An Episode of Michaels
Chapter 1

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Humor, Slow,

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - All Michaels are grey in the dark.

"Please Elizabeth, you're my last hope," she begged, "You know I'm a rotten cook and you actually like doing that kind of crap. I wouldn't care if it was just our friends—they're used to my tuna casseroles, but Bradley invited half his office including his boss, and my staff decided to come too so I want this party to be really special.

"Let me see if I've got this right. Your caterers cancelled because they were shut down by the Health Department." I laughed. "Damn Mel, you really can pick them. What are their names again? Botulism-Я-Us?

I already knew I was going to say yes, but it's in the sister's handbook that you can't agree to do your sibling a favor until the proper amount of torture is applied. You can look it up.

"It wasn't the Health Department it was the INS, some green card thing. Christ, I hate you!" Hmmm, apparently Mel wasn't in the mood to see the humor in this yet.

"And telling me this is going to convince me to help out, how?"

"Yeah, right, right." Mel may not have much of a funny bone, but she's no dummy. "What I meant to say is that you are the sweetest, kindest, most generous sister in the whole damn world and your butt is not too big no matter what Mother says."

"When did Mom say I had a fat ass?"


Enjoyable as this exploration of my sadistic side was, I figured she'd keep whining until I agreed to help, so I put both of us out of our misery and told her I'd bail her disagreeably perfect tush out once again. Then I hung up and called my more off than on boyfriend, Adam, and cancelled our plans for a picnic the next day. He wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic—and I wasn't exactly what you'd call apologetic—so one thing led to another and when I hung up the phone I got the feeling that would be the last time Adam and I made plans to do anything together.

This didn't bother me as much as the romance novels say it should and that got me to wondering why I'd even bothered going out with the guy in the first place. Well actually, I knew why—he was fantastic looking, reasonably witty and a little bit better than average in the sack. Normally this should have added up to a great time had by all, but lately he'd also been moody, inattentive and most importantly AWOL from my bed. He said it was work and I believed him—especially since I'd gotten a good look at his new CPA, Marissa, who looked a lot like Wonder Woman without the cape. He was working all right only I was the one getting the business. It was time to face it, Adam and I were over and we had been for a couple of months now. Mel's dilemma just finalized the break.

So, I cried for about five minutes and then got bored with the whole pity party routine and started thinking about my options. You have to get right back on the horse after you've been thrown, at least that's what everyone says. The only thing was I hadn't been riding anything lately and that was getting to be a big issue. I was horny and if I was honest, the only remotely appealing thing about a picnic with Adam had been that eventually we'd finish eating and clear up the mess and then there'd be nothing left on that blanket to keep us from stretching out for a little sex al fresco. Now that possibility was gone.

There was a glimmer of hope though. Mel and Brad had a lot of friends—a lot of single, male friends—some of whom were bound to be at the party the next night. Of course that didn't mean I could just pick one and jump in the nearest closet for a little sound and fury signifying coming—though to be honest the thought did have some appeal—but it would be a possible way to find, if not Mr. Right, than at least Mr. Next. It might not be exactly what I needed, but it would be a step in the right direction. And anticipation really can be half the fun.

On this happy thought, I retired to my bed with the single girl's best friend, a pint of Ben and Jerry's best. I gorged myself on Cherry Garcia and fell into a sugar-induced coma dreaming of large, dark haired men with big ice cream cones.

Life goes on. The next morning I arrived at my sister and brother-in-law's new house with recipes and groceries in hand, because not only can't she cook, Mel shops for shit too. After that I spent the day wrist deep in pate and smoked humus, tripping over Larry the Lhasa and seriously contemplating the unfairness of a world that doesn't let you hog tie and gag three year old nephews who crawl up your legs and demand to play horsy when you're draining a steaming pot of shrimp.

But that was earlier. Now it was an hour away from company. The dog was shut up in the boys' room and Brad had taken the heir and the spare over to his mother's. Mel and I had shoved all the dirty pans in the dishwasher so everything was spic and span. Well except me. I looked like a refugee from the food fight in Animal House.

Mel had managed to sneak away a half-hour before and take a shower and now it was my turn. I'd known I wouldn't have time to go back to my apartment and change so I'd brought everything I needed with me to transform this dirty duck into a swan. I needed to be quick though, there was a big thunderstorm rumbling off in the distance and no way did I want to be caught in flagrante denekked when the power went off, which I was pretty sure was going to happen since the lights were already flickering. I was just about to make my escape from the kitchen when Mel walked in all spanking clean and sexy in a tight red dress that looked mighty damn familiar.

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Yeah, thanks. I really like the way it looks on me." She patted her round little bum and smiled smugly.

I glared, "And what am I supposed to wear?"

Mel shrugged. "Beats me, but I have a whole closet upstairs—knock yourself out." She walked over to the fridge and opened up the freezer. "Oh Hell!" As if to punctuate the curse, a clap of thunder echoed outside in the distance.

"What's wrong now?" I asked.

"I forgot about the ice maker," she bitched. "It isn't hooked up yet. We need to make another trip to the store."

"Call Brad and have him stop on his way."

"Can't. Trevor played U-boat with his cell in the toilet yesterday. It's toast."

Trev is the above-mentioned nephew. He's one of the reasons I've decided to never have kids. The other is his year old brother, Ben.

"Oh, well that's not too bad," I smiled evilly. "But at least you're already dressed. I'll get fixed up while you're gone."

This was my way of wiggling out of going myself, which I was pretty sure had been the next thing coming out of her mouth. I love my sister, but she's too damn good at delegating chores she doesn't feel like doing. Besides, she should know better than to steal my clothes.

There was another rumble outside and the first drops of rain started to spatter against the window over the sink. I pretended I didn't notice and stared at Mel until she gave in.

"Okay," she sighed. "I'll go. Bradley should be home in about a half hour if he can shut up Dorothy long enough to escape."

I nodded sympathetically, I liked Mel's mother-in-law well enough, but lord that woman could talk. Dotty was a terrific grandma though, especially since all she had to work with were the spawns from Hell.

"I should be back before him," she continued as she grabbed her purse and keys. "If not, would you remind him the liquor is still down in the cellar?"

I nodded and she reached for the door just as a huge clap of thunder lit up the sky. We both jumped and then with a nervous smile she ran out to her car before the next one could hit.

It was pouring by the time I made it up the stairs. I jumped in the shower and scrubbed down in record time. A grab of my purse and a few minutes later I was in full war paint. Since I was officially back in the battle I figured I needed all the weapons of mass seduction I could muster.

Not that I was seriously deficient au natural, I had eyes—two of them, both big and blue—and those babies let me know why my father says he's lost years of sleep thinking about the looks he's seen men give me. Still, it didn't hurt to stack the deck, so I put triple coats of mascara on my already lush black lashes, brushed my dark hair until it fell into a gleaming cloud around my shoulders and accentuated my full lower lip with a pale pink lipstick that I fervently hoped would live up to it's name, Kissable.

That only left one weapon to choose and it wasn't armor. I'd always thought the Indians had the right idea when it came to sartorial standards in the fields of conflict—lots of paint, very little clothing. Luckily this was one of the few things Mel and I were in total agreement about. Even though she was an old married lady (Only twenty-eight, but to my tender twenty-five years that was ancient.) she still subscribed to the, if you've got it flaunt school of thought—much to the delight of her husband. Add to that the fact that we were mostly the same dress and shoe size and it's understandable why I was absolutely positive I was going to get lucky and find something borderline obscene hanging her closet. In fact, I was just taking a tour through her treasures when the lights flickered again, and went out.


I stood there frozen the way every human on the planet does when they're abruptly reminded that technology only goes so far in the war with Mother Nature. Fortunately, it seemed the good guys won the battle this time because about thirty seconds later the lights came back on.

I grabbed the first dress I found, a skimpy canary yellow job that I figured would look better on my brunette self than on my blonde (bleached) sister. I found the sandals that matched, then remembered the panties and bra I'd brought were the same red as my absconded dress. No way would they not show through the filmy material of this frothy little number.

I went over to Mel's dresser to help myself to a pair of hers, preferably new and expensive, but there wasn't anything in the drawer. Then I remembered. She'd mentioned she hadn't unpacked all her clothes since the move. They'd only been in this house for about two weeks now and if history repeated itself, it would be six months before my sister actually settled in. My only problem was trying to figure out where she'd dumped the boxes with her goodies and especially her stash of Victoria's Secrets' sleaziest offerings.

I hunted through the upstairs and was just about resigned to going braless and trying to squeeze into a pair of Trev's UnderRoo's when I had a brainstorm. The laundry. Knowing Mel, she'd probably decided to wash everything to avoid ironing. Actually not a bad idea when you think about it.

Since I was nude, and Brad was expected back momentarily and I'm really not interested in that level of sharing with him, I grabbed the dress and shimmied into it. Hmmm, not too bad. The top was basically just two wide bands of layered chiffon that barely covered my supremely average, but definitely perky tits. They crossed in a deep tight vee to the waist where a little (very little) skirt swung out in a flouncy, frothy way that hid my ass that isn't too big no matter what my mom says. I stood and admired myself in the mirror. Yup, definitely my kind of dress, short and not so sweet and showing a lot of leg, which since they are two of my best features—lean and long and much better than Mel's—this was a big plus. I twirled. Oh yeah, nice, but the twirling was going to have to be kept to a minimum unless I wanted to show off my more private assets—another reason why panties were a must.

I headed down to the kitchen barefoot with the spiky sandals in my hand, stood at the door to the basement and looked down into the creepy darkness. A moment's consideration had me slip on the shoes since the cellar floor of this house was not some place I had any desire to make contact with in my bare skin.

See, all though this was a new house for Mel et al, that was the only thing new about it. It was a restored farmhouse—if you use the term restored lightly. It looked okay on the first floor. The wallpaper was fairly fresh and the kitchen had been redone after the invention of the microwave—probably. But the upstairs was definitely 1940's and the basement well...

Remember the basement in Silence of the Lambs? That was a lot nicer than this one, even with the dead bodies.

I tottered down the creaking steps and shivered. Not only was it creepy with it's multiple stone walled rooms and occasional 40-watt bulbs that dangled from ancient cords, but it was cold—damp, refrigerator cold. The downpour outside didn't make if feel any cozier either. Even as that fact registered there was another enormous roar of thunder and the lights flickered again. I held my breath, but this time they didn't go out. Seems my luck was holding.

But I had no intention of pushing it. I moved as fast as I could through the labyrinth of rooms, which wasn't really all that fast since the moving people had dropped boxes around like Trev and Ben do their toys. I made a few false turns and ended up in a canned goods closet twice (Who designs a closet with two doors?), but I eventually found my way into the back of the cellar where the washer and dryer were inconveniently located.

Success. My sister had stayed true to form and a dozen plastic laundry baskets held the booty I was looking for. Unfortunately they also held every piece of clothing she'd ever worn since the seventh grade and they were all mixed in together, so it took a little time for me to locate a pair of unmentionables that were good enough to wear with the little yellow number and piss my sister off in the bargain since I had no intention of ever returning either of them. Which I'm sure was her plan for my dress too.

So I'd managed to accomplish half of my quest. I held the lacy little darlings in one hand while I rummaged through masses of Goth black jeans and retro cashmere sweaters that had been such mainstays of her high school and college uniforms respectively. I was bending over a basket, my arms elbow deep in spandex and wondering how much of it was actually mine since I'd been missing a few items since the mid-nineties, when I felt something like under wire. I was just about to pull it out when the lights died again. And stayed dead.

Double shit.

The house was quiet like all houses get when the mechanicals take a powder. I did my statue impression for a minute or two and then finally forced myself to relax. It looked like Mother Nature had won another one. The lights stayed out and since the rain seemed to actually be getting worse, I doubted they would go on any time soon.

I decided that I should really try to make it out of the basement and took three steps before the stupidity of that idea was brought home to me when I tripped over one laundry basket and landed butt first in another. Nothing was hurt but my pride, but I lost my grip on the lace thong I'd been planning on stealing and god knows where it landed.

I sat there for a few minutes and contemplated the iniquities of life. I might have stayed there even longer if I hadn't heard footsteps overhead. Since they were the most likely people to know where the flashlights were stored, I was hoping it was Brad or even Mel returning home and not some gauche, on-time party guest. The latter was a distinct possibility. It had, after all been way more than a half hour since I'd started dressing, and the noises were coming from the front hall, which was not a good sign since Mel and Brad would normally use the kitchen door.

Still it was worth a shot, "Brad? Mel? Help!" I screamed.

There was a moment's silence. Oh great, it was the mad rapist making a house call.

"Is there something wrong?" A male voice tentatively yelled back. A strange male voice—with a cold apparently. "Where are you?"

"I'm trapped in the cellar," I yelled.

"Are you hurt?"


"Do you need some assistance?"

Well, duh. What part of the words help and trapped hadn't this guy understood?


"How do I find you?"

I told him how to get to the top of the stairs and then listened nervously as he clunked into furniture until he found the door. Then I listened as his feet slowly descended.

My heart was pounding. Okay, I knew it was foolish to be worried. Even my vivid imagination couldn't really convince me this guy was a psycho who'd randomly been out prowling in the storm just looking for a house with balloons tied to the mailbox and a soggy cardboard sign with an arrow and crayoned letters that spelled out the words PARTY HERE. Still, I wished I hadn't watched that Friday The 13th marathon TNT had run the weekend before. The storm just added to the atmosphere. Of course looking on the bright side, if the guy did show up wearing a hockey mask, I'd probably die a quick death of fright before he got within ten feet.

"Okay, I'm in the basement."

"Great." A thought occurred to me. "You do have a flashlight don't you?" Cause really if he didn't there was no point in having him come any further into the dungeon of the doomed.

"Yeah, I can see just fine." And with that, there was a huge crash. "I'm okay." He yelled like he thought I cared. "Oh wow, booze." There was some clanking. "Jameson's, great. I love this stuff."

My heart slowed. Not an ax murderer, just a would-be drunken partier. I could deal with that.

"You need to walk to your right."

"Uh, okay." He sounded like he'd rather stay with the whiskey, but I heard him shuffle forward.

It took about ten minutes of directions punctuated by assorted bumps, bangs and cursing to get him to my laundry cell. I'd managed to struggle to my feet in that time, which was a good thing since my dress had twisted up around my waist in the fall. Good guy or not, I didn't want his virgin look at me to be a beaver shot as that's just not a first impression I usually like to give. So I was standing with my dress demurely around my legs when he got there. Well, as demurely as a skirt could look that stopped some six inches above my knees.

"It's you." he was looking at me, but I was blinded by his flashlight so I couldn't see him at all. "Elizabeth, right? Melanie's sister?"

"Yeah, who are you?"

"It's Michael."

Which only helped some. I knew a lot of Michaels though to be honest most of them didn't live around here. I'd only moved to this city six months ago. Before that I'd been in college and then on a whirlwind tour of all the Midwest hotspots that boasted a Big K where I could usually be found working my ass off as an assistant manager. After two years, I'd finally gotten sick of the glamorous life of retail and traded in my blue golf shirts for an ugly gold jacket and a real estate license. I was still at the starving stage, but at least nobody ever has a blue light special on duplexes.

Anyway, when I'd decided on the big career change I'd mentioned it to Mel and she suggested I come live by her. She'd moved here when she and Brad had married as this was his hometown and he'd told her up front that he and the place were a package deal. I'd visited and liked it sort of. It had the advantage of being close enough to the parental units—a hundred or so miles give or take twenty—that I could mooch off them for holidays, but not so close that my mother could indulge her hobby of snooping into every nook and cranny of my life. The deal clincher was that Mel had promised me that she'd introduce me around so I wouldn't have to spend all my free time with snarky realtors or sitting in front of the box watching reruns of Highlander and lusting after Adrian Paul before he got those god awful hairplugs.

She'd been good to her word and ever since I'd gotten here she'd made sure that I was part of the group she and Brad hung with. It was a large group, this city was known for its young social set and I'd met more people in the last year than I had in my entire life. So now I searched my memory and realized that I'd met a pile of Mikes at Mel and Brad's in the last six months along with assorted Kyles, Daves and Marks. Guys have the most boring names.

"Um," I didn't want to be rude, but I really wanted to see a face to go with the name. "Could you move the light out of my eyes?"

"Oh sorry," he lowered the flashlight.

That was better. I still couldn't see him, but at least I didn't feel like I was a bug under a magnifying glass anymore.

"Maybe we should try to get back upstairs? I'm not really all that thrilled with the ambience here for some reason."

"I can see your point," Michael agreed amiably.

He swung his hand holding the flashlight in a wide arc giving me a glimpse of a nice pair of legs in chinos. I was just getting ready to see the rest of him when his gesture abruptly ended as the flashlight found one of the big metal poles that held up the ceiling. There was a crack and a ping and we were in the dark—again.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The silence lasted for about thirty seconds. "I think," Michael said quietly. "That I've broken the flashlight. And maybe my wrist."

"Are you sure?"

"Well it could just be a sprain."

I hadn't been asking about his wrist, but I could see where it might seem heartless to point that out to him. "See if you can wiggle it."

I waited as he moaned and groaned a bit. "It hurts."

"Uh huh, just stay still, I'm going to try to get to you."

I inched forward until I bumped into a solid warm male object that yelped, "Watch the feet!"

"Oops." I stepped back and reached forward. "Let me feel..."

"And that is not my hand!"

This was not going as well as I'd hoped.


"Yeah, well, let me come to you."

There was a flutter of moment right in front of my face and to avoid a possible broken nose I leaned back. Next thing I felt was a hand squeezing my right boob. I squeaked.

"Er," he sounded flustered, and I realized, sort of cute. "Gee I..."

"I think we're even now."

"Anyway, my hand seems to be getting better. Doesn't hurt so much anyways and I can move it now."

"No kidding."

I could still feel the tingle from his fingers brushing my nipple. Like I said, it had been too long and cheap thrills are better than nothing.


"Call me Liz."

"Oh sure, it's just that Melanie always calls you Elizabeth."

"Mel likes to call everyone by their full names, says it's only proper. I think she watched too much Masterpiece Theater as a kid. I bet most of your friends call you Mike, right?"

"Not if they want me to answer."


"Anyway, Liz, do you think we should try to figure out a way to get out of here?"

"I don't think that's a good idea without a light. We may as well settle in and wait. After all, someone else is bound to show up soon."

"I doubt it. I heard on the way over that there was a big accident on the highway and that both sides of the road were closed."

"Accident?" I squeaked, suddenly alarmed and feeling a little sick. "Oh god and I made Mel go out because I was too lazy."

"Unless she was driving an empty school bus or an eighteen wheeler I don't think you have much to worry about."

"Are you sure?" Relief already washing through me.

"That's what they said on the radio, but it's going to be at least a couple of hours before they open the road so don't you think we should make a stab at getting out of this place?"

Not really, was what I was tempted to say. It had been hard enough to find my way back here with lights. And since the blackout I'd fallen and stumbled and generally gotten myself so turned around I didn't even know if I was facing a wall or a door. The thought of trying to figure it out and then having to go through that mess again in the dark didn't really thrill me at all. There was also the little fact that I was wearing four inch spikes and a swirly skirt that hid no underwear if it decided to do said swirl. Oh what the hell, he couldn't see that anyway and the basement really was the pits.


"Great, you want to lead?"

I thought about the strappy little sandals with the big high heels. "Gosh, Mike er, Michael, I thought you'd want to take the lead being big and strong and all and no doubt a lot more capable than me."

"Uh huh."

He sounded like he didn't believe me. Imagine that. Still, he turned, or at least I thought he did until I grabbed out wildly to catch the back of his pants and found myself gripping the front of his fly instead.

"Oops," I repeated.

"Gee, Liz, you trying to tell me something here?" His voice was matter of fact, but I could feel his grin, if you can imagine anything so weird.

"Just don't leave me."

"Honey, you keep putting your hand on my crotch and we have a deal."

I removed the offending member from the offended (yeah, right) member and tried to telepath my glare through the gloom. Not that I was really all that upset, but there are conventions that have to be followed, at least that's what Mom always says.

"I know," he sighed, "that was crude, but I couldn't resist."

"Try harder next time."

I regretted that choice of words before they were halfway out of my mouth. Michael took a sharp breath and I waited for the obvious comeback. There was a moment's silence.

"You ready to move?" Was all he said.

I nodded until I realized how wasted that gesture was. "Yup."

There was some shuffling and then I felt a big warm paw encircling my smaller one. It felt warm, safe. I couldn't help but give it a squeeze in welcome.


"Is that the sore one?"

"How'd ya guess?"

"Mel never told you I was psychic?"

"She never told me you were a smart-ass either, but I'm beginning to get the picture."

"Sorry," I really wasn't, but apparently he took me at my word.

"Nah, it's okay, I kind of like it."

That was promising. I was beginning to get anxious to get this guy upstairs in some light so I could see what my next date looked like. No, I'm not really psychic, but I could tell that dinner and a movie with Michael were in my near future. At least if I had any say in the matter.

With that thought, I was back to wondering just exactly, which Michael he was. My mind started to sort through the various suspects. I remembered a Michael at Christmas, an architect or something. Oh and another one had helped us see in the New Year's at the country club party, and then there'd been the Michael or three that had been over for the Super Bowl party. Spring brought in a couple more, the Michael who'd drank all that green beer on St. Pat's—God don't let it be him—and the one who'd been enthusiastically helping with the grill at Brad's company's picnic. Crap, how many was that? And I knew there had to be a couple of others that I was missing.

All those Michaels. How would you describe that? A pride? A pod? An ascension? Definitely not the last one, Michaels they were, and as a group, I've always found guys with that name to be significantly less than uplifting. This band of merry Mikes had been no different as far as I could remember.

They'd all been pretty much of the same type—medium tall, medium build, short brownish-blondish hair and nondescript eyes. I couldn't remember any disguishing moles or scars, no mismatched eyes or hunched backs. They were just a bunch of average cute, whitebread all American guys. In other words, your basic Ken dolls. Still, I felt the urge to at least attempt try to figure out which of Barbie's beau was standing in front of me.

"So Michael, how's work?"

Not the greatest opener in the world, but I figure this way I could at least eliminate Brad's co-worker and the architect if he started bitching about how the plumbing business was nothing but a shitty mess.

"Huh? Oh, same old, same old."

"Nothing new or exciting?"


Okay, that was a bust. I tried to think of something else to help cut this doggy out from the herd. The problem was, at the moment I couldn't think of anything and since it was taking all my powers of concentration just to stay upright in the dark and junk laden basement, I didn't think I'd be thinking of anything soon either.

A huge blast of thunder rattled the house frame and we both jumped. Personally, I've never been afraid of storms, but this one sounded a lot like the sensor-round sound speakers at a theater playing the latest Ving Rhames epic.

"You know," Michael said when the decibel level outside finally lowered to a dull roar. "You'd think that the lightening would at least help us see something."

"Yeah, well for that you need windows."

"Oh, good point."

After that we didn't talk anymore. Instead we put our energies into shuffling along, bumping our way forward—I hoped. I found myself mentally congratulating myself on shelling out the seventy bucks for the tanning booth I'd been visiting all spring. If I'd been wearing nylons they'd have been in shreds before we'd gone ten feet—that is if Mel hadn't stolen them.

Michael opened a door and then stopped abruptly. I smashed into his backside just the way I had the other fifty times he'd done that. It was kind of a nice backside though—hard round butt, broad shoulders and he appeared to be about five inches taller than me so I wasn't exactly unhappy about getting up close and personal with it, or him. Still, when he didn't move forward again right away I stepped back.

"Why are we stopping?"

"Because there's a wall in front of me."

That sounded like a reasonable excuse. I reached out sideways and felt around a bit. I recognized the décor.

"I think we're in the old canned goods closet."

"That old psychic thing again, right?"

"Something like that."

"We need to back up."

This guy had a talent for saying the obvious.


I waited for him to move around me, listening to the scraping sound of his shoes on the packed dirt floor. It was taking too long and I was just about to ask what the problem was when Michael gave me a bulletin all on his own.


"Now what?"

"I'm stuck."

"Stuck? On what?"

"Something, it's got my sleeve."

"Well, what is it?"

"If I knew, then I'd be able figure out how to get free."

"No need to get testy."

"It's dark. It's cold. It's damp. We're lost in Norman Bates' basement and now I can't move because the damn house seems to have taken a shine to me and wants to bond. Testy sounds just about right to me."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point."

"Besides," Michael sniffed piteously, "I'm allergic to cats."

"There's no cat."

"Trust me, there's a cat."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because my nose is stuffed, my eyes are watering and they have been since I walked through the front door."

"Is that what's wrong with your voice?"

"Uh huh. But don't worry, I have my antihistamines, if I can get to a glass of water, it'll work in minutes."

There he went again, thinking I was concerned about his health. I always find it touching that so many guys really believe that crap about women being born with maternal instincts.

Not that I was about to disillusion the dear boy, "Oh, well that's good, but Mel and Brad definitely do not have a cat."

"Then what's rubbing my ankles right now?"

"Not a cat," I insisted firmly.

"Okay, a kitten, it seems pretty small."

Uh oh.

"Um, Michael, you sure you aren't allergic to rats too?"

"Oh shit!"

There was a crash and a thud and then a slow groan as a shelf on one of the walls collapsed spilling what sounded like a bazillion cans of out-dated veggies onto the floor—and Michael.

"Michael, Mike? Michael?" My voice started out softly tentative, but it got shriller—and louder—with each repetition.

There was a groan in front and to the right of me. I stumbled towards the sound until my foot kicked something soft and another grunt told me I'd found my fallen leader. I knelt down and grabbed an arm and shook it.

"Michael, can you hear me? Talk to me sweetie, please. I need to know you're all right."

"Oh I'm fine," he groaned again, "it's probably only a slight concussion, a hairline fracture at worst."

"Let me see."

"If only."

"Okay, feel then."

I reached out in the direction of his voice.



"Now I'm blind too."

"How can you tell?" Total silence. Oh damn, one of these days I really am going to have to learn when to control my mouth. I was still holding on to his arm and now I felt it shaking. Lord, Michael wasn't crying, was he?

"Oh sweetie."

This time I really was sorry. I leaned over farther until I could get a good grip and pulled him to me. I felt it was the least I could do since I'd basically been trying to get him killed for the last half hour or so. He didn't seem too adverse to the move either as he snuggled in and wrapped his arms around my waist. That's when I realized something.

"You're laughing!"

"Hell yes, I'm laughing. What did you expect?"

A wet shoulder, but I wasn't going to tell him that. "I thought you were upset with me."

"I should be..."

He didn't finish the sentence, just tightened his grip and stuck his nose into the crook of my neck. A second later I found myself sitting on his lap. A pretty comfortable lap if I do say so and a lot warmer there then standing in those spikey shoes in a damp basement. I sighed and let myself be held.

"Mmm, you smell nice." Michael's voice sounded dreamy and I vaguely recalled dire warnings from my high school health teacher about head injuries and coma. "What's that perfume?"

"Eau d' Moi and don't even think about taking a nap."

"Trust me, I'm not sleepy."

"Good, cause you know that's not something you should do with a head injury."

"My head is fine."

"I don't know, those cans could do some damage."

"I didn't hurt my head. The cans missed it."

"Then what was all that about hairline fractures?"

"Um, artistic license?"

"Oh brother."

"Hey, I did get hit on my shoulder."

"Uh huh, right."

"The bruise is probably going to be real nasty."

"But you said..."

"Aw Jesus, do you ever shut up?"

"Michael, I just..."

He kissed me. It wasn't a small, hi glad to meet you, peck. It wasn't even a, gee, you're kinda cute and I could like you, buss. It was a flat out, this is it, here we go, I'm crazy, hot for you, tongue in the mouth, deep, wet, sexy kiss. And as a ploy to shut me up, it worked. Damn did it ever.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Humor / Slow /