Hipster Intelligence Agency

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Heartbreakers V

Little Miss

Little Miss

Dum-dum. Dum-dum. I’m playing the two lowest notes on the piano. Get it? The Jaws theme. I’m just being an ass.

Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Little Miss Fuck and Run is looking at me. I couldn’t tell you if she was trying to smile or not, because of the ball gag and tape, but her eyes were twinkling. The piano is one of those short upright numbers, like something out of some honky-tonk somewhere, and Little Miss Fuck and Run is sort of leaned over the back, each hand tied with a few feet of rope to the piano legs at the front. She’s standing, supporting her weight on her legs, but a bit off balance, sometimes resting her chest on the top. I’m in front of the piano, playing around. I lean down and kiss her forehead.

“Little, this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you. Ha ha, just kidding. It is going to hurt you, though.

We had sort of snuck into the clubhouse to play this game. It’s a big hall, with an echo. Perfect. I’m wearing a t-shirt, jeans and my boots. Little Miss Fuck and Run is wearing the same, essentially, her ratty jeans and a t-shirt, I had already made her take her bra off. And she’s wearing these worn out dirty white sneakers.

Dum-dum. Dum-dum.

It's like playing any instrument, really.

It’s like playing any instrument, really.

You see, lots of people get turned on by elegant outfits, women in beautiful gowns and dresses, elaborate jewelry. I get it, no doubt. I love the High Protocol game as much as anyone. But I learned something a while back, during the summer in San Francisco, when my buddy had brought Punkette around. Punkette was some 21 year old blondie, with perfect tits and a great ass, and porcelin white skin. She dressed like shit. Jeans, hoodies, sneakers. At least she didn’t fuck with her hair. Nose ring, too many earrings, that sort of thing. Girls like her, what they are is something beautiful in an unattractive wrapper. They look like a dirty crusty from the outside, but once the clothes come off you have in your hands some perfect, stunning young woman. The fact they are wrapped in shitty clothes makes the moment when you unwrap them all the sexier. So my buddy had invited Punkette over, they ring the doorbell, I open it, there’s my buddy and Punkette. The very second Punkette and I look at each other, there’s that recognition. It’s non-verbal communication. I guess the message being communicated is, “let’s fuck sooner rather than later.”

Punkette: A Beautiful Product in an Ugly Wrapper

Punkette: A Beautiful Product in an Ugly Wrapper

Well, a bit of vodka and a few joints later, I start up the game. My buddy is drinking too fast and starts to doze off. I tell Punkette we should order a pizza, and call them up. Don’t remember how it started but I tell her, when we answer the door for the pizza man, take your shirt off, so you’ll just being wearing your bra. We’ll give the guy a story to tell later. Her eyes flash, a naughty smile crosses her face. She’s game. Game on. So when the doorbell rings, we go to the door, she pulls off her shirt, she’s just standing there in her jeans and bra when I open the front door. Punkette just has a huge smile on her face. The pizza guy takes a second to register it, his face turns a bit red, he’s doing his best not to check out her amazing rack, takes the money and leaves. I close the door, Punkette and I crack up. She puts her shirt on, we go have pizza, drink a bit more, than go into the other room, start grabbing each other and pulling each others clothes off. Nude, she doesn’t look like a Punkette at all, more like a Venus.

So anyway, I wander back around the piano to behind Little Miss Fuck and Run. I pull her t-shirt up and start tracing my finger down her spine, playing each vertebrae as if it was a key on the piano. From just under her neck to the crack of her ass. When I make it about to the small of her back, her whole body shivers. Then I do it again. I reach around and feel up her nipples, squeeze each one hard. That’s when she starts moaning.

“Mmm-mmm. Mmm.”

The Game

The Game

Her breathing is getting heavy now. I’m standing behind her and reach around her waist and unbutton her jeans, and pull them down to her ankles. She wearing these plain white panties. I put my foot between her legs and kick her feet apart a little bit more until the jeans are tight around her ankles. I stroke her ass a bit. Magnificent. Like a sculpture. I’m starting to feel it now, now I’m starting to breathe heavily. This is really turning me on.

“Ok.”

“Mmmm.”

I grab her panties and pull them down to just below her knees. Holy fuck I’m getting hard now. There she is, bared assed, bound and gagged, bent over the piano and I’m already going out of my head. I grab the “paddle” from the top of the piano. It’s just a wooden cutting board broken in half long-ways. I rub it against her butt, and she inhales through her nose quickly, holds her breath for a second. I can see her legs flinch, her sqeezing her butt, and she turns her head half around to try to look at me.

Smack!

“Mmmmh! Mmmmh!” She’s panting now. She bends her left knee and sort of kicks her foot up behind her. Oh god, that involuntary movement, that reflex, it makes me so fucking hot. I’m straining against my jeans now.

Smack! Smack!

“Mmmmmm.” She’s breathing in and out, heavily. She’s got her left foot on her toes, twisting it around, then sort of dances and throws her weight on her right foot. Trying to pull her legs apart, then closing them together, tightening her ass.

Honestly, the jeans around her ankles, the shitty sneakers, the panties just below her knees, half bent over. It’s a good look for her. Fuck this is making me hard.

Smack!

“Mmmmmmmh!”

I reach between her legs and feel her up. She’s soaked. She moans and starts jerking her ass front to back, rubbing against my hand really fast.

Fuck I can’t take much more of this, I’m about to explode.

So I’m on the phone with Crazy Bitch and she says, “hey I got a job for you. Interested?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Well I met this guy at a networking function, said he was looking for blah blah, isn’t that what you do?” Interesting, I think. “Yeah. He asked you? That’s odd.”

She goes on, “yeah, it was. We met and he took a bunch of us out for lunch a few days later. But it really seemed like he was mostly interested in talking to me.” “Oh,” I sort of chuckle, “maybe he was hitting on you?” I sort of grin to myself.

“No I don’t think so. It was like he wanted to talk to me, and when I mentioned you as a possible candidate, he got really interested.” She paused, then continued, “he says he’s looking for someone ASAP.”

“Hmm,” I say, “it’s just weird he would ask you about blah blah. You’re not even in the industry.” “Whatever,” she says, “are you interested or not?” “Sure,” I say. “Give me his number.” I type it all down in the laptop. We chat a bit more.

Conspiracy.jpg

“So, what have you been up to? Or into, I should say. Are you seeing anyone?” She pauses.

“Oh yeah, I’m playing games with some 22 year old college student I met near campus. She’s tied up in my bedroom right now.”

“Ha ha, you wish. Um, are you? For real? I met some guy at the Zuccotti Park thing.”

“Oh dear lord, don’t catch anything. You, of all people, I would figure would rather be trying to pick up one of the Wall Street guys. Slumming it, I see.”

“Heh. You know politics turns me on. Remember the fundraiser at the Plaza?

God, I thought to myself, visions of the security goons fresh in my mind. “Don’t remind me. I have to go. Thanks for the tip. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Bad ThingsJace Everett

dirty-girls-sneakers

4 comments on “Heartbreakers V

  1. Hipster Racist
    October 26, 2013

    Reblogged this on Hipster Racist.

  2. Pingback: Heartbreakers VI | Hipster Intelligence Agency

  3. Pingback: The Life and Times of Hipster Racist | Hipster Racist

  4. Pingback: Whisperer’s Tale 2 | Hipster Intelligence Agency

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