Chapter One

 

My name is Jamie. I'm writing this story to tell you what can happen when you trust the wrong people, when you put your life in their hands without knowing a whole lot about what's going on in their minds. I made that mistake, and paid heavily for it.

Or, at least, I think I did.

The experience has changed me so much I find it hard to know now whether it ended up good or bad.

I guess I should start by telling you a little about myself. First, I'm a rich girl, always have been, and yeah, I guess I was pretty spoiled. I was always coddled and told how pretty and smart I was, and given anything my heart desired.

I had a trust fund that kicked in when I hit twenty-one, so I never had to work at anything. I didn't have the kind of mind that would allow me to just lay around the house, though, so set out to find something to do.

First, I opened a hobby and craft store. Why? Well, like I said, I didn't need money, so I decided to do something that I liked. Well, the little store took off, and boy did the profits roll in. I expanded, first upwards, to the second floor of the building I was, in, then the third, and fourth, and finally down to the basement. It got to be a really big place.

It was in an old four story building that was on the edge of seedy. I bought the place and had it renovated. I rented out the apartments above the street to yuppies, and opened a flower store, a music store, and art store, and a cafe on the ground floor, to go with my crafts and hobbies store.

On the top floor I had my place, in the renovated attic. It ran the length of the building and had big skylights and huge fireplaces.

Anyway, that was what I was doing for a living. I was doing pretty well too. I mean, here I was a twenty-three year old woman who'd never been to college (I hated school), and was employing dozens of people and making a high six figure income.

Not bad, huh?

In my personal life I had a lot of friends and interests. Most of my friends were men. I guess I just got along better with them than with women. I liked to talk sports and argue politics, and could do it for hours.

I did have a few women friends, but frankly, I found most women pretty weak willed, and way too interested in make-up and clothing and diets. Besides, women didn't seem to take to me very well.

I think it's jealousy, frankly.

See, I'm the kind of women that other women seem to find threatening. I'm better than good looking, though I wouldn't call myself beautiful exactly. Men tend to give me long, careful looks.

I think it's my personality they like, though, was well as my looks. Like I said earlier, I get along with men really easy.

I'm a blonde, a real blonde, not a dyed blonde, and despite the cliché', I'm no dumb bimbo, and refuse to act, dress, or be treated like one.

My hair is straight and a somewhat longer than shoulder length. Women have told me I should curl it, but shit, no way am I going to sit in a hairdresser's chair for two or three fucking hours while my hair is played with.

Anyway, my hair looks fine as it is. I blow dry it so it's thick and rich, part it on the right side, and sweep it across the top of my head. It usually stays where I want it, so I leave it alone.

My face has always been a problem. It's a total lie. It's soft and cute and sweet, and not at all an indication of what kind of person I am. It looks young and innocent, neither of which I ever really was. I have large blue eyes, a tiny snub nose, and full, sensuous lips.

When people describe me they do not call me gorgeous or beautiful or ravishing. They call me adorable, and cute, and sweet. One bitch even said I looked precious. It's a great face if you're a cheerleader in junior high and want people to pat you on the head all the time.

I have a tall, powerfully built body...

Okay, that's bullshit, wishful thinking. I'm about average height... maybe a little less than average height, and I loath exercise. Someone gave me one of those weight machines and said I could make myself look like Linda Hamilton, you know, at her Terminator Two stage? I put it in storage. Who needs muscles when you've got money?

Anyway, my body was pretty good, pretty fit. That comes naturally. I've always had a really small waist, and no matter what I eat I never seem to put on weight. I have pretty good legs, a really nice ass, and good, firm breasts, thirty-six-C, which is average, right? Well, maybe a bit more.

Frankly, breasts are a pain. The bigger they are, the more they get in the way, but if they're too small you kind of feel inferior. Mine are okay, it'd be a lot more comfortable to be as flat chested as a boy, but I know I'd be self-conscious.

One thing they're good for, of course, is sex. Some women I know say they get no real pleasure out of their breasts during sex. I do. After just a little stroking and caressing and squeezing they get really swollen and feel kind of... tight and hot, and incredibly sensitive to the touch, especially the nipples. I've come just from guys playing and suckling at my breasts.

Well, okay, maybe I was squeezing my thighs together too.

Anyway, I'm considered pretty good looking, let's put it that way. The guys like my looks and attitude, the women hate both.

I usually don't wear dresses or skirts. Maybe I have a complex from seventh grade when Jimmy Fraser pulled my skirt up in the hallway at school. I hadn't been wearing any underpants and boy was that humiliating.

I still don't like to wear underpants. I do sometimes, when I'm feeling sexy, say. Then I wear something filmy and lacy and sensuous.

Mostly I only wear a bra under my clothes. I wear jeans and shirts when I'm being casual, and other times I wear suits, not mannish things but bright pastels and shimmering silks, good looking blazers and pants.

Anyway, this whole thing started because of a dumb magazine article. The guy I was going with, Joey Cooper, had read that the longer you went without sex the better your orgasm would be when you let go. By sex they meant masturbation too. So both of us decided to do without for a week, not fucking, no masturbating.

Then we had a fight and broke up, leaving me horny. I know I could have just masturbated, but I was still kind of curious about whether that magazine article was right, and I wanted to find out with a cock, not my fingers.