I hadn’t been there in at least five years, everything looked so different. I got off the bus, wearing some blue daisy dukes, pink spaghetti strap (...ithout a bra of course) my hair in a pony tail, and some pink sandals. As soon as my foot touched the ground, you would have thought that this people saw a ghost by the look on their face. The women stared, and whispered to each other, while the men ogled and winked at me. I’ve always liked to have men look at me, and at a very young age I learned. I have to confess that I allowed my free hand to wander down from her frilly blouse to her tightly fitted skirt protecting her feminine flanks from male interference that might involve either inquisitive fingers or a fanciful hardened shaft of enlightenment. In my weakened condition, I was easy prey for her web of female deviousness and I was so lacking in any desire to keep my defensive shields up that I probably assisted her ministrations by drooling all over her Ta-tas like a schoolboy with. More

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