She was made of plastic, but she was alive sometimes. A certain angle of the head and a twinkle in her eyes spoke volumes. Still as pretty as she was, she felt as if she had no true friends because she wanted to wear tube tops and micro minis with no panties while surfing the web to find others who wanted to dry hump themselves silly on the dance club floor.
Instead, she was shoved into taffeta prom dresses, bearing the brunt of bubble gummed fingers while hoping someone would answer her ad.
Real live plastic girl seeks same.
Her Skin
She hated anything on it. Make up. Perfume. Sunscreen. Great slobbery kisses from spinster aunts. Her clothes she liked to wear the looser the better, slouching through life, hardly touching it. Body disclosed. Face exposed. Still more honest than most.
Some found her fascinatingly clean and gorgeous. Men tried to make an impression on it. Fast hands. Hard erections. If horny enough, she would let them, bouncing wild, sexy, sticky with sweat, grinding her hips to multiple mind-blowing orgasms.
They thought they had her.
But she was already pulling away to run to the bathroom to wash.
Spring Image
He wanted me thin by spring, my narrow legs jutting from high-cut seersucker shorts as I strolled by the tulips he coveted so much. I tried to nibble, my hunger for his approval like a bulb craving water, but I was no narcissus. I was a dahlia.
In the garden, I noticed my sexy neighbor was watching me, bent over, still ripe, in all my glory. Desire. He wanted to fuck me, butt good.
Pulling a tulip from the ground, I carried it into the house, placed it between my husband’s teeth like a Tango dancer and closed his mouth.
All works listed here copyright (2000-2008) by Tara Alton. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without written permission from the author.
