Read Online A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel by Chloe Thurlow - Free Book Online
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
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something quite so small should have quite such a large price tag. You only live once, she said to herself, parading through the store for everyone to see, and drank bottled water with her sushi at Pret.
In the tabloid she found on the table there were stories about hurricanes in Florida and blackouts in France and it all seemed far away and unimportant, a world that had nothing to do with her. Greta had been a reflection of other people’s desires and expectations. She had been moulded by her parents, by convention, by the nuns at Saint Sebastian.
As she sat watching the people streaming by like worker ants outside the window she was aware quite suddenly of her own individuality, her own sense of self. She felt renewed, free, young again. It was heady stuff and she understood that only when you have a firm grasp on your own identity do you bring that special quality to the stage. She had always set out to shape herself around the character, when a great actress will mould the character to herself. This was a revelation and Greta knew intuitively that whatever role she played in the future she would perform with unnerving passion.
She strolled back to work in the afternoon sunshine, the new underwear in layers of tissue in a shiny black bag, as big as her new purchases were small, another of their tricks, she thought, and when she smiled, people in the street smiled back at her.
There were customers waiting, two squat, turnip-shaped women with accents from Eastern Europe who bullied her with strident voices and whom she served with the charm and equanimity of the girl in the riding video until they parted with great wads of red £50 notes.
‘You have a gift,’ Madame Dubarry whispered, her tongue fluttering across her ear and Greta was sure it wasn’t selling shoes.
It’s really weird, but when you work hard time flies; Tempus Fugit , as she’d learned in Latin at school, and was shocked when she noticed the big hand reach for six o’clock. She had sold 37 pairs of shoes in one day and that was a record.
No one reached for her arse in the tube back to Hammersmith but after the long day bending and stretching her panties, by the time she arrived home, were moist with girlie excretions. The aroma brought back memories of pony club, the feel of a throbbing warm animal between her stretched thighs, the piquant whiff of the stable, the girl in the video riding free, tanned and naked.
She took her knickers off, pressed the white cotton to her nose and ran the damp crotch over her lips. Greta liked her own smell and dropped back across the bed, the pearl of white cotton over her face, her fingers reaching for her pussy. The little nub of her clitoris was aching for some attention. She was so juicy down there she could feel the vibes of early orgasm and made herself stop, delaying pleasure in pursuit of greater pleasure. It was all very Shakespearean. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and in the bathroom her eyes lit on the economy-sized bottle of supermarket shampoo.
Just the job, she thought, teasing and tickling the mouth of her pussy as she stepped back across the hall into the bedroom. She inserted the rounded bottle top with a soft sucking pop as she fell back on the bed. She had forgotten to close the door and the thought of Tara strolling in at any time sent wild fantasies galloping like carousel horses through her dirty mind. You are such a slut, Greta May, such a slapper, you should be punished, smacked, strapped, whipped, beaten. She tasted the words and nearly wet herself.
She drove the bottle in deeper and remembered how Gustav had screwed the tripod handle slowly, patiently in and out of her wet pussy. The memory was delicious. Her free hand massaged her breasts, slipped down her side and under her bottom. She nursed the rubbery ring of her anus with its little muscle like a valve before sliding her index finger inside. She gasped for breath. Her right hand was pumping away on the bottle and the
In the tabloid she found on the table there were stories about hurricanes in Florida and blackouts in France and it all seemed far away and unimportant, a world that had nothing to do with her. Greta had been a reflection of other people’s desires and expectations. She had been moulded by her parents, by convention, by the nuns at Saint Sebastian.
As she sat watching the people streaming by like worker ants outside the window she was aware quite suddenly of her own individuality, her own sense of self. She felt renewed, free, young again. It was heady stuff and she understood that only when you have a firm grasp on your own identity do you bring that special quality to the stage. She had always set out to shape herself around the character, when a great actress will mould the character to herself. This was a revelation and Greta knew intuitively that whatever role she played in the future she would perform with unnerving passion.
She strolled back to work in the afternoon sunshine, the new underwear in layers of tissue in a shiny black bag, as big as her new purchases were small, another of their tricks, she thought, and when she smiled, people in the street smiled back at her.
There were customers waiting, two squat, turnip-shaped women with accents from Eastern Europe who bullied her with strident voices and whom she served with the charm and equanimity of the girl in the riding video until they parted with great wads of red £50 notes.
‘You have a gift,’ Madame Dubarry whispered, her tongue fluttering across her ear and Greta was sure it wasn’t selling shoes.
It’s really weird, but when you work hard time flies; Tempus Fugit , as she’d learned in Latin at school, and was shocked when she noticed the big hand reach for six o’clock. She had sold 37 pairs of shoes in one day and that was a record.
No one reached for her arse in the tube back to Hammersmith but after the long day bending and stretching her panties, by the time she arrived home, were moist with girlie excretions. The aroma brought back memories of pony club, the feel of a throbbing warm animal between her stretched thighs, the piquant whiff of the stable, the girl in the video riding free, tanned and naked.
She took her knickers off, pressed the white cotton to her nose and ran the damp crotch over her lips. Greta liked her own smell and dropped back across the bed, the pearl of white cotton over her face, her fingers reaching for her pussy. The little nub of her clitoris was aching for some attention. She was so juicy down there she could feel the vibes of early orgasm and made herself stop, delaying pleasure in pursuit of greater pleasure. It was all very Shakespearean. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and in the bathroom her eyes lit on the economy-sized bottle of supermarket shampoo.
Just the job, she thought, teasing and tickling the mouth of her pussy as she stepped back across the hall into the bedroom. She inserted the rounded bottle top with a soft sucking pop as she fell back on the bed. She had forgotten to close the door and the thought of Tara strolling in at any time sent wild fantasies galloping like carousel horses through her dirty mind. You are such a slut, Greta May, such a slapper, you should be punished, smacked, strapped, whipped, beaten. She tasted the words and nearly wet herself.
She drove the bottle in deeper and remembered how Gustav had screwed the tripod handle slowly, patiently in and out of her wet pussy. The memory was delicious. Her free hand massaged her breasts, slipped down her side and under her bottom. She nursed the rubbery ring of her anus with its little muscle like a valve before sliding her index finger inside. She gasped for breath. Her right hand was pumping away on the bottle and the
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