'Dirty Little Fuck Doll' Chapter One

Due to the overwhelming popularity of this sample chapter from my 5* rated 'Dirty Little Fuck Doll', I have decided to leave it on my blog indefinitely. If you enjoy what you read below, then you can follow the links at the bottom of this post and buy the full Kindle edition from Amazon.

Part One

An explosion of warm air, caused by the back-draft of a departing train, swirled the busked rendition of Fontella Bass' 'Rescue Me' around her; as Chloe click-clacked her way down the mosaic steps of Holborn station. For a soundtrack to the beginning of her Friday night, it could hardly have been a more a fitting coincidence. She needed to be swept off her feet, to be taken in somebody's arms; she needed to be rescued from her day. Yet the rush of air, rumble of a carriage and the beat of Fontella's began to discharge the strains of her irritating day, even the frustration of the packed platform did little to mute her growing optimism of the carriage home, and a relaxing evening ahead.

Chloe Sykes was a 24 year old part-time glamour model, full-time office dogsbody. Standing at a little over five foot six (or five foot ten in those heels), she had poker straight voluminous dark hair which met the curve of her shapely back; and could easily be described as the kind of promiscuite who would prefer to be strutting around naked all day, to wasting her time with monotonous reports.

As a precursor to the excessive August heat, she dressed very slightly that morning in a profitably thin grey dress, that was enchantingly tight in the bodice and extravagantly flowing in the skirt. A style which more than complimented her Barbiesque figure. She was barely a size eight, and her waify waist aided her surgically perfected cleavage to appear even more sensational to the interested onlooker. That dress had drawn the admiration of many a male colleague during the day, yet it had also attracted a constant bitchiness and stream of derisory comments from her aging female boss.

She paused for a moment at the entrance to the crowded platform, her squinted eyes flitted around to find a suitable gap in the heated throng, she chose to go left, tick-tocking past the sweaty workers and tourists, most of whom (even the women) followed her with their inquisitively hopeful eyes. Her own child like doe-eyes, lashes matted to perfection with mascara and gradated with light blue shadow, to compliment her light grey iris', jerked listlessly around: at the attire of other women, at the branded bags they were carrying, yet mostly at men. She was vehemently obsessed with men, with everything about them: their look, style, language and mannerisms. She liked strong men, with big hands that could look after her. She liked polite and considerate men, yet ones who could revert to their primitive instincts in intimate situations. She liked taller, slightly shorter, older, younger, any shade of hair and of any financial stability. She liked men. Everything else was merely superfluous.

More people flooded on to the platform, in a mass of over and slightly dressed bodies, and pert Chloe gave them all the seductive once over. A brief glance at their shape and style could answer a thousand of her questions, except on those occasions where she deigned to discover more. But, she wasn't the kind of doll to solely venture in to bed with men of wealthy means, for her, the huge, energetic cock of a considerate lover was worth any number of expensive shopping sprees. Yet, a combination of both these attributes, would mean that those few special guys could call on Chloe whenever they felt their urgent need.

She was one of those girls with a reputation amongst her friends for being insatiably addicted to all manners of sexual adventurism, some of whom had previously joked that she should work in the sex industry, to which she cheekily replied: "I'm a slag, not a whore." Chloe Sykes simply couldn't fuck a man she didn't want, one that she didn't chemically and physically need to populate her insides; she just wanted rather a lot of them. For her, sex was never about the sensation of love between two partners, but for the love of the sensation she invariably felt when sandwiched between two kaleidoscopic orgasms, almost choking on her own tongue and vibrating to her core through sheer delight.

She was still humming the chorus she had heard on her way down the steps, as the gentle buzzing of the rails grew steadily louder, the train lit up a slight bend in the tunnel before it reached the station, with the onslaught of air flowing right through her thin All Saints dress, the refreshing breeze brought a welcome cooling sensation to her temperate body. She twisted her lips to one side and sharply exhaled through her nose, as she noticed the tightly packed carriages. It had always been the same at five-thirty on a Friday, yet Chloe the optimist never lost hope that one day, on just one occasion, she might actually enjoy her journey home. She darted on, between the exiting passengers, around over-weight tourists and amongst the robotic office workers; finding herself a Chloe sized space at the far end of the carriage.

A well dressed man in his mid to late thirties had cast an intrigued eye over Chloe, as she ducked and pushed her way through; then found himself in the fortunate position to be standing next to her. He gazed surreptitiously across at her sandy brown skin, tantalising legs and tempestuous chest, with a lascivious curiosity. She tapped her fingers against the side of her rippled skirt to Fontella's catchy riff, oblivious to the truth that she was being studiously admired.

Mark had finished work on a high that day, having met all of his sales targets for the month; targets that were set so unobtainably high, that his boss couldn't let the occasion pass without handing Mark the profiteer a handsome bonus. He felt like a king of the modern world, totally unbeatable. Just minutes before, he had been meandering down the breezeless Newgate Street with a certain animation in his step, and then he found this titillating doll to visually devour on his ride home. The minutes passed, as their bodies swayed intimately closer and closer, until it crossed his mind that if he could sell steel to the Chinese, there was a possibility he could perhaps negotiate her imaginary lace thong off, and sample her with much more than just his eyes. A thong that was imaginary in his over-sexed imagination, yet non-existent in her Friday outfit.

Mark flew forward unexpectedly, as the train braked hard into Tottenham Court Road, he caught her abruptly with his shoulder and silently cursed himself for such an act of idiotic clumsiness, as his buoyant mood was temporarily dented. But, as Chloe turned to face him, she felt an abdominal rush consume her tiny frame. Her expansive grey eyes danced confidently around his glorious physique, he had that dark floppy hair she adored. She glanced momentarily into his dark green eyes, feeling such an intrigue that she immediately decided that this would not be the only time she engaged in such an act. He was tall, with a well maintained body, perfectly obvious though his tightly fitted white shirt, and tailored sandy chinos. He clearly obtained this muscular shape from an intense fitness schedule, she thought he could probably fuck for hours. Chloe narrowed her gaze to sneak him a smile before turning back, a glow reverberating happily around her womb. Mark was buoyed again. He moved away slightly to get a better look at her, resting himself on one of those ridiculous half seats you find at the back of every carriage.

Once the train pulled into Oxford Circus, the waiting density of impatient passengers announced the imminent end of the unwanted micro-space separating the two sexual libertines. Chloe took a tiny step back, resting a Kurt Geiger either side of Mark's welcoming legs. He insidiously savoured the back of her tawny arms, and was within the zone of proximity to steal a faint whiff of her morning Chanel, mixed with the evocative odour of a girl on a baking day. The impetuous travellers continued to force their way through the doors, causing the unbearable temperature to rise even further. Chloe was squashed up against Mark, yet continued to face away from him, as her willowy form rubbed against the growing bulge in his trousers; a kittenish thought entered her playful mind.

His heart beat strong and fast, as he thought about reaching out to grab the little tease, and pull her onto him, such was the alluring effect she was inducing within him. Chloe chose her moment to pounce with perfection, once the train jerked forward to pull out of the station, she used gravity as her excuse to sink backwards into his lap. Barely a millimetre of expensive fabrics then separated their hungry genitalia. She half turned around, said "Hi", then turned away, wriggling her ass in his groin to 'get comfortable'.

"You don't mind do you?" She quizzed him, through partially squinted eyes.

"Not at all." He answered, his posh-boy London accent caused her intestines to dance around a little more. Yet he was tremendously confused by that point; was she teasing or inviting him? He still couldn't decide, whether she wanted more than a tease and somewhere to sit, or not? The train turned sharply, Mark put one of his exquisitely large hands on Chloe's slender waist to steady her. She pushed her taut flesh hard against his well groomed hand, pressing her body down on his waiting crotch. As Mark tightened his grip on her, Chloe felt the lump in his trousers grow, a fuzzy sensation blistered the surface of her skin.

The train twisted and jerked through Central London, as it made its way west. The flirtatious couple continued with their silent interlock; by then, he had both hands on her, and a semi-erect cock that was becoming increasingly eager. The worries of her day, and the hatred of her bitch-boss were but a distant memory. She had already decided that she was going to fuck Mark (although she still didn't know his name at that point), and they were going to do it repeatedly. She'd make sure of that. Just in case Mark didn't fully appreciate what she was planning, Chloe leant forwards, lifting her arse a little on one side, then slipped her hand between their purring bodies, and with a confident sense of purpose, grabbed his cock. Mark could no longer contain the emotions within him, he released a brief high pitched nasal grunt, as she rolled his swollen head between her slender forefinger and thumb; he groaned again, an old guy standing nearby turned away with a look of disgust.

Mark gripped her waist firmly, the way she liked it. Chloe was well known for her admiration of strong men, for their ability to handle her with a sense of artistry; she had never been a subscriber to the fulfilment of the deft touch. He looked up at the ceiling, trying desperately to control himself, she turned to him:

"Where are you going?"

"Ruislip." He responded, after clearing his throat.

She tilted her head slightly, pursed her lips, staring momentarily at his packed white shirt, bulging in the best possible way.

"Oh. I'm getting off at White City." She announced, lifting her eyes to meet his own adoring green gaze, yet making no effort to hide her admiring glances around his swaying body.

"Uh-huh." Mark was lost for a more cohesive response, partly due to her continual massaging of his ample bell end, and partially because this journey had become so sexually surreal, that he had difficulty concentrating on anything other than the perfect body that stood before him.

"You wanna get off with me?"

Mark could take no more of her torment, afraid of blowing his load, he span her around, looking studiously all over his propositioner's body. Her sun drenched chest almost burst its way free from the restraints of her bodice. She hadn't flinched or looked remotely uncomfortable at his aggressive handling over her. Perhaps she wasn't a tease.

He glanced at her made-up face and immaculate hair, doe-eyes meeting his gaze, she cocked her head to one side.

"Well?" She smiled, expectant of an answer. He ran his hands down her back and gripped her shapely arse, pulling her waif-like body even closer.

"You're fucking right I do!" It was as if all other sounds had fallen silent, only their own voices mattered.

"Good." She smiled, leaning into him so their foreheads touched momentarily, before she span back around, positioning her arse on top of Mark's temporarily tortured dick. This time she managed to control herself, and not grab it, but felt the warm glow of anticipation rise through her abdomen, as she dared to imagine what the evening ahead may have in reserve.

Chloe Sykes was a slag, there could never be a better way of phrasing it; a simple and concise statement that illustrated her perfectly, in the tritest of terms. It was a tag that she herself would occasionally admit to, out of a sense of her own honesty, even with a hint of pride. She began her sexual relations at a relatively young age, and right from those first encounters she knew that sex was the best possible thing to do. The satisfaction of bedding a man or boy that she wanted, the glorious sensation of an excess of Oxytocin flowing through her veins, and the magnificent rippling of the muscular contractions that rebounded around her body, helped to convince her that sex was something that should be done as often as possible. Her nick-name amongst her high-school friends was 'Fuck Doll', initiated out of her high sex drive, and the frequency of her liaisons. Although those peers themselves were hardly innocent, her immediate group of friends were known misleadingly to local boys as the 'Unfuckables'; because their young ages should dictate that they were, whereas, in appearance and practice they quite clearly were not.

Yet in spite of all her previous sexual adventures, she still tripped over a schoolgirl rush every time she conquered a man she craved. As the tube juddered its way towards White City, she uncovered an even greater level of excitement in the fact that she didn't yet know his name. They had barely even spoken, and she was going to let him (and indeed suggest that he does) do things to her that most other women could barely even imagine.

She squeezed his thigh as the train braked hard into White City; then led him off, up the stairs, out of the concourse, across Wood Lane and hailed a cab in the direction of Wormwood Scrubs.

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