That's the thing.  We aren't, but she needs to.  I think 
that  she would trust you more than someone new.  You know about 
Amy."  Amy, four by now, had a serious asthma problem.  "Peggy 
really is  no bother at her age.  A few changes.  Theresa is 
breast-feeding  her, but we'll leave you a bottle." 

"When were you planning to go out?" 

"Listen, Theresa needs to get out of the house.  She trusts  
you. It might not look like it, but it is more trust than she  
gives anyone else.  So what days are you available?  And I'll  
work around that." 

"It's six dollars an hour for two children."  Which was her  
rate, though not quite fair, being what she charged Mrs. Green.   
On the other hand, Amy and a small infant were serious  
responsibilities, if not serious pains in the butt.  "Anyway, I'm  
usually free Monday and Wednesday evenings, if I haven't taken  
other assignments." 

"Anything scheduled for this coming Wednesday?" 

"Not yet," she said. 

"I'll try to get her to agree.  I'll call you back either  
way."    



"Look," Steve told his mom one night, "I'm going to be away 
at  college next year.  I'll be running my own life, setting my 
own  schedule." 

"Yes, dear.  Are you looking forward to that?" 

"It seems ridiculous to have you set the schedule this last  
year.  I'm going to start so many other things then....  Why not  
start this now?" 

"Well, what do you have in mind?"  Rachel was willing to  
dicker.  Dickering was fun.  On the other hand, kids not only  
think that they are adults, they also have no idea of the  
constraints on real adults.  Maybe she was being a little hard on  
Steve; he certainly had been responsible in his job. 

"Simple.  I set my hours.  Not my hours at work, Hauksbee 
sets  those.  But my hours at home.  I can go on dates when 
Shannon is  available, not when you think I should go." 

Rachel could hardly remember the last time she had refused to  
let Steve go out on a date.  He asked to borrow the car,  
sometimes; but he told her when he was going out, not asked 
her 

"Well, you want a lot of freedom.  With freedom comes  
responsibility.  You'll still have to do your household 
chores." 

"Of course." 

"And you'll have to keep your grades up."  Actually, this was  
a good time to deal for him to keep his grades up.  Steve wasn't  
-- despite his words about going to college next year -- thinking  
that far ahead.  Rachel was, though.  Once Steve had sent off his  
transcripts, the grades for the second half of his senior year  
hardly mattered.  He'd need to graduate, but that wasn't a  
problem for Steve.  If he ever wanted to transfer to another  
college, he'd need his total high school transcript.  You  
couldn't expect a teenager to consider such contingencies,  
though.  "Why don't you write down what you are proposing?   
Include what you guarantee in the way of grades.  I'll show it to  
your father, and we'll decide if that is enough.  Include a list  
of your chores, as well; but we'll add a clause that you're  
accountable for other chores I assign on an emergency basis."  
Steve couldn't think what an emergency chore would be.  Still,  
this had gone much more easily than he had expected.   

 

Mr. Jensen drilled Shannon before he left.  "Tell me about 
the  inhaler," he said.  She did.  "Tell me about the pills."  
She  did.  "We'll be seeing the early movie; they'll flash us on 
the  screen if they have to.  The number is by the phone.  Peggy 
will  wake in about an hour.  The bottle is in the 'fridge, but 
you'll  have to heat it.  Help yourself to the munchies, but 
don't let  Amy see them.  Graham crackers are okay.  Dr. Wyatt's 
number is  by the phone, as well.  Same place as always." 

Amy didn't really remember Shannon, and made a fuss as her  
mother left; but soon afterwards she was cuddling into Shannon's  
lap for a book.  Shannon lavished her with attention and told her  
stories about when she had sat with her before.  Peggy was a  
dear, a drenched dear, but still sweet.  Amy could now brush her  
own teeth, if not too effectively.  Shannon got to see most of  
"Friends."  Then she settled down with her homework. 

The Jensens came home rather early.  With their worry about  
Amy, they had never been particularly remunerative customers.  On  
the other hand, he calculated her hours from the time he picked  
her up until the time she got out of his car after he drove her  
home; she had never seen either of them drunk; he never made a  
pass at her; he waited in his car until she had closed her 
door. 

She finished her homework in her room.  She took college  
catalogs with her to bed.  Having taken the college boards in the  
spring, she had some idea where she would have a good chance at  
admission.  Her mother was an alumna of Albion, and Shannon hoped  
that she could follow her there.  That, however, would require  
financial aid.  She needed back-ups.



Steve bought a *Penthouse* when there were no customers  
in the drugstore.  When he got it home, he still had physics  
homework to finish.  His parents were up.  When he came in, his  
dad was scratching his mom's back.  That made him conscious that  
his back itched.  "I'm next," he said.  His parents exchanged odd  
looks, but his dad scratched his back through his shirt.  It felt  
wonderful.  "Dad," he asked, "what's so special about the way you 
scratch  backs?" 

Apparently, the main thing was to have the nails pointing 
away  from the direction in which they moved.  They practiced on 
a wall, then on his stomach.  After he watched JAG with his 
parents and they went to bed, he practiced again.   He did all 
the physics problems, but not so thoroughly as was his habit.  
Then he enjoyed his magazine purchase until his climax led to 
sleep. 

He regretted that neglect on Thursday.  Mr. Babaian, his physics 
teacher, gave a pop quiz.  Steve, who had been hoping for a 
strong A for his GPA and maybe a letter of recommendation out of 
the class, knew that he had done poorly on that quiz.  That 
night, he buckled down to learning what he should have learned 
the night before.    


Continued in Part 2
Heart Ball
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
2001/01/18
2003/01/20

This is one of a series of files holding the novel 
*Heart Ball*.  

The next file in the series is:
heart_b.txt Part 2 

The directory to many of my stories can be found at:
index.txt