It had been a bad week, and I was ready to go out and cut loose. I was feeling a little slutty and dressed accordingly. I put on my black leather bustier, which shoved my tits up and put them well on display and I shrugged my leather jacket over the top. My leather mini skirt came to mid thigh and I added knee high spiked heels boots to complete my look.
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France, April 1918
Wars have always existed. From the simple foot soldier on the battlefields to the generals, hundreds of miles away, safe, I have watched. The stench of blood, the rot of fear, the roar of rifles and cannon fire is well known to me. Before the battle, after the skirmish, during the fighting, I watch and I wait. Then I walk through the carnage and set free the suffering, the anguished and the dying. I set their souls, if they even have them or believe in them, free.
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"Will is OOT. Wnt to cum 2 house 4 lunch?"
When I saw the text, my heart started to race. Katie was a colleague of mine at work. She was gorgeous - long, honey blond hair framing a face that combined sultry and mischievous to devastating effect. She was funny, with the same sort of snarky sense of humor I had. We had met when we were thrown together on a project and a fast friendship had developed between us.
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"How do you know her?" I asked Sara.
"I've known her for a while. We play backgammon. She's fun. You'll like her," she said.
Sara was one of my best friends. We'd known each other for years online and had become like sisters. In the years to come, we would meet and her husband would become one of my best friends also.
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The weather warmed with the oncoming spring. Steve worked as an instructor at a small flight school. He used to be a good instructor, but took a hiatus and only recently returned to the profession. He could make the technical sound simple, was patient and rarely got ruffled. Now he had a steady schedule of students, enjoyed himself, and found the process as fulfilling as ever. The pay was lousy, but the rewards made up for it.
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Bethany Paige had beautiful huge round wine glasses. They were fish bowls with stems. Not only were they enormous, but there were so many of them. There had to be twenty-five people stuffed into her Williamsburg loft and every guest held one of these goblets. Plus there were a few dozen more perfectly arranged in a square on the butcher block topped island in her kitchen.
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I roll over lazily, aroused by my dreams after collapsing into bed completely horny but equally tired the night before. I set my eyes on you, still sleeping but just beginning to stir. My heart starts to beat a little faster at the thought of feeling your bare skin, smooth and tan. As I caress your beautifully defined shoulders they boast of the diligence you give your morning swims.
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To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger.
His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance.
In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple.
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I am wearing no knickers and a blue miniskirt that displays my slender, tanned legs. I sit on the motorbike and feel the vibration of the engine run through me. The photographer tells me to hold still while she takes the pictures. It's hard not to wriggle.
She runs off a few shots and stops. I puff out my cheeks and lean back to take the pressure off. My nipples are hard and straining at my tight, white t-shirt.
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This an absolutely true story, although the names have been altered, and obviously I cannot vouch for the actual words used in the conversations – but the gist of them is more or less true, and certainly the events are as I remember them to this day. Apart, that is, from the scene in the restaurant with Zena where I exaggerated her mode of dress, but not too much. She really did buy a new mini-dress for the occasion.
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