Notorious has a B.I.G bad rap.
Like what attention seeking whore wouldn’t take infamy if that was the only game in town. Some ancient artist once said everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.
No way, I wanted more than a quarter hour’s attention. Fame was like my love button when I discovered it, my idea was like, I’m gonna cum forever.
It doesn’t take a savvy bitch long to realize that while good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere. And as my pearl harbours more than a quarter hour, indeed needing just so much more attention, it was sex that drove me to join the bad girls club.
My parents were reckless Kelly’s, new to Australia when they bestowed the name Edwina on their only daughter. Crap choice and I needed a diminutive to get through the blackboard jungle. So, I chose Ned, stared down anyone who said it was a boy’s name, and the reputation of this Ned Kelly started.
I became a legend in my own lifetime at Kray Brothers function centre where the school formal was held. For there I discovered that passion and unfaithful are indeed erotic thrillers.
I had a date but Forrest was no box of chocolates. Rather the home cumming queen, Frida, and her long-term boyfriend, Benny, had taken my eye. They looked in heaven, dancing check to check, young and sweet and only seventeen.
My first thought was a threesome, but then a more original sin occurred to me which quickened my pulse. How would I feel if I had the lovey-dovey committed couple in series rather than in parallel? And answering that question became the most intoxicatingly sensual quest of my life.
While you may think earth girls are easy, all my early experiences suggested that boys have less resolve. So, I decided to first attempt the whole ten yards with Frida.
When she headed for the bathroom, I said to my gossipy friend William, “Good, Will, hunting I will go.”
And after a few honeyed words, I was tasting Frida's cherry Chapstick, as she kissed a girl, and oh boy did she like it.
‘Am I or am I not a cunning linguist?’ I thought, as I slid to my knees, removed her thong and curled my tongue through her moist pussy, freshly shaved for the formal. I was having what her boyfriend was expecting and fuck it felt good.
Twirling and caressing her love button, my fingers curled into her wet pussy and I soon had cheating Frida on the brink. And she exploded drenching my face which seemed very positive feedback.
Of course, there was post-orgasmic remorse about what her boyfriend would think. But I soon silenced that by pushing her beautiful face into my pussy and promising her that no-one would ever know. Knowing full well, dear readers, that secrecy isn’t reputation enhancing, I ground out a very satisfying orgasm anticipating William, once informed, would tell tales.
And Benny was easier. A cigarette and a few words were enough to allow my mouth to slide around his engorged shaft. Then, knickers off, I encouraged him to thrust his impressive manhood into the very pussy his girlfriend had recently licked. And the most magnificent orgasm of my life was mine when he whispered the sexiest words in the English language, “Don’t tell anyone, please.”
Truly that established the pattern, the agony and the ecstasy; the agony of what seemed like mission impossible turning into the true ecstasy of mission accomplished when I fucked both halves of a couple. While I am fuzzy about who, someone had offered me a cigar that first night and I knew, as I indulged in a celebratory smoke, that the world just had to know how fucking good I was.
Home and hearth weren’t for me. I needed to hunt with the hounds, but not with any set of bitches. No, my pack was the couple tempters, loosening love’s bonds enough to seduce both. Over time, as I let details slip, my reputation grew and grew, given the looks and feedback I got in and beyond my social circles.
The day when I broke the back of the mountain that most challenges bisexual seductresses, was the day I joined notoriety’s hall of fame. I was in a designer boutique, for this devil now wears Prada, and two bohemian guys were rhapsodising on a movie about someone called Freddie.
They were hardly calling all girls, seemingly gay, but all I could think was, if I could work a little magic, another couple might bite the dust. I asked for help with dress selection for God knows I can’t resist the cliché that comes with assuming gay means good fashion sense.
Robert was under pressure when I suggested in the fitting room that I would rock him. He was amenable to having his cock sucked and then buggering me, but tipping velvet was not on his menu.
Unsatisfactory, you might think. Well no, I was so excited by the idea of adding a gay couple to my conquest list that I almost came. And then, oh boy did I cum, when Brian the other half of what turned out to be an engaged couple, said, “Don’t tell Robert,” while hammering my arse.
Despite an untouched love button, my orgasm was a supernova. I felt the divine wind of success caress my pussy and send me heavenwards.
That evening’s cigar choice was the Arturo Fuente Hemingway Work of Art, appropriate, for I was a piece of work and Hemmingway’s written art had nothing on my silky-smooth seductive arts.
For I had truly ascended notoriety’s pantheon, recognized as the bedroom larrikin, relationships my speciality. And somewhere in the afterlife, the cattle rustler Ned Kelly saluted his namesake, the bedroom poacher, as I discovered, like him, that notoriety had magically made us cultural icons, naughty, bad even, but romanticised for defying conventional rules.
God knows that is more than we both deserve. Such is life.
