There’s this girl at work, let’s call her Wild Child. She’s a 27 year old pixie, no more than 5’3” and weights no more than 90 -100 pounds, from Detroit. Her shoulder-length, straight, platinum blonde hair is always streaked with a color of the week: green, red, blue. This week is purple. Her style of dress, like her hair color, is always eccentric; from legwarmers to torn up fishnet stockings to fingerless gloves, she knows who to work everything she puts on her body. Her attitude is always bubble, almost electric the way the room pops and crackles with life when she speaks, and after each interaction her smile sparkles as bright as her sterling silver nose ring. She almost glides from place to place.
Today she wore a skin tight white shirt with no bra. I feel like a pervert, some vile, lust-driven individual who couldn’t help glancing at this white fabric clinging to her petite, a-cup breasts; this snow colored cloth stretched across her two adorable, tiny mounds with distinct dark spots the size of nickels showing through. How I wanted to push her top down and gently tongue each of those little pebble-like nipples, slowly circle each pink bud and feel them rise on my taste buds, while she straddled me. How I wanted to feel her bare legs wrapped around my waist, feel her tiny, naked body against mine, to taste her and hear her angelic voice moan like a sinful demon in heat.
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