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Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.
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Lucy Learns Her Lesson
A little over six months ago, I was doing a little shopping at the Big Peaks mall, shamelessly taking advantage of Galen--the store clerk at the designer clothing store who was, completely justifiably, one hundred percent in love with everything about my gorgeous, endlessly sexy eighteen year-old body.
"How does this look on me, do you think?"
Galen gaped at me, trying to form some semblance of a coherent response.
It was a silly question, of course, asking how those skintight knee-high brown leather boots looked on my hot, young teenage legs. It was a silly question, just like asking how my sexy, tiny, tight pleated blue denim skirt looked with the way it molded over my hot ass, or how my pink tank top looked on top of my perky, full eighteen year-old 36DD titties.
They're silly questions, of course, because I knew the answers--fabulous. Perfect. Wonderful. Stupendous. Amazing. All of the above.
They're all silly questions, but I asked them anyway. It was fun to make the store clerk stare, straining with his clear erection pressing against his khakis, stuttering out an answer.
"J-j-just wonderful, Lucy. Stupendous. Amazing. Perfect." He was practically drooling.
You see? I told you.
I posed in front of the mirror, lifting up the thick mass of my dark, effortlessly sexy hair. I blew a kiss, and then wink, my blue eyes sparkling. Tall, busty, and brunette, I could have been a model if I wanted--if it wasn't so easy for a babe like me not to have a job at all, that is. When guys just give you stuff for being hot, why even try to work? My Uncle Michael especially gave me more stuff and money than anybody--and he practically owned the town.
"Oh, lovely," I said, stepping away from the mirror. "You'll put my old pair of shoes in the bag with the rest of my goodies?"
"Of course, Lucy." He rushed off to do as I said.
Whenever Galen was on duty in the store by himself, I made sure to swing by and give him a visit. He closed down the shop for me, turning away anyone else who wanted to buy something. His love for me, he said often, was perfect and eternal. He'd wait for me for as long as I needed.
As far as I was concerned, that would be forever and ever. He didn't seem to mind that much when I laughed in his face--several times, over and over--whenever he asked me out or wondered when we would be together. It was sort of tough to build up any respect for such a pushover.
At the front of the store, he handed me my bag, eyes wide and staring down my cleavage. I could tell, already, that he was planning on how to jack off to my image later on--probably right after I left. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the thought of a man being so helpless before my beauty.
"Thanks so much, sweetie," I purred. "You've really been a big help."
"Yeah, um, Lucy? So, I know like, it goes on the tab? But my manager, he's been a-asking these questions, and like--"
"Oh, sweetie." I waved a hand, taking the bag and stepping away. "I'm a little short on cash right now. You can take care of all that for me, can't you?"
"I-I can?"
"Of course you can. You're so smart. You could get rid of those records...or even pay the bill yourself!"
"There's...there's over a thousand dollars of merchandise, Lucy, in that bag...and all the other bags totals up to like...s-so much."
"Gosh, does it? You're so nice to pay it for me."
I slipped my hand onto his shoulder, putting my big breasts extraordinarily close to his face. I knew he was inhaling my sweet, sultry scent. He could probably draw my lips, so sexy and plump, from memory at that point.
"I'd owe you big time if you took care of that, sweetie."
"Yeah," he said, staring down my cleavage. I giggle, just to give him a little more to look at. My titflesh bounces rhythmically in front of his face. "Yeah, okay. Okay. Sure, Lucy. I can...I can handle it."
"I
knew
you could, sweetie. Bye now!"
And just like that, I strutted out of the store with a bag full of free merchandise in my hands.
What. A. Loser.
I was, and probably am still, without a doubt, the hottest babe in town. Being eighteen only makes me the hotter. There's something magical about an incredibly hot young babe who knows just how hot he is.
Men really do fall all over themselves to see me smile--and I've got a killer smile. I practiced for ages in front of the mirror, making it just the right combination of sultry, sweet, and promising. If they would just do this one little thing for me, I'd make all their dreams come true.
I really couldn't help but feel like I was the Queen of the world, totally untouchable. And I knew, unequivocally, that there wasn't anything in my town or my life that wasn't going to go my way.
Not ever.
As it turns out, that thought was maybe a little over-indulgent.
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That day, I came home to my fabulously large house, exiting out of my fun red sports car and crossing over the enormous emerald green lawn, to find my Uncle Michael home already, waiting for me in the den.
This was a bit unusual--he was often never home in the middle of the day, not even on a Saturday, like it was that day. He was, and is, incredibly wealthy, and had to (as he reminded me so often) work every single day to create and maintain that wealth.
It didn't just come from thin air, after all.
This is what he said to me, all the time, due to my flippancy with his money.
As far as I was concerned, though, flippancy and wealth went together. I was a superhot eighteen year-old goddess. Why
wouldn't
I be flippant with wealth? It was totally fucking hot and fun to buy an amazing four-figure outfit and then only wear it once before tossing it in the trash, and he could completely afford it, so why not?
He had started working very young, buying an aging factory that put together shoes or boots or jeans or something. Over time, he had entirely refitted to produce computer parts--complicated technology that could be used in smartphones and GPS units and so on. The wealth flowing out from this allowed him to start buying up the whole town, just because he could. All the money a person spent in the area went back to him eventually, one way or the other--whether through rent, commerce, or the bank.
So yeah, obviously, the whole house was my Uncle Michael's. I had started to live with him a few years before, after my mother and stepfather both got locked up for participating in an elaborate insurance fraud scam. I still see them once a month or so, on separate visits--the male prisoners all call my name, some of them jerking off openly as they watch me arrive. I'd be lying if I said that didn't turn me on--knowing I inspire such a reaction in men who are helpless to do anything about it. That's how I felt about most men.
Anyway, living with Uncle Michael had been a breeze. He let me get away with whatever I want. He's my stepfather's brother--the smarter brother, apparently--and was just as completely in lust with me as the rest of the world. He was, I was sure, totally wrapped around my pinky finger.
Sitting in the chair--his back straight, his legs crossed--it was easy to get a good look at him. He was a large man in his late forties, tall and naturally bulky, with a thick head of dark hair. That day, he had a five o'clock shadow creeping around the edges of his jaw and chin. He had on a navy suit, tailored just-so to fit snug on his form, and a white shirt that had been unbuttoned near the top. His tie was on the floor next to him.
"Have a seat, Lucy," he said, waving his hand at the ottoman in front of him.
I raised an eyebrow, not really believing him. "Is there not a chair for me?"
