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Have you ever wondered how it feels to be a beautiful girl? I bet you have unless you are one, which I assume the vast majority of you are not. Allow me to describe the experience since I am extremely well qualified.

It’s a strange deal. You get completely boxed in and defined by it. I am relentlessly stereotyped and pigeon-holed as if my visual appeal is all there is to me. I may be clever, kind, brave, funny, all of that good stuff, or of course I may not, and it matters hardly a jot. My physical assets are what command all of people’s attention. In the eyes of the world I am a ‘babe’, end of story, enough said.

My interactions with men are inauthentic and warped because when a man looks at me he sees nothing but a receptacle for his lust. Everywhere I go I am the focus of male desire, whether I want to be or not. I am forever conscious of it. Guys either ogle, eyes on stalks, or else are very obviously struggling not to. And, oh boy, if I happen to be wearing something flattering (perhaps a shortish skirt, heels, a nice feminine top) then that is sufficient to cause havoc! These salivating men don’t know me, yet this does not prevent them from making all sorts of assumptions, many of which are distinctly dubious.

As for the joys of conversation, forget it. Most guys are too intimidated to even try and converse with me. The ones who do attempt it invariably try much too hard. They lose composure and rather make fools of themselves. Men simply cannot be themselves in the presence of a girl like me. I might chat to them but they never truly listen to what I have to say, unless I’m flirting. They will pretend to be fascinated, eager as puppy dogs to make a good impression, but I know perfectly well what is really playing out in their minds. Some torrid sexual fantasy with me in the starring role! They want to screw me not discuss the price of fish.

Sometimes a guy will cut the crap and nail his colours to the mast. He will bathe me in adoring compliments, how incredibly hot I am, the sexiest girl he has ever met, I make him weak at the knees, and wow that dress, I look fabulous in it, just stunning, it really shows off my gorgeous bod, he would sooo love to get to know me better, how about a date sometime, is there any chance of that, Emma? This shit can be rather awkward to deal with, especially if the guy is so infatuated that he carries on after I’ve said no and starts kind of pleading.

More usual is that the men I meet cannot summon up the courage to proposition me, or perhaps the situation means they dare not risk it, in which case the ‘conversation’ we have is utterly phoney. Either way the whole performance is more than a little ridiculous. It’s as if I am a goddess or something rather than a normal living and breathing human being.

Things are just as twisted with my fellow females. Unless a girl is as physically appealing as me or at least in the same ballpark, which precious few are, the green-eyed monster rules. We might have loads in common, mutual passions and interests, similar sense of humour etc, but genuine friendship is out of the question.

The problem for the plain or less attractive girl hanging out with me is that she cannot help but notice the disconcerting affect I have on the male of the species, the sort of impact she would love to have herself but is sadly aware that she does not. She gets hurt and upset when the inevitable happens and all the boys, many of whom the poor girl no doubt fancies like mad, ignore her while drooling over me. Before long she succumbs to envy and resentment and she ends up hating me.

So there you go. People are blinded to the real me, the men by lust and other girls by jealousy. Hardly anyone can see me properly or understand me. Such is the lot of the drop-dead pretty girl.

How ghastly, you must be thinking. Perhaps you feel sorry for me. Well please don’t because I would not change the way I look for the world. I adore being very pretty. It’s great!

They say it’s a man’s world but that is total crap. It’s a girl’s world so long as the girl in question is young and gorgeous. If the girl is moi. I get such a buzz when I look in the mirror. It’s like winning the lottery every day! Not that I’m vain, you understand, lol.

Ok, so I can’t be friends with males or with unattractive females. Who the fuck cares? Whose problem is that? Not me and not mine. I make no apologies for being beautiful. I just am and I love it. I embrace it. I know that my beauty confers enormous power upon me and (confession time) I take great delight in using and abusing it to the max! Life is sweet.

I live in a large and opulent city centre apartment. I share it with Cindy who is my BFF as well as being my flatmate. Cindy is the same age as me and is also a babe. She has men forever falling at her feet, therefore we can relate to each other. Looks-wise she is on a par with me, both of us are straight tens. She’s blonde and I’m a brunette, making for a stylish contrast when göztepe escort we go out together, which we often do. “Wow, it’s Sharon Stone and Jessica Alba,” some guy once called out as we passed him in the street. Before our time, I have to say, but apparently that is a compliment!

We are very alike, Cindy and I, other than the obvious of being fantastic to look at. Kindred spirits. The two of us get on famously. Neither of us have jobs. Our life is 100% recreational. The gym, spa, salon, leisure club, shopping, exotic holidays, bars, clubs, restaurants, weekends away, a nice mix of all that plus generally lazing around and just chilling in our fabulous home.

Our lifestyle is ruinously expensive. The rent on the flat is eye-watering and we spend money like water. What Cindy and I shell out each month on clothes alone would feed a third world country. But you will be relieved to know that finance is not an issue for us. We are rich as well as gorgeous, lol. Both of us are from wealthy families and have a stupidly generous allowance. Not that we need to dip into it much. That would be silly when the big city is full of men who are happy to lavish their hard-earned funds on pretty young girls like us. They queue up for the privilege of spending a small fortune trying to please. So we let them. We let men pay for everything while our own bank accounts swell to overflowing as those chunky trust payments rack up. Perfecto!

Cindy and I will one day separate and settle down. We will marry handsome, monied men of the right age and background, have families and stuff. Both of us know that, of course, but it is not something we give much thought to. For now, life is about our hedonistic pleasure. Doing whatever entertains and amuses us, that is pretty much all we care about. If this sometimes involves trampling on the feelings of others, too bad. We are superior beings. We are selfish and capricious and proud of it.

A good example of what bad girls we can be is how we mistreat our male admirers. We always have several on the go at any one time. It means that we are taken on lots of dates to all these fab places but no individual guy gets to see us nearly as often as he would like. He also either knows or strongly suspects that we are dating other men in addition to him. This is all great because it keeps them super-keen. Keeps them on their toes and working hard to impress, lol.

There is a ‘type’ who we tend to play around with. The template is, old enough to be our father, married or maybe divorced, sexually frustrated. We can smell male gullibility and desperation a mile off and those guys (if they are brave enough to hit on us and if we suss that they also have money) are who we agree to date. Why? Because they are natural victims for girls like me and Cindy. They look at us with a stupefied expression as if they cannot believe the planet could contain something so amazing and wonderful. They are bewitched and bedazzled by us and therefore ripe for exploitation. Putty in our hands.

The relationship means so much more to them than it does to us. They are on a deadly mission to seduce the sort of ultra desirable young hottie that up to now they could only fantasize about, whereas for me and Cindy it is just an ego trip and a giggle. Dating these characters is a fun game for us with mucho scope for mischief! We regale each other in salacious detail with stories of how our latest forays have panned out.

Cindy and I both find it hilarious the way our suitors fuss and fawn over us. But of course we love it! We love how their hungry gaze lingers longingly on whatever nubile young flesh we happen to be revealing. We love it that other men in the place are checking us out too and wishing that they could trade places with the one we are with. We bask in all of that. It makes us wet to see the tongues hanging out, to think of not only our date’s cock but dozens of other cocks too simultaneously twitching for us.

And the envious discomfort of the women who happen to be with those appreciative men, we take a certain bitchy pleasure in that as well. The poor things simply cannot compete and they know it.

Like, if we are sitting in the vicinity of some very ordinary, mediocre looking woman who is with her husband, the hubby usually cannot help but be distracted. He will find himself snatching furtive little peeps over in our direction when he thinks that his wife is not looking. When we notice this happening we tend to just ignore it.

Sometimes, however, we might decide to be naughty. We might subtly catch his eye and smile, perhaps a little pout and a hair-flip, a slowly seductive leg-cross, send the hint that we rather like the look of hubby and that we are enjoying his attention, so please mister by all means eyeball as much as you want. With little or no further encouragement from us he will then be leering like a sleazebag all evening. Every time we shift around in our tight little skirt, dangle a shoe from our perfectly kartal escort pedicured toes, idly toy with a button on our slinky, semi-transparent blouse, he will be transfixed. So funny!

It will be cruelly obvious to the wife what he’s doing, she might be visibly upset by it, but the guy won’t care. He is owned for the evening by the exceedingly pretty girl over there, never mind that she is younger than his daughter and he doesn’t know her and she is with another guy. It’s clear that the little minx likes him admiring her and so he will. He will deal with the marital tears and recriminations later.

We secretly snigger at the megabucks our dates will throw around in their efforts to show us a good time. The gifts too. Flowers, jewellery, designer clothes, high-end lingerie, you name it. Cindy got a sports car once! That is how badly these men want to be inside our panties. We encourage the largesse, urging them on to spend more and more. You can’t really blame us, can you? If a man wants to treat a pretty girl to lunch and then take her shopping, who is she to argue? It amuses us no end, particularly where we get the impression (or even better we happen to know) that the guy is actually not that well off and cannot afford the crazy amounts he is blowing on us.

We have a laugh speculating about the trouble he might be running into. It’s such a scream to imagine his wife and kids missing out on the family holiday this summer because of that to-die-for little dress from Versace that I told him I wanted. That the funds carefully saved up and set aside for the long planned house move have instead disappeared on countless bottles of the ludicrously priced vintage champagne which Cindy always insists on ordering whenever he takes her out on the town. Poor guy must feel so guilty, lol.

Not quite guilty enough to stop seeing us, however. He is obsessed with pursuit of the lovely young thing. The notion of possessing such an alluring creature is irresistible and it blots out everything else. The girl is so damn gorgeous! She drives him crazy! He dreams of undressing her and taking her to bed. He imagines gorging himself all night long on her sumptuous body. The crying shame (or as far as me and Cin are concerned the funniest thing ever) is that he will never get to live that dream. Not one single time.

It’s true! The joke of jokes is that we refuse to put out for these saps. If we want sex, which is quite often, we will go to some bar and select a couple of random young hunks and take them back for the night. Fuck ourselves senseless and then kick them out in the morning. No numbers. No follow up. Thank you boys, that was great, close the door on your way out, yeah? That’s the MO and it works brilliantly for us. We get as much prime stiff cock as we need (more than enough!) and are free to just amuse ourselves with the older men who take us out. Doesn’t matter how many dates or how much they spend on us. Doesn’t matter about all the expensive presents. It’s no dice. Like, I’m seeing half a dozen at the moment and I’m not sleeping with any of them. Nor do I plan to. Ditto Cindy.

All the suckers get from us is blue balls and an empty wallet. The reason we go out with them is that we like dressing up and being taken to expensive trendy establishments by desperate schmucks who we know for an absolute fact want more than anything in the world to have sex with us. And the more they want it, the more fun it is to deny them, lol!

Why do they put up with it? Simple. Gorgeous looking young girls can get away with anything when it comes to sexually frustrated, middle-aged men. That is the way of the world. It’s a basic law of human biology.

A guy takes me or Cindy out a dozen times and gets nada. He’s spent thousands wining and dining us in all the best places and on each occasion the only solace for his angry dick at the end of the night has come from either his fat wife or his own sweaty palm. Ok he is getting a little antsy, sure he is, but we keep on artfully feeding him these tiny slivers of encouragement, subtle little hints that maybe next time could just possibly be when ‘it’ finally happens, and hey presto he comes back for more! He might even suspect that we could be playing him but the prize (the prospect of sliding between our legs) is too great to give up on. He is locked in.

It’s unfair and rather cruel, I know, stringing men along like we do. It is also immensely enjoyable! We get them in thrall and on heat and then we toy with them, keep them nicely on the bubble, tormented by the close but unattainable, hoping and hoping but forever in vain.

We’re good at it too. You could definitely say that torturing men is a speciality of ours. Practice makes perfect, I guess, lol. We can play a guy like a Stradivarius even as we are messing with him.

The point is to make him suffer as much as possible. Dating a gorgeous sexy girl with no sex allowed, that is tough for a man, and we do things calculated maltepe escort to make it worse for him. Like, we make sure to be dressed to thrill when we meet up. We will rock up in some incredibly skimpy and provocative little dress (the sort of thing that is downright incendiary on a girl like me or Cindy) and will proceed to flirt outrageously with our date all evening. So ok, he might never get a fuck, but what he does get from us is a non-stop hard-on. Poor guy, can you imagine?

We really do put them through the wringer. We’re evil!

There will be arch remarks and enigmatic smiles and lots of girlish giggling. There will be no shortage of insinuating eye contact. There will be the tossing of lustrous hair and much pouting and moistening of full, glistening lips. There will be footsie under the restaurant table, and before that in the bar the languorous crossing and re-crossing of tauntingly exposed, smooth silky thighs. There will be a generous display of oh-so-tempting cleavage, perhaps from a certain angle the tantalizing glimpse of a pert nipple.

There will be hands touching arms and the brushing of legs. At some point gentle feminine fingers may wander and ‘accidentally’ come across something trapped and rigid. Just a fleeting touch but sufficient to trigger no end of carnal thoughts.

At close of play, a prolonged passionate snog with insistent tongues and urgent straying hands, before the maddening girl calls time and a crushing “goodnight then, baby, call me next week, ok?” or similar is whispered softly into the man’s ear. “Um, right, ok,” he mumbles, consumed by lust and choked with the disappointment of yet another date coming to nothing.

A final brief but smoochy farewell kiss and that is it.

As the girl turns and waves, she relishes the agonized look on her suitor’s face. There is a glint in her eye and a barely supressed smile of sadistic satisfaction. She knows that her merciless teasing has heightened the brutality of this moment. She savours the miserable predicament of her hapless victim as he stands there waving forlornly back at her. LOL!

She has all the power. And being a pricktease is such fun! She knows that the poor man is simply gagging to make love to her. She knows that he will be spending every waking moment between now and the next time thinking about it. Thinking about her.

And there always is a next time until the day dawns when we are so utterly bored with a guy that we decide to end it.

Dumping them is something else that Cindy and I really enjoy and have down to an art form. We have many different ways of doing it, most of them extremely cruel, lol.

The junking process can be quick or it can be long and drawn out. It all depends on our mood and the particulars of the situation. I won’t go into chapter and verse (it would take far too long!) but to give you a flavour, the last one Cindy terminated was just in this last week and so let me tell you about that.

The guy has been married for twenty years and had been seeing Cindy for less than six weeks. However, those few short weeks were sufficient for him to develop and declare an undying love for his stunning new ‘girlfriend’ and (on just their fourth date) he presented Cindy with a large diamond and sapphire ring and asked how would it be if he were to follow his heart, throw caution to the winds, and leave his wife and family for her?

Cindy screamed with delight at both of these things. She said the ring was fabulous, thanks so much honey, and that she would absolutely love it if the guy did that. It would make things so much easier for the two of them, she said.

She told me all of this when she came home that night and we could not stop giggling about it.

On their next date (number five) the guy announced that he had done it. He had told his wife about Cindy and his marriage was over and finito. He had moved out of the house and into a hotel, he said. Cindy asked him to prove it and he showed her his hotel key. Proved nothing except that he had taken a hotel room, Cindy said. No flies on Cindy.

So the guy then showed her an email from his wife, a long and tortuous note where she told him exactly what she thought of him running off with some bimbo, and told him to not even think about ever coming back. So that was that. Divorce in train, top dollar alimony and she would keep the house, he could see the kids once a month. Goodbye and good riddance. Yep, the guy had done it alright!

Cindy told him how pleased and just how incredibly flattered she was. At the end of the evening she deftly turned down his ardent request that she return to his hotel and spend the night, but she did give him the longest, sexiest goodnight smooch thus far by miles, and said how she couldn’t wait to see him again very soon so that they could make plans. Call me tomorrow, baby, she told him.

That date was a few days ago and unfortunately for the suitor in question Cindy has decreed it to be the last. She messaged him the following morning (“change of plan, babe, so sorry – you take care!”) and then went incommunicado. Her phone was inundated with texts and voicemails from the poor man and after three days of being bombarded Cindy blocked his number.

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