Posted 09/00 ____________________________
| |
/)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\
/ )| DIRECTORIES |( \
__( (|____________________________|) )__
((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / )))
(\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///)
\ / \ /
\ _/ \_ /
/ / \ \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o o
o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
o from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order o
o other than offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
o o
o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not be used for o
o profit without obtaining the author's permission in advance. o
o o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o and should not be read by minors. o
o o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
The Paperboy (F/m, first-time)
by Joe jumpinjoe@my-deja.com
***
Feedback means a lot to me, I love to write and love to
write customized stories to individuals (especially women).
If you are under 18 don't read this and don't write to me-we
have nothing to talk about.
For the rest of you... I hope you enjoy the following. And
in case you were wondering, yes I was a paperboy and yes
there was a Mrs. Bouchard and yes parts of this story are
true. I'll let you guess which parts...
***
The best job I ever had was that of a newspaper delivery
boy. I did this job for 6 years-from age 10 till age 16 (I
lied when I first took the job and told them I was 12). It
was hard labor to be sure, hauling pounds upon pounds of
newspapers from one household to another- especially for a
10 year old. But it had its benefits. Who knew that suburbia
could harbor such perverted secrets?
I didn't start to catch on till I was about 13 years of age
(three years, utterly wasted!). As the hormone changes
kicked in I started to notice all sorts of new and exciting
things. For example, one of my customers, whose son I was in
the same class with, would invariably show up to the door in
a bathrobe on collection day. Ahh... Mrs. Bouchard. Every
Thursday afternoon I would show up to collect and every
Thursday afternoon she would be wearing a terry robe that
failed to cover just the right amount of flesh to drive a
pubescent boy out of his mind. Only several years later did
I realize that Thursdays were the days that Kirk (her son)
had baseball practice and didn't get home till late.
Mrs. Bouchard always gave such generous tips I made a point
to give her the best newspapers (i.e., the ones the
neighborhood cats hadn't peed on) and the best service. This
is even before I knew what cleavage was, so you can well
imagine the service she got afterwards. I would try to
engage her in conversation on collection days and she would
often give me one of her brilliant, all-knowing smiles
(accompanied, more often than not, by a welcome glimpse of
her copious cleavage) followed by payment and a wave
goodbye, much to my disappointment. But one August afternoon
everything changed.
It was in the high 90s, if not 100 degrees. It was literally
hot as hell (well, who knows if that is literal or not). I
rang her bell and can honestly say that I cared not a whit
about sex at that time. I was just hot. Hot, tired, thirsty
and more than anything, hot! She came to the door wearing a
haggard, sweaty expression that spoke of her own trials in
the heat. It seemed she had forgotten that this was
collection day and was not at all prepared. She didn't have
the money ready, but would I come back after I had finished
my route. Sure, I said, not a little disappointed. I had
wanted to cut across the woods and make it to the air-
conditioned sanctity of my own home as soon as possible, but
one did not turn down Mrs. Bouchard. There was something
more than a little sexy about her sweat-coated countenance.
So I finished my route and stumbled (yes, it really was that
hot) back to her house and rang the bell. It seemed that she
thought it best to wash the sweat off her body (how lovely
it was I could only imagine) as she answered the door in her
signature bathrobe. Only this one was different. It was
much, much shorter. High above her knees, the hem of the
robe reached down to a point infuriatingly close to where
one imagined the pubic hair might begin. If only, only she
would bend over! Those were the elevated thoughts going
through my mind when she invited me in for some lemonade.
Like I would have refused!
Kirk, I discovered, was at camp. He would be there for two
fun-filled, wholesome weeks. Too bad. Mrs. Bouchard sat at
the kitchen table, pitcher of lemonade in one hand, beer in
the other. Each time she reached over to refill my glass
that terry robe worked itself a little loser, each time I
saw a little more of those bountiful breasts revealed to my
gaze. Needless to say I drank a ridiculous amount of
lemonade. She seemed to be getting bored so I decided that
if I didn't speed matters up a little I would be in danger
of being sent home like a little boy before anything
"important" was revealed to me (and I was getting so
painfully close to something that I thought might be an
aureole). I asked her if I could taste her beer.
She stopped, her arm (the beer arm) in mid-air and looked at
me. She seemed to look at me a lot closer than she usually
did. I squirmed a bit under her gaze but there was also
something vaguely erotic about it. Without quite knowing
why, I got a solid-steel erection just from that gaze.
"Have you ever had a beer before?" She asked. I explained,
truthfully, that I had sipped some of my dads, but never
really had a beer. It's just that it looked so cool,
especially on a day as hot as this...
She looked me over once again and quietly handed me the
sweaty bottle. "This is just between us, you know. I could
get in a lot of trouble for giving you this."
Oh sure, Mrs. Bouchard. I would never tell anyone, I
promised (falsely, it would seem) as I grasped the beer and
took a hefty swig.
It was not good beer. In retrospect I can only think that
Mrs. Bouchard was a hardcore alcoholic to be drinking beer
as foul as that, but at my age any beer would have tasted
foul, and any alcoholic female would have seemed attractive.
I drank as much as I could before I could feel the bile
start to rise-at which point I wisely stopped. I handed the
beer back to Mrs. Bouchard-I swear I could see something
dark, like a shadow, start to peek out from around her
breasts, from her gown. Though I returned to lemonade I
could feel the beer start to work on me--again this is all
retrospective. I became bolder. I even told Mrs. Bouchard
that I thought she was the prettiest woman on my paper
route.
At that she stiffened a little.
"What about Mrs. Moore?" She asked.
"Oh, you are much better looking than her! She's flat as a
board and you have such big--!"
It was at this moment that I started to realize I was saying
far more than I should.
"Such big what?" Mrs. Bouchard asked with what I now know to
be a superior, mischievous grin.
"Well... you know... She doesn't have such big... and you
have nice, uh big, uh..."
"Breasts?"
The word, which itself seemed dirty to me at that age,
caused me to blush a deep crimson. Yet I couldn't ignore
those eyes, their penetrating gaze as Mrs. Bouchard bored
into me. So, not really knowing what the hell I was doing, I
nodded yes. When in doubt, be honest. Right?
Mrs. Bouchard smiled a slow, lazy smile. "You really think I
have nice breasts?" Of course I had little option but to nod
yes again (at any rate, she really did have incredible
breasts, even for a middle-aged alcoholic).
"Would you like to see more of them?" She asked, leaning
toward me in such a way as to cause the full breasts to fall
forward, the cleavage that revealed itself making my eyes
bulge. Of course my throat was completely dry in an instant
and I was physically incapable of speech. I could only nod
most enthusiastically.
And this is the moment where being a paper delivery boy
became worthwhile. She stood up, her sweaty butt peeling (no
doubt) from the vinyl seat of the kitchen chair as her white
terry robe slid from her shoulders down to her ankles. My
jaw dropped. Just like in cartoons, I saw each fiber of the
terry cloth slip down her pale flesh, across the pink of her
areola, catching slightly on her firm nipples, down her flat
stomach, across the white cotton panties to pool around her
ankles in a pile of sensuality the likes of which I had
never experienced. Mrs. Bouchard was standing before me, in
the summer of my 13th year, topless.
And she was magnificent.
"What do you think?" She asked and of course I replied that
she was magnificent. "Would you like to touch them?" I did
not respond with words but with my hands. The newspaper
print rubbed off my darkened hands onto her sweaty nipples
as I slid my palms across her, reminded for all the world of
eraser nubs on a newly purchased pencil. The warm heaviness
of her breasts surprised me. I hadn't expected them to be so
corporeal. I lifted them with one hand then the other.
Comparing their weights as if in a physics class, squeezing
slightly to judge their relative viscosity, rubbing the
nipples to keep them firm and tough, as well as to elicit
the small, nearly inaudible groans of pleasure that had been
emanating from Mrs. Bouchard.
It was at that point that I remembered that these breasts
were attached to a person and were not merely an entity unto
themselves. Not only that, but the person was standing right
before me. I looked down and realized that I could make out
the dark shadow of her bush through the white cotton of her
panties. What's more the panties seemed to be growing
increasingly transparent as they approached her crotch.
Whether it was sweat or excitement I don't know, but at the
time I certainly didn't care. Without a word or a hint I
dropped to my knees and buried-literally buried-my nose into
her crotch.
I can still remember her smell, which I drew deep into my
lungs and subsequently which made its way into my
bloodstream. She was shocked at first, to be sure, but I
would not let go. I grabbed on to her panty-clad ass and,
one cheek in each hand, pulled her into me. She could hardly
protest. I was young but I knew what was right and wrong,
and I knew that if push came to shove, nobody would blame me
for my actions from this point on.
Her cries of protest soon turned to grunts and moans of
pleasure as I slid my nose up and down her slit between her
legs. Her panties were now utterly soaked and I could not
only smell but also taste her. As I rocked her crotch back
and forth on my nose I worked my hands inside of her
panties, onto her ass. My left index finger dug its way
slowly into her anus as my right hand slid her panties down
around her ankles.
This was really the key moment. She pulled back, stepped
back and seemed, for a second, to get a grip on the
situation. "No, Not now.
No. We can't!"
She muttered over and over again as she tried to pull her
clothes back on. I was not about to turn back at this point
though. My cock was so hard I thought it might spontaneously
explode. I could not stop now. It was physically impossible.
I told her as much.
"I can't stop now. It's too much. I'll never talk. But if
you stop I will." I never really meant for that last
sentence to come out but it did. I couldn't help it. Shit,
it was the truth, at least at the time it was. She froze.
Her hands stopped and her panties, now up to her knees,
stopped their advance. I undid her fingers, her underwear
fell free to the ground.
She was my object now. Horrible as that sounds that is all
she was-my object. I could do anything and everything I
wanted to her. First I pushed her into the living room-
carpeting-and bade her lay down. On the floor I pushed her
legs up and knees apart so that I could inspect her. My
first look at the female anatomy in this way. Awkwardly I
experimented with oral sex. So that is the clitoris... I
licked everywhere. I licked between her toes, I licked her
asshole, I licked her pussy, I plunged my tongue as deep as
it could go. She orgasmed. I'm sure of that.
I'm also sure that it had nothing to do with my skill. If
she orgasmed its because she was a pedophile not because I
was particularly skilled. Everything I did I did for my own
purposes, I did for myself. I was an adventurer, an
explorer. I was Lewis and Clark combined. Finally I pulled
down my own pants in a frantic rush and jabbed my small,
thin penis into her soft folds. I don't know how I knew what
to do but I knew that the time was near and somehow I knew
that that was where my penis was supposed to be.
As you can imagine, as a thirteen year-old virgin, it did
not take long. Mrs. Bouchard's hairy, sweaty, hot, wet pussy
was too much for my hypersensitive cock to handle. I
pistoned in and out of her maybe five times before I came
inside of her. I would say that my orgasm was explosive if
that term were not so over-used in these sorts of stories.
But it was. I had nothing to compare it to save it felt like
my entire innards were being emptied through my penis. It
was as if this tremendous, oppressive craving, which I had
unwittingly endured for years on end, had suddenly been
relieved. I thought I might pass out. And all of a sudden
Mrs. Bouchard was filled with my teenage cum.
Let me defend myself against what follows by saying that I
really was naive. I knew nothing. Everything I knew about
sex I had just experienced in the preceding 15 minutes. So
when I started to get up , hot, sweaty, and exhausted, I
knew no better. Mrs. Bouchard stopped me, grabbing my skinny
butt with both hands and pushing one of her sharp
fingernails against my anus, stopping me.
"Don't you know that a gentleman cleans up his own mess?"
I turned crimson again and started to reach for some
tissues, conveniently located nearby when she stopped me.
"Nuh-uh, not that way." Mrs. Bouchard pushed away my hand
and, instead, applied gentle, yet steady, pressure to the
top of my head.
Of course I realize now that I was being used, if not
abused, but at the time everything was new and I thought
that this was the normal course of affairs.
Without restraint Mrs. Bouchard shoved my face into her
pussy and made me lick every last drop of my teenage cum
from her pussy. When I was done with her pussy she shoved my
face against her anus and made me clean out her ass while
she massaged her clitoris. Apparently she hadn't gotten all
the sex out of her system when I was fucking her (no
surprise considering I only lasted a few minutes). When I
was done I was of course rock solid again and that was when
I got my first blowjob.
I didn't know what she was doing (honest!) nut she took me
in her mouth and I didn't need to know anything else. She
swallowed me whole, wrapped her tongue around my balls. She
slipped me out of her warm mouth to bathe my asshole with
her saliva, pulling my cheeks apart with one hand, pumping
my cock with the other. Before she knew it I started to
erupt, pouring what seemed to be gallons of cum all over her
face, hair and chest before she captured me in her mouth,
swallowing and slurping me noisily.
And that was that. We had more than one other rendezvous,
but it was clear she was getting nervous as the date for
Kirk's return approach. In retrospect she must have
regretted (partially) what she did immediately upon doing
it, but she still fucked me 4 or 5 more times after that.
She threatened all sorts of things if I ever told any one. I
would be unpopular, my parents wouldn't love me, I would be
arrested, I would lose my paper route. I didn't much believe
the threats but I didn't talk all the same. The point was
she didn't want me to talk and I was grateful to her beyond
expression. The one threat that did effect me was that we
could never do it again if I spoke. And so, until now, I
never spoke.
I now know she was just a perverted middle-aged, plain-
looking (if well endowed) alcoholic housewife, but to a 13
year old paperboy she was a supermodel, she was the
embodiment of sex, she was far, far more than I ever
imagined. I only wish that now I could experience that same
frantic, panicked excitement when having sex.