WARNING: This story is an act of fiction that contains graphic sexual descriptions and language. If you are a minor (under 21) or if you are offended by this kind of material then you should stop reading now. Any resemblance between this story and a real event is purely coincidental. The participants are imaginary; their actions have no negative consequences other than those portrayed in the story. The story is intended for entertainment only and should not be emulated in the real world.
AT 25, Laura Windslow wasn't suffering financially. Her job as a free-lance book-publishing editor saw to that little matter. Socially, was another story altogether. She was a dud in the attracting men category. And she knew it.
Book publishing. That fits me, she thought more times than not, the bookworm. The little dull as dishwater bookworm.
Her cat jumped up on her lap. "Wiggy, don't you ever get tired of all this excitement?" She giggled. "You don't give a rat's ass, do you Wiggy? It's not just another lonely, boring night to you, oh, no, to you it's just another day of living. How do you do it, old Wig? Day after day, the same old shit. Don't you ever want to break out and raise some hell? Go catting, ha ha, about town? Screw everything with fur you can get your little paws on?
I forgot. Those days are long behind you, old Wig." She scratched him behind the ears, and enjoyed his purring.
"Oh, well, Wiggy Waggy, maybe the Halloween party tonight will lead to something romantic. Oh, that reminds me, I haven't even looked at the costume Margo dropped off for me. She said I'd get a real hoot out of it. Hoot! She probably got me an owl suit! Fits my bookworm image, don'tcha think, Wig?" Wig just purred, not giving a hoot about much of anything.
She got up, and went to get the big box the costume was packed in, with Wiggy tagging along. She noticed something she hadn't spotted before. A tag. It read: Crafty Costumers: 1 costume: Streetwalker.
"Mmm, streetwalker, Wig. It looks as if Margo has gone round the bend. Oh, well, at least it's not a freaking owl. Or a worm!" She opened the box, and there it all was. A streetwalker's dream come true.
Black fishnet stockings. A black garter belt. A fire engine red mini-skirt. A white, see-thru midi-blouse that looked as if it would end just below the breasts, leaving the navel out there for all to see. White, see-thru panties, as if that was necessary. And a wig, a black, frizzy wig. It needed a brushing up. And a black corset. That's a mistake, she thought, it's not needed with a red mini-skirt. The box was now empty.
"What, no knee-high boots? Wiggy, what hooker worth her salt would leave the house without her tall boots on? Sheesh, Wig, I'll just have to use my own. Yeah, right, Wig, as if I'd ever be caught dead in this costume." She put everything back into the box. "Margo, you idiot, why couldn't you have found me an owl?"
She went into the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of wine. Red Burgundy wine. She looked down at her feet. There was Wiggy. Old Faithful. She went to the couch, and plopped into it, being careful not to spill the wine. Old Faithful Wig was right there with her, sitting next to her, waiting patiently for a rub.
She took a good sip, and said, "What are we gonna do, Wig? The party is tonight. Where am I gonna get a new costume in time? Shit, I can't go as I did last year, as a corked-faced hobo. I'd be laughed out of town... again!" She giggled at Wiggy, rubbed his head, and took another healthy sip. The wine was starting to feel nice, so she took another good sip, and felt its warmth spread through her.
"Wiggy, Wiggy, Wiggy, it looks like our old goose is cooked. It's either beg off the party, or, brrrr, do some streetwalking." She scratched his head. "Whatcha think, Wig? Stay home or go out hooking?" She giggled again, and took another good sip. She was feeling giddy. And a tad daring.
She got up, found the costume box again, and emptied its contents onto the sofa in one fell swoop. She threw off her robe, removed her bra, and, just for kicks, put on the black corset, and the stockings, and the garter belt. She picked up the black wig, crammed it onto her head, and went over to the hall mirror for a peek. She took a black sweater from a hat rack, and draped it loosely over her shoulders.
My, God, she thought, is that really me? Just the wig had made her face look different somehow, and strange looking.
"Wig," she said, her eyes glued to the weird mirror image. "You know, with a little carefully applied makeup, and with my contacts in, shit, my own mother wouldn't know me!" Creative possibilities were now running rampant through her mind.
She walked briskly to the couch, took a good gulp of the wine, and hastened to try on the rest of the outfit. In less than ten minutes, she was ready for another peek in the hall mirror. She approached it slowly, as if afraid of what she might see in it.
"Holy shit, Wiggy, I don't recognize me!" It was true. The woman in the mirror looked absolutely nothing like the bookworm Laura. In fact, and in all truth, the word streetwalker was way too mild a term, for staring back at Laura now, was the sluttiest, trampiest, hooker whore imaginable. It was a transformation that was both scary and intriguing at the same time.
"Wiggy, I'm gonna do it! Why not? It's wicked, and it's wild, and it's not me, but shit, Wiggy, where has looking like goody two-shoes gotten me? And who knows? Maybe it will make Ken notice me a bit more. Ha ha. The only time he notices me is when he feeds you, and waters my plants when I have to go out of town. Shit, Wiggy, at least he pets you!" She pouted at the cat. Then gave him a quick head rub.
Ken, Ken White, her next-door neighbor. A sweet, lovable guy if ever there was one. And a hunk in the looks department, too. Laura would be the first to admit she had a schoolgirl crush on Ken, but she would only admit it to herself. He was so different from the one and only boyfriend she once had. That schmuck. The lying rat. Tells a girl he loves her, takes her cherry, and says ciao, baby, sayonara, adios, goodbye. The bum.
She was glad she no longer pined after him, as she had for that long year after their breakup. But she knew she had only replaced that loser with someone else to pine for. And he lived just next door. But at least he didn't seem a loser.
She removed the outfit, took a shower, and brushed the wig. She put the costume back on, but took greater pains this time in getting it just right. Then, it was mirror time again.
She looked. Amazing! She felt like a new woman, a wild and wanton woman. A lady of the evening, in all her lusty glory. She smiled at the image, half expecting it to wink at her. When it didn't, she fixed that by winking at it. Now it winked back! The dirty slut.
She had thirty minutes. She'd call a cab in ten. She poured a half glass of the red, and swigged merrily away. Crazy thoughts entered her head. She wanted to shake up the world a bit with her new look. So she decided not to wear a coat over the outfit. She could hardly wait to see the face on her doorman, Carlos, and the cabby's face, too. How wickedly delicious!
She called for the cab, and started for the door. A last quick glance in the hall mirror convinced her she was, indeed, totally crazy. But she was having fun now. She rode the elevator down, hoping someone would see her. No one did. Shit! No one. Not even that nosy Parker, Mrs. Goldberg.
Carlos was a bummer, too. He wasn't at his station. Shit! Then came the cabbie. Shit! He paid her no mind at all. Shit, she thought, he must see a ton of hookers in his daily work. I'm just number eighty-four for tonight. Shit!
Oh, well, she thought, wait'll they get a gander at me at the party...
LAURA got out of the cab, and soon realized the dumb ass cabbie had dropped her off at the wrong block, and she was two blocks short of her end destination.
She started to walk, with the high boots pinching her toes without mercy, and saw a middle-aged man standing in front of a brownstone. He looked neatly dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, and was of average height and weight. To her, he did not look the least bit threatening.
As she approached him, he said, "Hi, doll, how much? I live right here, so we won't have far to travel." He smiled at her, and patted his back pocket.
"I'm not... " Oh, my God, she thought, he thinks I'm a hooker! The outfit. Then a thought hit her, a wild and nasty thought. She smiled back at him, a sensuously seductive kind of smile, and said, "I'm not working just yet, mister, but a quickie will cost ya... say fifty. OK?" Oh, my, she thought, this is so naughty of me. Was fifty too much? Too little? Should I tell him I'm only funning with him? Or should I... ?
"Forty." he said, flatly. Should I haggle, she thought? She decided not to. She was on thin enough ice as it was. Should I? Dare I... ?
"All right, but as I said, a quickie." He nodded, and turned to go up the stairs. She followed him, feeling absolutely exhilarated. Thoughts flew through her mind: I can't believe what I'm doing! Sex with a total stranger! Sex! Oh, my God! He's going to actually fuck me! Do I ask for the money up front? Will he expect me to suck him off? Oh, God, I'm getting wet! This is too insane! Why am I doing this?
.... There is more of this story ...