Excerpt from Where The Wild Things Ravish:
Hi, I’m Lucinda, and I’m kind of slutty. Oh don’t look so shocked, you know you were thinking it. I mean, just look at the way I’m dressed. What kind of a girl goes out for a coffee dressed in a tiny tiny black mini-skirt, a white t-shirt that is three sizes too small, no bra and the world’s most obvious thong? I think you know, don’t you.
I wasn’t always kind of slutty. In fact, for most of my teens I was kind of bratty. I was the classic spoilt little rich girl. Daddy does something to do with stocks or bonds or something dull like that and he makes so much money that Mommy can’t even spend it quick enough so it piles up in the bank and just grows. We have a big house, although I can’t really say ‘we’ anymore since they kicked me out after the Halloween party, but I still spend a lot of time there, when I’m not being hosted by one of Daddy’s rich friends.
High school kind of sucked, if I’m honest. I’m not that much of a genius and I have too much money so I wasn’t very popular and after a few times of being treated like a brat before people got to know me, I decided that I should just behave that way anyway, since that was what the other kids were expecting. So I did. I was a complete mean girl. I played cruel tricks on people, I made fun of the ugly kids, and I flirted. Oh boy did I flirt!
There wasn’t anyone I wouldn’t flirt with it. It was like I was using a magical power. It only dawned on me gradually that I was hot. I didn’t really care about how I looked until one day one of the girls told me I was pretty. I got home and looked at myself and tried on a few clothes and I realized that yes, I was kind of pretty.
From that day on, I flirted. I flirted with teachers, I flirted with students, I flirted with the coach driver, with shop assistants, even with my Dad’s business friends. I got really really good at it too. I learned how to give at least ten different kinds of flirty looks from the ‘I Am Really Into You’ to the ‘Wanna Come To Bed?’ I could drop my pencil or my eraser and bend at just the right angle that the guy would see almost all of my thigh and just a hint of thong, but no more, and my favorite move was to stand just a little too close and lightly tough a guy’s arm.
Just to be clear, flirting was all I wanted to do. The idea of a guy getting his hands on me just didn’t appeal to me. Sure I had a few boyfriends, but nothing serious and when they tried to get physical, I was focused more on waiting till it was over than anything else.
No, flirting was my thing. I loved the power it gave me. I loved watching guys blush and shift their stance and try to pretend that their erections were not really erections. I loved the fact that if I wore a certain skirt and walked into one of the local stores at the busiest time of day, everyone, even the women, would stop and stare at me.
I guess flirting was my hobby. It would have been my job too, if I could have figured out a way to get paid for it. I didn’t have a job after dropping out of college. It wasn’t a great college anyway, I never went to any of the classes. That’s the trouble with having a millionaire Daddy: there’s no incentive to learn anything. I mean why flog myself to death learning how to be a lawyer or an accountant or a dentist when my Daddy just gives me money every month. Oh sure, you say you’d want to work anyway, that it’s a pride thing, but I doubt it.
Anyway, flirting was my thing. That, and sleeping and clothes shopping. My favorite time though was when Daddy arranged parties for business associates, work contacts and so on. He would fill up our house with all these men and women who I only saw every few weeks and they got so used to me flirting that I think I was the main attraction. Every party there seemed to be more middle-aged men and fewer middle-aged women, which suited me.
In fact, I started to think of them as my audience, as my crowd, my fans. And if you have fans, you have to give them what they want. In fact, you have to try to keep upping the ante and finding new ways to keep them hooked. So at each party, my outfits got more and more outrageous, as did my flirting, and every time, on the morning after, Mommy and Daddy would sit me down and give me the Good Girl speech and I would play along and pretend and tell them I had just been experimenting, and they would eat it up.
Well last Halloween, I finally went too far. Literally, as it turned out! My parents had given me warnings in the weeks leading up to the party about what I wasn’t supposed to wear. No hot-pants, no lingerie, no mini-skirts, no mini-dresses, no maid costumes, no nurse’s outfits, no slutty Santa dresses and definitely no leather. Getting around their restrictions and yet still finding a hot outfit was a challenge. But I’m a cute young girl with a lot of time on her hands and a platinum credit card, so I managed it.
The party was well underway by the time I’d finished dressing. I’d told my parents that I didn’t really feel like attending and that I would be staying in my room, and they seemed to be extremely content with this. Little did they know what I was planning.
As I zipped up my black PVC catwoman costume, I smiled at myself in the full-length mirror. I had done it again. The costume was incredibly tight. Skin-tight didn’t really describe it. It clung to my breasts, made my pert little butt look even more amazing than usual and wrapped my long smooth legs so tightly it looked like a second skin. Yeah, I looked good.
The moment when you make a big entrance is always special. I love that sensation when conversations die down and all the people there look at you, even the ones who are pretending that they aren’t looking at you; usually married guys. I like those guys especially.
I slinked down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, did a little twirl, then started to mingle. I wandered here and there, joining in whichever conversation I wanted to, helping myself to snacks and taking a sip out of this or that champagne flute before handing it back to some stunned-looking middle-aged businessman. I flirted like I’d never flirted before, standing a little too close, giving people all of my smoldering looks, and even inventing a new one that I was thinking of calling, Spank Me I’ve Been Bad.
But this time, surprisingly, I went too far. I was getting so carried away that I forgot my one rule; not to do the bending over trick. Why wasn’t I allowing myself to do that and grant everyone an eye-opening view of my peachy ass? Because my costume was crotchless.
In my defense, I didn’t know that when I bought it, and it was far too sexy to return. Besides, I told myself, as long as I didn’t bend down, no-one would really notice.
As I reached the floor to pick up the invisible earring I was pretending to pick up, I suddenly remembered. I felt a little breeze against my pussy. And then I heard someone saying my name in a tone that sent shivers of dread through me.
“Lucinda!”
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