13 May 2021

12 May 2021

I was so super-doopery excited last night that I could barely sleep. Not only was I a plugged princess and a conquesting adult, but tomorrow I was to start my journey from perky, pokie, sodden-cunted, schoolgirl to a future life as a worker bee receiving money for servicings rendered. For tomorrow was Careers Advice Day and I had a morning appointment with the Career Advisor, Mr Jobsworth. What would I be? A blogger? A vlogger? A cunty snogger? An influencer? A demonstrator? A rampant copulator? Maybe even a pop idol, reality TV starlet or Z list celebrity propping up game shows, opening supermarkets and turning on Christmas lights in no-hope towns up and down the country? Well, I just thrummed and throbbed and quivered and pulsated at the thought of all the excitement ahead until I was a writhing, squirming, gooey mess of scrummy-dumptiousness. 

The one thing I knew I didn't have to worry about was what I was going to wear because the wardrobe of predictability was bound to provide the perfect outfit. So no sooner had my morning alarm gone buzzedy-buzz-buzz-buzz than I hopped out of bed a vision of expectant, wanton, willing teen-angel fleshiness and flung back the wardrobe doors to reveal... nothing.

Well, not quite nothing because on the floor was a pair of classic four-inch, black leather, red-soled, stiletto-heeled, Louboutins, because nothing says 'I may be a professional but I'm a whore in the bedroom' quite like a pair of Christian's tawdry fuck-me pumps. And then my heart went all boombedy, boombedy, boom and my shower head cunny gave an extra-delighted squirt of juicy pleasure because wrapped around one of the empty coat hangers was an absolute darling black, leather choker with the word 'slave' emblazoned in sparkly diamanté across the front. Now, if that isn't suitable workwear, and possibly an insightful comment on the position of down-trodden workers in a rampant capitalist system, then I don't know what is. 

Well, it looked absolutely darling snuggled about my neck and with red soles flashing, tushy princess jewellery glinting and a tummy full of Rice Crispies for an extra little snap, crackle and pop, I wiggled and jiggled my way out of the house and off to school. 

You'd think that no one had ever seen a perky, pokie, sodden-cunted, teen-angel of lusciousness before, what with all the horn tooting and 'phwoar' -ing and 'you dirty bitch'-ing and the endless 'get your tits out'-ing. And whoever knew that hands could be quite so grope-ey and fondle-ey? Eventually, though, I made it to the school gates where Miss Crossface was waiting to slam stiff fingers into my sodden snatch and give my pokies a nice sharp tweak of hurtiness so that all the organisms that had been flittering and fluttering and dancing in my tummy ever since I'd left home could be released. Then with a firm swat of my wiggle-rump, she sent me on my way to Mr Jobsworth. 

Who was not alone. Not a bit of it. 

Mr Jobsworth explained that today was a role-playing day to find out what job I was best suited to and that the three gentlemen were Captains of Industry and the lady was a Queen Bitch and they were going to help him by checking out my assets and qualifications. Well, I pouted my stingy-bee lips at the news that they were only Captains because I'd really hoped for a General or an Admiral, but then my shower-head cunny gave an extra-squiffy squirt of delight at the news that she was a Queen of Bitches because I was definitely a needy, heated bitch of humpy-thrummisity.

Queeny Bitch announced that first I was going to try administering. Well, administering is the easiest thing ever because all you have to do is crawl on your hands and knees beneath the desk where Queeny Bitch sits and lap your tongue through her moaning minge. The more you lap, the more it moans. The more it moans, the more you lap. Easy peasy. Well, it's easy peasy at first, but pretty soon, there are fingers in your hair and thighs pressing hard against your cheeks and your nose and mouth are buried in her regal mingedom and you can't breathe and all you can do is lap and lap and lap as Queeny B bucks and grinds. Then just as you think it couldn't get any harder a rigid muscle of manliness thrusts into your sopping flower of desire and pounds until everything gushes. 

And administering definitely isn't as easy peasy when your perky, pokie, convalescent adult flesh is exploding with supernova organism after supernova organism and todger after todger taking turns to pummel your upturned, smooth petals of enticement, but I did my bestest and once all the todgers were emptied and Queen B's minge was all marshy and moan-free everyone told me that I was an ace administrator and that next they needed to see if I could be a dancer.

I love dancing. I was a ballerina when I was six for a whole year and it was such dreamy fun-ness because I had the scrummiest little-girl pink, satin, leotard and silky shoes and a tulle skirt that flapped and floated as I spun and pirouetted, so I couldn't wait. One of the Captains said I was going to do Polish dancing, which I'd never heard of, but I'm a perky, pokie, convivial adult and ready for anything. 

With Polish dancing, you have a Maypole, but rather than dancing around and around, you dance up and down the pole. And really it's a bit like the twerking that Candy and I used to do in her bedroom except that the Captains and Queen sit at the bottom of the pole and as you writhe and squirm uppity-downy they hold onto your breasticules and tushy and thrust rolled up notes into every orifice or cleavage they can reach. And the objective of Polish dancing is to thrust your dripping cunny down onto any upright man-schlongs or dildos again and again until they're all polished, glistening and shiny and all of them have squirted out their froth and you're nothing but a helpless, spasming, multi-organismistic, sodden-cunted teen-angel with barely a thought in your head. 

And guess what? I aced it, so then Mr Jobsworth asked me whether I wanted to be a sexy worker. Duh! Well, that was a no brainer because I'm going to be the sexiest sexy worker ever. Whether I was a sexy pharmacologist, or a sexy neurosurgeon or a super-sexy microbiologist studying micro-orgasms, or possibly bestest of all an extra-super-sexy astronomer using a giant telescope to find supernova orgasms in faraway universes.

Then Mr Jobsworth said there was just one more role play which was an auction, but it was all fine because I just had to stand and twirl and shimmy and wiggle and look like the mostest gorgeous, perky, pokie, teen-cunt ever, and Mr Jobsworth played at being an auctioneer and the Captains and Queeny B played at bidding. And it was super-dooper funsies and everyone was bidding like crazy until finally, Mr Jobsworth brought the hammer down and I'd been sold for £18.32 and half a packet of fluff covered Extra Strong Mints and Queeny B had bought me. It was amazeballs. 

And Queeny B invited me to visit her office in the morning, but tomorrow is Candy's birthday so I really, really can't miss that, so Queen B said I could cum on Monday but not before. 

And now I'm in bed and so excited for tomorrow that I can't keep my fingers out of my sodden cuntedness, so I'm going to say 'Nighty Night' before the organisms start. 

Nighty Night