The Teen at the Book Store
By MBP (mwfan318@aol.com)
A cute teenaged girl fills a pair of fantasies.
I was at the Barnes and Nobles book store on Route 22 in
She was a cute girl with dark hair up in a ponytail. She was dressed in jeans and a shirt, but what I noticed most were two things: her pretty feet, toenails polished in pink, in sandals, and surprising muscles despite slim arms. She was carrying a small load of books and didn’t see me, as she was intent on her browsing. I guess I stared at her arms and feet too long, as when I looked up, she was smiling at me. I probably turned all shades of red: me, an adult male staring at a young girl. But she seemed more amused than freaked. The girl went back to her browsing, and I made a hasty getaway to another part of the store.
Some time later, I was sitting in a comfortable chair in a corner of the store, browsing through a couple of computer books. I heard a rustle and looked up; the girl stood smiling at me again. Without a word, she plopped in the chair next to mine and added a bigger load of books on the table next to mine. We sat and read, minding our own business, but not really doing so. I kept stealing glances at her feet, now bare, as she had kicked off the sandals. And, although she seemed to be completely ignoring me, I could tell she was very aware of my presence. Amazingly, she spoke.
“I’m Emma,” she said.
“Michael,” I replied. I had no clue what else to say. But she helped me.
“I’ve been told I have pretty feet,” she said, cutting to the chase.
You could have bowled me over with a feather. “Uh-huh,” I replied; a fantastic retort. Then, regaining some of my composure, I continued, “And, your arms are surprisingly muscular.” I regretted saying this as it came out of my mouth, but it turned out to be okay.
Emma smiled broadly. “I can beat all the guys in my class in arm-wrestling. Do you wanna try it?”
I would have given anything to see the stupid look on my face. She certainly enjoyed it, giggling at the obviously uncomfortable position I was in. I glanced around. We were alone. The store was mostly empty and our position was partly blocked by the rows of books.
“Here?”
“I don’t see why not,” she replied. Emma placed her right arm on the table, lightly flexing her muscle. She then made a show of pointing her pretty feet before placing them under her as she kneeled on the floor. The girl was ready to arm-wrestle.
Not me. I stayed etched in stone in my chair, unable to move a muscle.
“C’mon, Michael,” she said impatiently. “Do you want somebody to come by with me in this position? You know you want to do this. Let’s arm-wrestle.”
She had a point. After glancing around, I joined her at the table, kneeling. Our arms weren’t close in size. Emma solved this by placing one of her books under her elbow. We clasped hands in the current wrist-wrestling standard. I couldn’t suppress a grin, considering the situation. My arms were twice her size, and I was probably close to twice her age. She broke my reverie.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
“Just say go,” I replied.
At “go,” both of us pulled. I didn’t pull my hardest, but put enough strength into it so I wouldn’t lose, just in case. It was enough, but, not nearly enough to move her, or to stay in the even position. She came out of the initial pull with a slight edge. I put on more power, managing to move past the starting position to give me an edge. Emma surprised me by pulling harder, and we were back even.
I looked over at Emma, who was not smiling. She gritted her teeth, giving her all. Her biceps was huge compared to the slimness of her wrist. Her forearms were sinewy as she pulled her best. I momentarily considered letting Emma win, but I doubted she’d be happy about it. It was time to complete the match.
I wonder if I would have been okay if she had beaten me, but – and I’m sorry about this – she didn’t. I pulled furiously and slowly, very slowly, succeeded in putting her down. It took way too long – I’ve beaten a lot of guys easier than this, and I’ve won more than I’ve lost. When she was nearly down, Emma put on an amazing display of willpower, just refusing to lose. But, eventually, my huge advantage was enough for me to win. I pinned her arm to the table.
I looked at her, and could see that the girl was not happy. I let her hand go and she grudgingly shook mine. She regained her seat, and then slowly her rosy disposition reappeared. Emma looked at me – I was still staring at her – and smiled lightly.
“Crap,” she said. “I can’t believe you beat me.”
Was she kidding? “How old are you?” I asked.
“Fourteen.”
“So,” I said, calculating quickly. “You’re an eighth grade girl, still in Junior High, and you’re mad because you lost a tough match to a 26-year-old man who is twice your size?”
“Yeah,” Emma said. She really thought she was going to win.
“I don’t know how I would have felt if you beat me,” I said honestly. “But, thank you anyway. This was like a fantasy.”
Emma giggled. “Maybe I should have kept my feet where you could see them. I bet I would’ve won.
I couldn’t believe she had said that. But she was absolutely right. There was no way I would have been able to concentrate. “Definitely,” I laughed. We shared a few moments of laughter.
“I gotta go,” Emma said. “My Dad is picking me up.” Then, seeing the look on my face, she said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything. At least not now.”
Emma stood and gathered her books. She paused for a few seconds, posing her feet, as I watched, amused, turned-on and aghast at how easily I could be manipulated. She donned her sandals and left.
I sat there for quite awhile before it went away.