‘Is this it?’ asked Jane in mock incredulity when we took our place at the end of a none-too-long line (as they call it in the States) leading int... The Cross: a club whose undistinguished entrance was guarded by well-muscled black bouncers in unadorned sleeveless tee-shirts. From inside came a muffled thud of what could have been any kind of music: maybe, we were hoping, something good. The other people in the line were mostly like the two girls I’d got directions from and I was now more. Then there was the knowing disapproval that I’d rocked up to the diner in my school issue thigh highs, wearing grubby, laceless sneakers. But it would always come back to the dress - one so short that when I bent over you could see the glistening shimmer of my arousal sparkling on the bald lips of my young, bare cunt. I smirked to myself. He’d nailed my panties to the bedroom wall of his apartment, right before he’d nailed me. ‘That’s art baby, that’s art.’ - was what he’d said.She’d pretend to. More

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