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Red ragThis one has been sitting on my hard drive for a few weeks. I wrote it just after posting the Journey 2, and naturally it follows that recollection.

I confess, and you have probably noticed that I have a predilection for risqué situations. Whether this trait is a fault in my character, or a conversely a desirable trait I cannot say. I suppose it depends on the situation and whether I am able to control these desires.

Perhaps my whole situation is due to this need for excitement, and I didn’t just fall into this life, as I originally thought, but was always destined to stray from the right path into a semi-debauched existence.


It wasn’t hard to work out what he was up to. I was fresh meat staked out waiting for circling carnivores to pounce. My very short red dress was a flag, which screamed TART in a loud voice. Yes, I knew what he was at, and I found the whole thing wildly exciting as I applied the red lipstick and dabbed a little more perfume behind my ear and between my breasts.

The dress fitted perfectly, where it touched, hugging my figure, fondling my breasts, rolling over my hips to end suddenly, an inch short of decent.

I felt between my legs, my lips were sodden with the milk of desire. I could have stepped back into the cubicle, and it wouldn’t have taken long for me to engineer relief with my fingers. But I knew that that would have cheated me of the real high he was trying to achieve.

This wasn’t the first time we’d played such a game; the last time he’d taken me to one of the seedier strip clubs in Soho, and we’d sat in the back while the slightly, over weight dancer gyrated obscenely, hauling off her clothes in a less than artistic fashion, yet still the room was full of punters; men whistled and laughed and leered. While, unseen in the semi darkness he’d raised my skirt and slowly fingered me, bring me almost to orgasm a half dozen times.

From there he’d taken me to a private function, where a midget with a penis the size of a babies arm and the girth of a fist, skewered a dozen amazingly beautiful, fully grown women, bringing them all to screaming orgasm without once ejaculating. I was told that he could only cum in a woman’s mouth. A volunteer was called for and a tall black woman with large breasts, coal black hair, a huge backside and thin ankles, stepped forward, and spent five minutes on her knees expertly sucking and licking the huge penis, until he suddenly stiffened, grabbed her by the hair and emptied his ball-sack into her throat. Afterward the woman stood up and opened her mouth wide so that the audience could see the creamy froth on her tongue.

I exited the ladies room, my heels tick-tacking the shiny tiled floor. The receptionist looked at me twice over the shoulder of the couple he was booking in, and grinned in lecherous appreciation. His eyes following me as I headed toward the escalator to the second floor bar.

“What can I get for, Madam?” the bartender asked, his gaze remaining professionally on my face.
“Vodka and tonic,” I answered.
“Ice and lemon, Madam?”
“Yes please.”

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar; I looked like a cheap hooker.