Of Mardi Gras and Beads
(aka: Nice Tits)
The Mardi Gras beads hung around her throat like a priest’s collar, or so I found myself thinking when she refused to lift her shirt. Damn, was I disappointed. It would have been more effective giving them to her friend, who was not quite as hot. But one cannot take the choices back, once made. After all, on the outside chance that I’d get to see those tits, I was happy to have made the choice I did. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, huh?
I kind of shrugged, and then turned to go, when she grabbed me by the arm. Pulling me in close, she whispered into my ear, gently nibbling as she did so, “Still want to see my tits, sailor?”
I nodded, and she began to drag me through the crowd to a doorway. As I wondered what brought this change on, I was drawn into the darkness.
In the blackness there, we stumbled up a flight of stairs, and I heard a fumbling of keys. She obviously found the right one, because the door swung open, and I was pulled into the room, and immediately deeper into the apartment.
We stopped at the end of a long hall, and she asked, “Ready for this, sailor?”
I nodded in dumb agreement.
She smiled a mischevious smile, and shoved the door open. There, at the other end of the room was a cage.
Inside the cage were two tits. And you should have seen them!
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