Authors Note: Okay, I've always struggled with short stories as I tend to get a bit too carried away with descriptive details (sometimes, to a fault; as a reader, I enjoy gaps of information in order to allow my mind to fill the blanks but as a writer, I rarely give those opportunities) but I had this fleeting thought this afternoon for a short story.
In fact, it's probably not even a story -- it's more of a collection of ideas, situations and scenarios. Later, in addition, I contemplated the possibility of taking the characters from this story and doing a series of short stories with crossovers. But I'm probably getting ahead of myself.
I have always enjoyed writing for my own pleasure and entertainment but have never allowed others to read what I write, as a result of little self-confidence, so if you do enjoy this at all, please let me know. Additionally, if you do have some
constructive
criticism to provide, I shall also welcome that.
After writing this story, I realise it's probably not as short as I intended. It's also not half as good as I had hoped but if I don't post this, which I had written with the sole purpose of uploading, I'll likely never upload any of my better stuff... So, here goes...
*
Jack awoke, the sun burning through his eyelids and the alarm from his phone beating at his eardrums like a police raid ramming down the front door. Stabbing quickly at the phone to silence the foul creature, he got out of bed and headed straight for the shower.
First, he washes his shoulder-length blond hair, putting in the shampoo, followed by washing his body. He lathers up his arms, then his chest and finally his legs, before rinsing away the lather in the same order. He rinses out the shampoo and replaces it with conditioner before reaching for the shaving gel. Lathered up, he removes the thin whiskers from his strong, square jaw-line, ensuring not to cut his slightly pointed chin.
Rinsing the remaining shaving gel away, he uses the electric trimmer to neatly straighten his miniature sideburns and erase any evidence of a possible monobrow. He then places a handful of the shaving gel onto his pubic region before removing those whiskers also. Finally, he rinses out the conditioner, briefly rinses his body once again and turns off the shower before stepping out.
He takes a towel to wrap around his waste and then uses a slightly smaller towel to absorb the majority of water from his hair before brushing it back and tying it into a short ponytail.
He stares at himself in the mirror, examining the redness around his steely-blue eyes and then grabs a third towel to dry his slight, but defined, upper torso. Banishing that one to the laundry basket, he uses the towel around his waist to dry his lower body before it joined its ally in the basket.
Walking to the bedroom, Jack first grabs a pair of socks, then some underwear that he puts on first, followed by his left sock, then his right. He takes the pair of neatly folded jeans from a stool, making a mental note that as this was the second day in a row he had worn them, they had reached their limit and would need to be washed this evening.
Purposefully placing a belt through the loops in his jeans, he tightens it to its usual notch and hunts through his wardrobe for a long sleeve top.
Jack was a creature of habit, bordering on OCD. There was a specific order in which things had to be done and nothing would cause him to stray from that order. Due to the nature of his work, he enjoyed having control in other aspects of his life.
Jack headed downstairs, put the kettle on to boil, turned on the PC, made a cup of tea, knowing that by the time he had finished, the PC would have loaded up and be ready to use. He lights a cigarette, takes a sip of tea, checks his email, takes another sip of tea, shuts down the computer and heads for the couch, flicking on the television and directing the screen to the news channel.
He was just in time for the weather report, which looked promising. The presenters had their routine banter with the weather-girl, a middle-aged lady to whom the years had been more than kind. Today, she was in a plain black dress and the presenters were commenting on her shoes.
The camera panned down to a pair of seven-inch red-strapped heels, which were too similar to "come-fuck-me-shoes" to be considered professional. The presenters and the weather-girl laughed at their banter.
But the presenters don't realise the blatant truth, as I do,
thought Jack,
and how could they, if they have no real knowledge of such things. Obviously, the weather-girls master had wanted her to wear something in stark contrast to her timid demeanour, something that represented the horny slut she was in private. He wanted this small part of her to be displayed publicly, even nationally, but they had to be careful, as so not to draw unwanted attention, so a pair of sexy heels was perfect.
They would be out of the camera's view, unless the camera was focused on them and even if that happened, as was the case, they were subtle enough that the general public would just assume it was a simple pair of shoes. They wouldn't know what the shoes represented.
Finishing his tea, Jack turned off the TV, placed the cup in the dishwasher and headed for the front door. He put on a warm jacket, just in case, and left to catch the train. It was a short walk to the train station but his mind continued to be filled with fantasies of the weather-girls private life.
He wondered curiously how a simple pair of shoes could throw his imagination into over-drive with such elaborate and kinky assumptions. These thoughts clouded his focus until the train reached its destination and Jack stood and finished his journey to work.
Inside of work, his mind emptied of dirty thoughts. The seriousness of his occupation prevented him from thinking on any level other than professional. But the day flew and he soon found himself leaving his workplace and heading back to his train.
Glancing at his watched, he increased his pace. He had been forced to leave his workplace slightly later than intended and feared missing his train. These fears were confirmed upon his arrival at the station. Fortunately, the next train was only half an hour away, so he decided to take the two-minute walk to the coffee shop across the road.
As Jack ordered an Americano, to sit in but in a take away cup, as he knew he wouldn't have time to finish it before having to leave, a slim girl with long raven-black hair caught his eye. She was stood to his left and had just finished paying for her order. As she stood at the end of the counter waiting for her drink, Jack examined her more closely.
She wore a small pair of black heals, some black jeans and a leather jacket which came only to her midriff. Peaking from under the leather jacket, Jack could see the bottom four inches of her top; a white blouse, so sheer that the top of her black jeans were clearly visible through it, as was a tiny portion of her stomach.
Her hair was down but her face was in view, and a pretty face it was thought Jack's attention was drawn more to the deep red lipstick, which accentuated her full lips and would demand the attention of anyone who gazed upon her face.
Jack paid for his order and took a seat at an empty table inside, facing the door. By doing so, he was able to watch the girl leave without risk of being caught by her.
Good girl,
Jack thought to himself,
obviously you are busy completing a task for your master or mistress. The deep red lipstick has always been intended as a sign of sexual readiness, aimed to equal the colour of your no doubt sweet little pussy.
And it's far too nice and warm a day for you to insist on keeping your leather jacket done up, not that anyone other than I would notice. But, of course, you couldn't undo it because if you did that, your sheer top would hold no secrets and despite the material covering your chest, it would be clear to everyone that underneath it, you wore no bra.
Your small, pert breasts would be completely visible, your erect nipples would reveal your excitement, not only at the contemplation of everyone seeing them, but more so of everyone seeing what was written across them, in bold, capitol black letters, confessing you to be a "
DIRTY WHORE
". Good girl, run back to mistress...
