Jessica was nervous, driving to the meeting. Her boss, Susan, had asked to meet at a hotel room at one of the best, most expensive hotels in London. This was a very odd request, but Jessica looked at it as an adventure. She would get to see a great hotel and possibly have a nice lunch. But this was so out of character for her normally too-serious boss.
"These aren't on the menu buddy! Only the refills are free," snapped 19 year old Giselle Potter, as she caught yet another onlooker staring unashamedly at her gigantic teenage titties as they were molded into her skin-tight Mamma Mia's Pizza white tee shirt with the restaurant's name stretched widely across her colossal endowments.
You would like Jordan if you met him. He was a happy, good-natured young man. He was kind and always willing to lend a helping hand. It might not have been a very efficient helping hand, but it was available. He seemed to see the best in everyone and this made him like everyone.
This attitude, plus the fact that he wasn't the brightest spark, tended to make him a target for bullies when he was younger.
Sometimes, I couldn't stand my father. I believed it was his fault my mom killed herself. He was gorgeous and he could have anyone he wanted, and so he did. He cheated on her all the time. Men, women, she-males. And he would bring them home since mom died, not caring I was in the house. He was the dominate type, I would hear them begging for him, he told them too. I wouldn't be surprised if I had siblings out there I never knew of.
The best word to describe Mindi was "effervescent".
Oh, it wasn't the only word. "Tall". "Leggy". "Blonde". "Luscious". "Fun". All these and many more described the 19-year old quite well. Yet, despite her great looks and flirty, sexy appearance, it was her personality that drew everyone to her.
Most people liked Mindi, she was the kind of girl that didn't have a bad word for anyone. She always seemed to glow with happiness, when Mindi came into the room, almost everyone was happy to see her.
I was nineteen (about three years ago) when I had my first real life experience testing my foot fetish. I had been aware of my fetish since I was in middle school, always looking under the table at girl's feet. The older I got the stronger the fetish became. I had a couple girlfriends in high school but had never had the courage to tell them about my fetish.
"Excuse me, sir. Could you spare a dollar or two? I haven't eaten in two days," Carey pleaded.
The tall good looking and well dressed man about to enter the Starbuck's stopped to check out the much smaller woman speaking to him. She was petite, maybe five-four to his six-six stature. She was dirty but otherwise looked cute with brunette hair and blue eyes.
"You look too young to be on your own," Tory Rider stated.
"Wake up, you fuck."
Jeff opened his eyes and saw the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. Before Jeff could even see a face, the trigger was pulled and everything went black.
Jeff sat up drenched in sweat. It was only a dream, but it was the same dream he'd been having for the past week. The dream was always exactly the same, always very short, always a gun to his forehead, and he never saw the face. After a few heavy breaths Jeff was finally ready to get back to sleep. He looked at the clock however, and it was almost time to wake up for work anyway.
For three years since my wife died, I've tried to put a new life together in the more modern day-to-day world around me. My grown kids come to me for money and hint that they want their inheritance early. The women that I pick to date are either pushy or nuts. I don't understand what our leaders are doing to our economy and I am starting to drink and eat too much - time for me to regroup, decide to live alone and work. I'm good at work. I write for a successful living, can build houses and I am a good gardener.
I've done something appalling, something that I have tried to stop doing but can't. No matter how severely I berate myself with a vow never to repeat my actions in moments of remorse, I can't resist such an overwhelming power. It's not lust; lust is such a puny word when I compare it to the wash of sheer, irresistible craving that I feel.