Chapter One – Missy Misdemeanour

Blog entry: 9.15 p.m.

In the beginning there was the chicken and the egg, but who came first is a mystery. Thinking about another mystery, am I horny now because I’m wearing the sexy black lingerie or was I horny before? It is a dilemma. It’s probably the most important dilemma of my life because without the sexy black lingerie Missy Misdemeanour would never have existed and without her this story would have remained floating around cyberspace without substance or a real identity and that would have been a shame. Perhaps, dear reader, we need a history lesson. We need to go back to the beginning. We need to go back to the beginnings of my beautiful creation and, like all good stories that happen in my life, sex is at the very core. So, if you will allow me to indulge you, let me take you back to the start.

Charlie the editor is frowning. When Charlie frowns it is never a good sign. It can only mean one thing: he hates my story. My stories are like my children; insulting them is like insulting me.

‘You hate it?’

‘It’s perfectly average,’ replies Charlie, sitting back on his chair and holding his hands up.

‘That’s a truly awful thing to say to a writer,’ I say, standing in his office wondering if this is it.

‘It’s the truth, Izzy. It’s well written, you have a nice, readable style …’

‘Please, stop! You’re killing me.’

‘Am I?’ replies Charlie. ‘I was thinking the exact opposite, Izzy. I give you this opportunity and this is the best you can offer me?’

‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask. ‘These personal shoppers are being harassed. These rich guys walk in and throw money at you and you’re just supposed to open your legs and say “thank you, sir”? I don’t think so?’

‘But he isn’t having sex with you, is he?’ questions Charlie. ‘We all know sex sells but there isn’t any in your article.’

‘That’s because I’m not a prostitute!’ I declare. ‘I’m a writer. I have principles.’

‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘But principles don’t sell. It’s OK. You did your best, but clearly you’re not up to it.’

‘I’m not up to sleeping with random strangers? Are you really asking me to do that?’

‘Belle de Jour, Confessions of a Working Girl, Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl; you think these girls were faking it?’

‘No.’

‘The public wants to read about this because they are dirty voyeurs. They dream of doing the stuff these girls have done, but they don’t have the bottle to do it. Now, what if there was a blog about a girl willing to undertake sex-tinged adventures. Don’t you think that would sell?’ Charlie gives me a look.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ he replies. ‘Newsprint is a dying art form. The internet is taking over. Bloggers are the new superstars, so my question is are you prepared to hitch your wagon to blogging? Do you have the stones to put yourself out there and do the things your readers can only dream of doing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK, then,’ says Charlie. ‘At least you’re honest. I can probably find you a spot in obituaries.’

There before me my journalism career is unravelling. It’s happening right before my eyes, so what is it that I want? Do I want safety in obituaries and a life of crushing dullness or do I want to take a walk on the wild side? I take a breath and hold it, feel it sizzle and expand in my lungs, see a shooting star explode through my brain. Hitch my wagon to a shooting star or play it safe? Do I have the stones? Do I really have the stones?

‘Give me one more chance,’ I say quietly, so quietly that I’m not even sure Charlie has heard me. But then a sly grin crosses his face.

‘Twenty-four hours to rewrite the story. If I like it I’ll launch you as a blogger, but you’d better blow my mind, Izzy!’ he says. ‘And think up a pseudonym that’s a little bit wicked,’ he continues. ‘Make it something sexy and dangerous!’

Sexy and dangerous; that’s what personal shopping should be about. So here we are again, back to my original question. Am I horny now because I’m wearing the sexy black lingerie or was I horny before?

This cubicle is tiny. There really isn’t room to swing a cat, let alone play with my pussy, though Handsome Man clearly has other ideas and is willing to work within the confines of this too-tiny space. Currently he has his right hand on my right breast, cupping it through the fabric of the lace as he presses up against me observing my figure in the full-length mirror. Like an adult game of chess this is his opening move, possibly risky since he doesn’t yet know if I’m good to go, or just a wicked tease. This has been building for an hour now, gentle flirting giving way to unsubtle overtures and now his hand on my breast. I can duck and run, scream sexual harassment and blow all chances of my own blog, or …

I am an attractive woman. I keep myself in shape through rigorous exercise (and not the right kind either!). Men like me. I see it in their eyes, the way they pay attention when I enter the room, so why don’t I push it? There is a whole world of adventure waiting for me out there. I have the winning ticket. All I have to do is use it. All you have to do is use it, girl!

His left hand moves, resting itself innocently on the curve of my hip. His wedding band reflects in the light in the cubicle off the mirror.

Do I really have the stones? Does he? Well, what are you going to do about it?

I grind back into the expensive fabric of his suit trousers, pressing my satin-clad butt cheeks into his crotch. He reacts instantly, his cock hard and willing, pressing against my flesh. Arching my back, I turn my head and reach up with my left arm as his right hand squeezes my breast. Finding his face, I draw it closer. Our lips touch as the temperature starts to rise. My heart is beating out a crazy rhythm and I have to close my ears to the voice inside screaming, “You’re doing it! You’re really doing it!”

His tongue starts to go to work but this angle really isn’t working for me, and seeing as I’m starting to feel all hot and flustered now I really don’t want to waste this opportunity. It’s been a while. Who am I kidding? It’s been for ever. I turn around, disengaging, and now who has the power? Backing him up against the wall, I seek out those lips burying my tongue deep into his mouth, and now we start to find a workable rhythm. His wicked fingers peel away my panties and start to delve deep inside me. It’s such a delicious shock that my breath catches in my mouth and my eyes light up. The trousers prove to be no obstacle at all and his boxer shorts put up minimal resistance. I hustle him down and spread his legs so that I can spread mine, squatting over him, and the raw passion in his eyes is turning me on and on. This is not romance. Flowers and candles aren’t welcome here. This is sex in its basest glory. I slide down onto his cock, feel my lips part and expand and envelop him as I push down and take him whole. Gasping as the pleasure fires up my every nerve ending, I’m a girl on a mission. Ride him, cowgirl!

I’ve already told you it’s been a while. Maybe I’m a little over-enthusiastic? It’s never been a problem before, but I’ve never fucked a random stranger in a shop cubicle before. The walls are flimsy. There’s no soundproofing at all. I didn’t think, but you don’t generally when you’re getting your game on.

‘I don’t know who’s in there but if you don’t stop this minute then I’m calling the police!’ calls the irate shop manager.

Stay or go? It’s a dilemma. He’s about ready to explode inside me and I’m burning up. Handsome Man grips my buttocks and thrusts hard into my sex, igniting a chain reaction. He grunts and comes hard inside me. It seems childish to stop now, not that I can anyway. I feel the contractions, feel my pussy close around him, and know that all I can do is hang on. I vaguely hear the shop manager but there is some lunatic drowning her out with her orgasmic screams.

‘I think I’ll take the lingerie,’ says Handsome Man, grinning at me.

‘You’d better,’ I reply.

‘I think we’d better make a quick exit before someone arrest us for lewd and lascivious behaviour,’ he says.

‘If it’s a first offence won’t they downgrade it to a misdemeanour?’ I ask.

And then an idea pops into my head and my new secret identity is born – welcome to the crazy world of Missy Misdemeanour!