Pounding music. She’s dancing, always packing, a grunge-goth Mistress of tuneless nihilism. Torn fishnets, punk attitude, air punches. Shrieking the lyrics: fuck government, fuck Jesus, fuck fake. She sneers, knows I’m that preppy princess from happy-snap...
I walked home from Brenda’s with a renewed spring in my step. My pussy soreness was now numbed, and my bottom felt warm; it had a glow within it. Playing on my Walkman was Michael Jackson’s Bad album. It was his latest, and, despite the title, it was very...
It was possible that if it had been sixty seconds earlier, Mel wouldn’t have heard the familiar cackle/laugh of Vanessa through the open window. She had been somewhat distracted! She let the curtain fall closed and wondered. She hadn’t actually seen Vanes...
