The Bad Girl

 

I am a bad girl. And I always have been. Being a bad girl is fun, and you get more stuff. You also get out of doing unpleasant things you're supposed to be doing.

I learned how easy men were when I was a little girl. They all thought I was so sweet and innocent, and I could practically get away with murder just by smiling at them. As I grew older it became even easier to manipulate them, especially after I discovered sex.

Or rather, the promise of sex. I didn't actually have to do anything more than when I was young, which was to smile and look pretty - well, look sexy. Sexy will get you more than pretty, even from men who know they don't have a ghost of a prayer with me.

I'm afraid I became something of a narcissist. I enjoyed the way people looked at me, the way they watched me, the way they liked seeing me. From my early teens, whenever I came up to a group all heads would turn to me.

Boys would babble and stumble over their tongues and girls would pout because I was prettier than they were. Still, they wanted to be like me. They were envious of me, and I liked that too.

Still, I was mainly focused on boys, and on how I could flirt with them. I learned how to pitch my voice, how to lower it into a whispery, breathy tone, or act flirty and coquettish, licking my lip and smiling, flattering them so their chest swelled with pride.

Idiots.

Boys and Men are simply so weak, so easily manipulated, so easy to please. How could I possibly learn to respect them? All I had to do was pose my body in a certain way to run their mental trains right off the tracks and make their hearts beat faster.

Unfortunately, while the promise of sex got me a lot, actual sex got me comparatively little. I learned fairly early in life that if I wanted to feel pleasure out of sex I'd have to do it myself. Boys, even when they grew into men, were simply not very good at pleasuring me.

Don't get me wrong, there is pleasure for me just in watching how they turn into panting, salivating animals at the sight of my naked breasts, pleasure in seeing what incredible effect I have on them, pleasure in making them explode with climax and sag into gasping, panting exhaustion.

Physical pleasure? Not so much of that. Oh, I really loved being penetrated for some reason. I mean, I recognize it's not supposed to be a great physical pleasure, but to me it's an incredible emotional and psychological turn-on to be deeply penetrated by something thick and hard.

Guys generally don't stay hard for all that long, unfortunately. In fact, I have to tone down my highly developed oral sex skills just to get them inside me before they explode. And soon, I learned that just giving them oral sex was usually enough.

I am very good at it, after all. I watched videos on the internet, and I practiced. I knew sexuality was going to be an important weapon for me, and I wanted to hone mine to a fine point. Oral sex is a skill just like any other, and you need to practice it to get better.

When I was in high school I was already pretty enough and sexy enough, that a little flirty talk and pouty sad look could get my marks bumped up if the teacher was male. By the time I got to college I was starting to trade blow jobs for the increase. What the hell, it only takes a few minutes, which is way better than spending hours studying.

Sometimes those better marks came from flirting and offering wide eyed, pouty looks, and sometimes from blowing my teachers or teaching assistants, or sometimes from blowing more studious guys who would write up assignments for me.

I was a cheerleader in high school mostly because it was a fun way to exercise, because the uniforms were cute and sexy, and because guys loved cheerleaders. I was a cheerleader in college for the same reason. I have great legs, and I like to dance, so why not?

Okay, sure I get to hang around football players, who were big, hunky guys with broad shoulders. But guys like that aren't all that hard to find anyway. And though they were kind of easy to manipulate. I didn't think much of them. And anyway, it's not like they could do anything useful for me.

But one day I was walking along the sidelines during a practice, on my way to join the girls for cheerleader practice. I was small, low riding cutoffs, and a little white halter. Now the halter had a round neckline, but also buttoned up the front, and I had left a few of those buttons undone. And no, I wasn't wearing a bra.

So, with my long blonde hair half up, half down, and sporting a pair of dark glasses, I strolled casually down the sidelines, and was well aware that every guy who saw me turned to watch. I knew what was on their minds, too, which made me purr with satisfaction.

Yeah, you all want me, I thought smugly. Too bad for you. Suffer!

Even the coach turned as I approached, and I paused as I approached, and smiled.

'Hi Coach!" I said, in a melodious kind of voice.

I pulled my sunglasses down, making sure my big brown eyes were wide as I smiled at him. I'd practiced that look in the mirror years ago.

"Hi Tammy," he said, smiling.

"Boys workin' hard?" I asked with a smiling draw.

"I make sure they do."

He tried very hard to keep his eyes on my face, at least when I was looking at him.

Russel Forbes, standing beside him, made no such effort, of course, staring at my breasts.

"I bet you could make us work harder, Tammy," he said, grinning at me.

The coach elbowed him in the stomach and Russel grunted and stumbled back a half step. He hoped to be starting quarterback someday but he was only a frosh.

"This is Mister Bradley," the coach said, nodding his head towards a large black football player type standing next to him.

I had kind of ignored Bradley. I figured him to be some kind of friend of Coach's or maybe someone's dad, but he wasn't anyone who could do anything for me. He was a nice dresser, though. I admired his suit. It said 'money'.

"Good day to you, Mister Bradley," I said with an enthusiastic smile.

He was wearing a pair of gold rimmed sunglasses, which, unless I missed my guess, were very expensive. That kept his eyes hidden, which was kind of... I don't know... menacing looking. I mean, he was big and black (and you know how violent they are) and I couldn't see his eyes. I was betting they were staring at my breasts, or what he could see through the open buttons (which was a lot).

"Girl," he said in a low, rumbling voice.

He didn't seem all that impressed, and I scowled on the inside, but didn't let it show.

"Got to be off to practice, coach," I said, strolling on.

I knew their eyes were on my ass while I walked past. I didn't have to turn to watch. I smirked to myself as I slipped my dark glasses back on and made my way down the line before turning into the dressing room where the girls were waiting.

Practice. Gah. Oh well, it was good exercise, and I wanted to keep my body in top shape.