Or so I thought. I slipped on a tee shirt that clung to my torso and a pair of (now) micro shorts, and went out on my morning jog. I passed a tattoo...parlour and found myself jogging back to it, and hovering outside the window. While I struggled internally, the suggestions won over, and I went into the shop. All my worst fears were going through my mind, and they came out - I blurted to the guy inside that I wanted the fithiest piercing imaginable. He gave me a wry look, and then played. "Honey, it seems I put you in this position when I put those things in your purse, so, yes, I guess you should at least go back to his place with him." "Really?" she said trying to sound serious, but I thought I could also hear a little excitement in her voice when she asked that. There was silence as I struggled to think of what to say next and then she just simply asked, "and I should let him, fuck me?" Damn, why was she doing this. Making 'me' spell it out for her. She was making me be the. More

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