My Sweet Cyndi

Cigarette trails guided my way to the beginning and end of the line. As it is, every weekend, young lovelies streamed out the door onto damp cobblestone path, slowly swaying hips and thrusting pelvises to the beat of the inner sanctum. People on the verge; sexed up and ready for anything. It was dark, the path being lit by a simple neon sign, Club One. I had to get inside if only to catch her eye for a fleeting second.

"I'm looking for Cyndi, is she here?" I shyly asked the overgrown bouncer standing steadily at the door.

"That girl must have some kind of magical pussy or something; guys have been asking about her all night. Yeah she's here." The bouncer's eyes grazed over the crowd in hopes of weeding out the baddies.

I looked down the line of the masses and saw the bouncer raise an eyebrow. I slipped him a fifty.

"Welcome Sir." He placed the note slyly in his pocket and unhitched the velvet rope.

Lights fluttered to drum and bass beats. Bars spilled over with people. Mirrors on nearly every wall made it close to impossible to avoid yourself. I made my way to the main floor.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, while being bumped into a Britney Spears look-a-like. "Sorry," I offered to the boyfriend of the girl.

I scanned the crowd, at last finding my lovely Cyndi, surrounded as ever. She was busy being bounced on a man's lap. I loved to watch my sweet Cyndi from a comfortable distance. She radiated sex; with her big blue eyes. All that sex coming form such a tiny form, it made my mind spin. Though nearly 26, she looked all of 16. Those oh-so-small limbs, those big wide innocent eyes, the tiny nose, and that pout of her lower lip. She stood only 4 foot 10; so gorgeously little.

When she came into view, I'd play games with myself. I'd convince myself that she really was 16 and innocent and inexperienced. It would be me that would be in charge of her education.

"Michael!" she yelled across the room. She bounced all the more fervently, because she knows I like to watch. I made my way over to her. "Come here, silly," she waved me over.

"Michael, this is my brother James," she slapped her bouncing partner on the knee and raised an eyebrow to me. She winked, thinking I'd be shocked by her choice of partner.

"Half Brother, actually." James offered his hand.

"What do you want to drink?" She asked with strawberry glossed lips.

I watched jealously as her tongue grazed those baby lips. In my minds eye, my cock would pierce through them; I'd part them easily with an engorged head and roughly unload all I'd have to give in that pretty mouth.

"Gin and Tonic sounds lovely." I heard my posh accented voice croon such innocent words; she's so unfamiliar, to the devious boy that lurks within.

"Oh does it?" she mocked my accent, like always, and signaled to a distant barmaid.

"You look beautiful tonight," I said in a near whisper. I said it more for myself than for her; the music made it difficult to talk, and we were right in the middle of it. Those corseted tits were just too perfect. Much too big for a girl of her size; tits that aid my fantasy to new heights.

"So what are you doing here," she folded and played with her cocktail napkin. "This place doesn't really seem like your scene."

I looked round the room and was flooded with visions of dancing youths; if only to be a gorgeous twenty-something again. I looked to my oxford lace ups and tweed coat. I was forty-three and it showed. She was right to pose the question: what am I doing here?

My Cyndi. She took notice of my downcast look and slid her hand to my knee from across the way. She moved off the bouncing lap to be by my side.

"I like your suit, " she looked over and watched me watching her. With wide eyes and a girly giggle, she whispered in my ear, "I like you."

Sides of thighs touching; I wonder if she can feel the heat of my nervousness while we sit so close to one another. She slapped my trouser thigh.

"So, where is it?" she reached into my coat pocket and found only keys and lint. Disappointment showed on her face, though ever false it was. This was all an act with her. She looked to me with those baby blues and rested her head on my jacket sleeve, tugging at my cuff.

"Come on," she pouted. "I want it."

"I know you do," I winked. I smelled her hair, fiddled with my drink straw, trying to pierce the lime at the bottom of my glass.

"Give it to me." She pleaded, and stomped her tiny foot for extra effect.

I kissed her head and whispered, as if we were sharing a carefully guarded secret, "Other pocket." I fingered my left trouser leg. Tiny fingers made their way down and fished about, trying to find their sweet addiction; coming almost to close to my cock.

"I've almost got it," she smiled wickedly. "I can feel it," she announced knowing full well of the double meaning of her words. Her fingers stroked the side of my now hardening cock.

Prize achieved, she's victorious. "Cinnamon," she gasped full of excitement. I watched her fumble with the candy wrapper, barely containing the hum from her lips. "I love cinnamon," she said. I watched the candy roll about on her tongue. I took her by the hand and led her to a quiet little corner booth; out of the way and off to the side. She grinned brightly, like a child seeking presents from Father Christmas.

She knows why I've brought her here to the corner booth, yet she remains the silent grinning girl. Her feet swing freely; she can't touch the floor in those Mary Jane shoes. The candy shifts in her mouth.

She hums along, playing the innocent, but she hitches up her skirt. Greeted by naked thighs, I see the stripe of her pink and white panties.

"You know what I want," I say while making fervent glances near our surroundings, just to make certain no one's lurking about to see what we're doing. I enjoy my roll as corrupter, and I play it to the best of my abilities. Going so far as to fooling even myself. I can feel her heat. She places her little pink glittered fingertips over her panty-clad mound.

"Pull the panties back, and let me see," I beg. She likes the way she can reduce me to schoolboy status in five seconds flat; she gets off on it, I can see it in her face.

"Not yet," she purrs while rubbing that mound. "Oh my gosh, I'm so wet."

Within seconds my hand covers her clothed mound. I suck up her heat through my hand; her wetness seeps though her cotton lining.

She leans in close to my side, "See what you do to me," she whispers with a childlike soft voice, but the words are all whore. I cough, shift in my seat. She takes my hand, easily double the size of her own and places it into her knickers.

"See how wet you make me," she moans softly in my ear as if I'm touching her for the first time.

I close my eyes, move my hand past the cotton to feel the flesh, to feel her smoothly shaven cunt. Slick and sweet, I moan in delight. My middle finger slides up and down that wet slit.

"It feels so good," she speaks heartfelt words in gratitude, but her thighs suddenly snap shut, and she wriggles away from my touch.

Confusion hits me: "What...why?" the boy in me wonders aloud.

"The candy. It's gone. It's melted, " she says folding her arms. Our shared deal is in the candy; she only allows me favors as long as the candy lasts.

"I have more," I fumble through all my suit pockets. "I have more, really," I fish in my trouser pocket, but find it empty. In my speedy pursuit of her, I've left the bag in the car. She plays angry and frustrated and starts to scoot out from out booth.

"Wait," I grasp her wrist firmly before she leaves. "In the car," my voice comes down from its former fevered pitch. "I left them in the tin in the car; in the glove compartment."

"Well. What are you waiting for?" She smiles brightly.

Hurriedly, I straighten myself. "Right, I'll be back in a tick."

This time she's doing the wrist grasping, "You know, I could come with you if you want."

"Oh, I don't know love." I search through my coat pocket for my keys.

"You don't want me to come? You're embarrassed by me." She reaches for her purse.

"No!" I kneel down, full of sorrow and worry at her thinking I'd ever feel that way. My Cyndi is a dirty-guilty pleasure, and while I know I could never introduce her as a girlfriend to friends or associates, it in no way diminishes her importance to me in my eyes. At various times though, I've recognized she may view our situation differently. I've come to think that maybe she wants more.

"Then, come on. Let's go." In her hand she grabs two of my fingers, barely taking hold of them. She gives a nonplused wave to her friends, and drags me through the club.

The door closes with a compressed sort of sounds, leaving us on a typical downtown street in London; stoplights flicker, streets slick with a recent drizzle, we're lost in mist and fog.

She sways her hips in anticipation of adventure, "So, where's your car?"