First order of business would be to actually get something to wear when having fun. Picturing being tussled up and helpless isn't the same sensation as being tussled up and helpless. But with nerves of paper, it would have been a a flowery day in hell before you would ever actually work up the courage to take a step into anywhere you could get one. One step and your knees would turn into puddle, and someone would have to clean up the puddle that was Sarah S. Suzuki from the entrance. Hell, even strolling into a game stop was hard for you.
But, today something was different. As you lay there in an unsatisfied daze from your virgin probings, the need to make it at least slightly more real works up in you. Slowly, you work your naked ass out of bed, still coated in a grease like sheen of sweat. There wasn't any time for a proper shower. You to go, right now. First order of business, getting dressed. You only have one pair of sexy underwear, bought where else but online, that you wear when you want to feel pretty. It's a fire red lace pushup bra and panty set, translucent enough too see a bit of skin tone beneath the satin. Once they are on you get the urge to switch up your glasses. You have a similar model in a pinkish red, in case this pear gets damaged. They work better with your naughty undies, so you slide them on.
Then comes the hard part. Actually picking an outfit. For reasons that are blindingly obvious, you don't have anything within the same stratosphere as sexy. Going out with anything less then a turtleneck meant a stern glare from your father, resulting in an ungodly large percentile of your wardrobe consisting of sweaters that are more then a bit too large. After more searching then you are proud of, you manage to find a combination of a red tube top and jeans, that shows a bit of cleavage. It isn't a perfect solution, but it goes with the rest of the outfit, and it's better then nothing. As per your custom, you brain your long jet black hair with a sparkly red ribbon, and lazily throw on your sneakers. Still fueled almost entirely by rage, you walk out and and jump in your beat-up car.
This does however create a new problem. Getting the courage to actually reach the holyland. It's only fifteen minutes on the road to the nearest sex shop, but it might as well have been the fellowship's trek to Mordor. Every exit, every U-turn, and every familiar shop tests your resolve. More then once you are already turning the steering wheel by the time you catch yourself. Will everything be okay? Will you walk in the store and get laughed at? Maybe you'll see something you can't take and run out? Worse yet, maybe the people in their will be creeps, watching you get turned on by the site of bondage gear? Even thinking that makes you blush so hard you could be mistaken for a can of Chef-Boyardee. Maybe just fantasizing about the touch of leather straps binding your ankles and steel handcuffs locking behind your back is enough. But, right as you have convinced yourself that you don't need to do this, you happen to be pulling into Dirty Desires. |