Journalist Izzy Renwick writes a mischievous blog under the pseudonym Missy Misdemeanour. Going undercover as a flight stewardess to investigate the "Mile High Club", she hooks up with the gorgeous Henry Hopper, known to her fellow stewardesses as Mr Remarkable. As the sparks fly between them high above the Atlantic, Izzy comes to understand that Henry is indeed remarkable in and out of the bedroom but when he finds out she intends writing about his deeds he pulls the plug and walks away. Is this the end of the line for Missy Misdemeanour, or can she write herself a happy ending?
Release date:
August 8, 2013
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
65
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In the beginning there was the chicken and the egg, but who came first is a mystery. Thinking about another mystery, am I horny now because I’m wearing the sexy black lingerie or was I horny before? It is a dilemma. It’s probably the most important dilemma of my life because without the sexy black lingerie Missy Misdemeanour would never have existed and without her this story would have remained floating around cyberspace without substance or a real identity and that would have been a shame. Perhaps, dear reader, we need a history lesson. We need to go back to the beginning. We need to go back to the beginnings of my beautiful creation and, like all good stories that happen in my life, sex is at the very core. So, if you will allow me to indulge you, let me take you back to the start.
Charlie the editor is frowning. When Charlie frowns it is never a good sign. It can only mean one thing: he hates my story. My stories are like my children; insulting them is like insulting me.
‘You hate it?’
‘It’s perfectly average,’ replies Charlie, sitting back on his chair and holding his hands up.
‘That’s a truly awful thing to say to a writer,’ I say, standing in his office wondering if this is it.
‘It’s the truth, Izzy. It’s well written, you have a nice, readable style …’
‘Please, stop! You’re killing me.’
‘Am I?’ replies Charlie. ‘I was thinking the exact opposite, Izzy. I give you this opportunity and this is the best you can offer me?’
‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask. ‘These personal shoppers are being harassed. These rich guys walk in and throw money at you and you’re just supposed to open your legs and say “thank you, sir”? I don’t think so?’
‘But he isn’t having sex with you, is he?’ questions Charlie. ‘We all know sex sells but there isn’t any in your article.’
‘That’s because I’m not a prostitute!’ I declare. ‘I’m a writer. I have principles.’
‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘But principles don’t sell. It’s OK. You did your best, but clearly you’re not up to it.’
‘I’m not up to sleeping with random strangers? Are you really asking me to do that?’
‘Belle de Jour, Confessions of a Working Girl, Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl; you think these girls were faking it?’
‘No.’
‘The public wants to read about this because they are dirty voyeurs. They dream of doing the stuff these girls have done, but they don’t have the bottle to do it. Now, what if there was a blog about a girl willing to undertake sex-tinged adventures. Don’t you think that would sell?’ Charlie gives me a look.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’m deadly serious,’ he replies. ‘Newsprint is a dying art form. The internet is taking over. Bloggers are the new superstars, so my question is are you prepared to hitch your wagon to blogging? Do you have the stones to put yourself out there and do the things your readers can only dream of doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK, then,’ says Charlie. ‘At least you’re honest. I can probably find you a spot in obituaries.’
There before me my journalism career is unravelling. It’s happening right before my eyes, so what is it that I want? Do I want safety in obituaries and a life of crushing dullness or do I want to take a walk on the wild side? I take a breath and hold it, feel it sizzle and expand in my lungs, see a shooting star explode through my brain. Hitch my wagon to a shooting star or play it safe? Do I have the stones? Do I really have the stones?
‘Give me one more chance,’ I say quietly, so quietly that I’m not even sure Charlie has heard me. But then a sly grin crosses his face.
‘Twenty-four hours to rewrite the story. If I like it I’ll launch you as a blogger, but you’d better blow my mind, Izzy!’ he says. ‘And think up a pseudonym that’s a little bit wicked,’ he continues. ‘Make it something sexy and dangerous!’
Sexy and dangerous; that’s what personal shopping should be about. So here we are again, back to my original question. Am I horny now because I’m wearing the sexy black lingerie or was I horny before?
This cubicle is tiny. There really isn’t room to swing a cat, let alone play with my pussy, though Handsome Man clearly has other ideas and is willing to work within the confines of this too-tiny space. Currently he has his right hand on my right breast, cupping it through the fabric of the lace as he presses up against me observing my figure in the full-length mirror. Like an adult game of chess this is his opening move, possibly risky since he doesn’t yet know if I’m good to go, or just a wicked tease. This has been building for an hour now, gentle flirting giving way to unsubtle overtures and now his hand on my breast. I can duck and run, scream sexual harassment and blow all chances of my own blog, or …
I am an attractive woman. I keep myself in shape through rigorous exercise (and . . .
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