My name is Jamie.
I'm writing this story to tell you what can happen when you trust the wrong
people, when you put your life in their hands without knowing a whole lot about
what's going on in their minds. I made that mistake, and paid heavily for it.
Or, at least, I
think I did.
The experience has
changed me so much I find it hard to know now whether it ended up good or bad.
I guess I should
start by telling you a little about myself. First, I'm a rich girl, always have
been, and yeah, I guess I was pretty spoiled. I was always coddled and told how
pretty and smart I was, and given anything my heart desired.
I had a trust fund
that kicked in when I hit twenty-one, so I never had to work at anything. I
didn't have the kind of mind that would allow me to just lay around the house,
though, so set out to find something to do.
First, I opened a
hobby and craft store. Why? Well, like I said, I didn't need money, so I
decided to do something that I liked. Well, the little store took off, and boy
did the profits roll in. I expanded, first upwards, to the second floor of the
building I was, in, then the third, and fourth, and finally down to the
basement. It got to be a really big place.
It was in an old
four story building that was on the edge of seedy. I bought the place and had
it renovated. I rented out the apartments above the street to yuppies, and
opened a flower store, a music store, and art store, and a cafe on the ground
floor, to go with my crafts and hobbies store.
On the top floor I
had my place, in the renovated attic. It ran the length of the building and had
big skylights and huge fireplaces.
Anyway, that was
what I was doing for a living. I was doing pretty well too. I mean, here I was
a twenty-three year old woman who'd never been to college (I hated school), and
was employing dozens of people and making a high six figure income.
Not bad, huh?
In my personal life
I had a lot of friends and interests. Most of my friends were men. I guess I
just got along better with them than with women. I liked to talk sports and
argue politics, and could do it for hours.
I did have a few
women friends, but frankly, I found most women pretty weak willed, and way too
interested in make-up and clothing and diets. Besides, women didn't seem to
take to me very well.
I think it's jealousy, frankly.
See, I'm the kind
of women that other women seem to find threatening. I'm better than good
looking, though I wouldn't call myself beautiful exactly. Men tend to give me
long, careful looks.
I think it’s my
personality they like, though, was well as my looks. Like I said earlier, I get
along with men really easy.
I'm a blonde, a
real blonde, not a dyed blonde, and despite the cliché', I'm no dumb bimbo, and
refuse to act, dress, or be treated like one.
My hair is straight
and a somewhat longer than shoulder length. Women have told me I should curl
it, but shit, no way am I going to sit in a hairdresser's chair for two or
three fucking hours while my hair is played with.
Anyway, my hair
looks fine as it is. I blow dry it so it's thick and rich, part it on the right
side, and sweep it across the top of my head. It usually stays where I want it,
so I leave it alone.
My face has always
been a problem. It's a total lie. It's soft and cute and sweet, and not at all
an indication of what kind of person I am. It looks young and innocent, neither
of which I ever really was. I have large blue eyes, a tiny snub nose, and full,
sensuous lips.
When people
describe me they do not call me gorgeous or beautiful or ravishing. They call
me adorable, and cute, and sweet. One bitch even said I looked precious. It's a
great face if you're a cheerleader in junior high and want people to pat you on
the head all the time.
I have a tall,
powerfully built body...
Okay, that's
bullshit, wishful thinking. I'm about average height... maybe a little less
than average height, and I loath exercise. Someone gave me one of those weight
machines and said I could make myself look like Linda Hamilton, you know, at her
Terminator Two stage? I put it in storage. Who needs muscles when you've got
money?
Anyway, my body was
pretty good, pretty fit. That comes naturally. I've always had a really small
waist, and no matter what I eat I never seem to put on weight. I have pretty
good legs, a really nice ass, and good, firm breasts, thirty-six-C, which is
average, right? Well, maybe a bit more.
Frankly, breasts
are a pain. The bigger they are, the more they get in the way, but if they're
too small you kind of feel inferior. Mine are okay, it'd be a lot more
comfortable to be as flat chested as a boy, but I know I'd be self-conscious.
One thing they're
good for, of course, is sex. Some women I know say they get no real pleasure
out of their breasts during sex. I do. After just a little stroking and
caressing and squeezing they get really swollen and feel kind of... tight and
hot, and incredibly sensitive to the touch, especially the nipples. I've come
just from guys playing and suckling at my breasts.
Well, okay, maybe I
was squeezing my thighs together too.
Anyway, I'm
considered pretty good looking, let's put it that way. The guys like my looks
and attitude, the women hate both.
I usually don't
wear dresses or skirts. Maybe I have a complex from seventh grade when Jimmy
Fraser pulled my skirt up in the hallway at school. I hadn't been wearing any
underpants and boy was that humiliating.
I still don't like
to wear underpants. I do sometimes, when I'm feeling sexy, say. Then I wear
something filmy and lacy and sensuous.
Mostly I only wear
a bra under my clothes. I wear jeans and shirts when I'm being casual, and
other times I wear suits, not mannish things but bright pastels and shimmering
silks, good looking blazers and pants.
Anyway, this whole
thing started because of a dumb magazine article. The guy I was going with,
Joey Cooper, had read that the longer you went without sex the better your
orgasm would be when you let go. By sex they meant masturbation too. So both of
us decided to do without for a week, not fucking, no masturbating.
Then we had a fight
and broke up, leaving me horny. I know I could have just masturbated, but I was
still kind of curious about whether that magazine article was right, and I
wanted to find out with a cock, not my fingers.