Work in progress

I am working on two stories, at the time.
One is turning out to be a little complicated, but is in a genre I like a lot, being  "self-corruption story".
Basically a story in which a good girl actually decides to become a bad girl and actively works to change herself.
I found this kind of stories a lot of fun.
Maybe you do too, who knows...

The other story is the follow up to Didi Wakes, in which we follow the further adventures of Bea, Didi and their widening circle of sexual partners, fellow sluts and accessories.
The first story is not enjoying the success I hoped for, but who knows, maybe a second serving will help.


And why not give you a preview?
Here goes...



Bea was convinced that to pass my driving test I had blown the instructor.
Which of course was exactly what I had done, but I did not like the idea of being considered so predictable.
“You’re a slut,” she said, chuckling. “Of course you are predictable.”
I crossed my arms and snorted, trying to look displeased. It was hard, looking displeased, given that we were in the back seat of her car, tucked away in a side road in the suburbs, and she was running her hand up and down my thigh, in the afterglow of an intense tongue-wrestling session.
“Come on,” she said, handing me the joint. “You know I mean that as a compliment.”

“Yeah, sure.”
I took a hit on the blunt, letting the thick smoke pour down into my lungs.
“Bad day at the office?”
I shrugged.
Two weeks before, my internship had been converted into a full-time position. It was still a stultifying job putting numbers into spreadsheets, but the pay was better. I still thought there must be a software capable of doing on its own what I did, but I did not believe anymore in those fairy tales about work leading to self-realization or what other crap.
Work to me was an unpleasant necessity, that provided the money I needed to have a good time.
“They have not renewed Michelle,” I said.
The news had come that morning. Michelle was the petite, sassy Asian girl that shared the spreadsheet wrangling job with me and Lissa. She and Lissa had become sort of an item, and their office romance had become increasingly public in the last weeks.
“Lissa is talking about suing the company’s ass,” I said now, handing back the joint. “Claims they are letting Michelle go because she’s come out as queer.”
Bea was listening, with the utter concentration of the truly stoned.
“But Michelle does not want to hear about it,” I went on, as my mind slowly drifted. “She’s pretty shattered, though.”
“It’s the season for drama,” Bea said with a sigh.
“What, you too?”
“I ditched Samantha,” she said. She threw her head back and breathed out a cone of white smoke, that spread against the canvas top of the Beetle, and poured back on us like a nuclear blast mushroom cloud.
“Because of Dean?”
Bea had been two timing her blonde girlfriend with a biker guy she had pulled one night we had spent at a roadhouse just out of town. We had been pretty popular with the leather crowd, and we had both acquired an admirer.
Now she shrugged. “Little Miss Perfect was becoming too high-maintenance,” she said. “She’s a worrier. Worries about being bi, worries about her mom not approving, worries about smoking, worries about drugs.”
“But she’s got a nice ass,” I said. It was indeed pure art.
“Too much work,” she said, throwing the spent spliff out of the half-open window. “And Dean is scratching all of my itches, right now.”
“All of them?” I asked, leaning closer. I licked her earlobe, tasting the salt of her sweat.
She slipped a hand inside of my open blouse. “Most of them.”
I pressed into her, my mouth looking for her tongue, my hand looking for her pussy. “Let me help with the rest.”
She hummed gently, accepting both of my advances.
“Go on, honey,” she said. “But I still won’t let you drive my car.”