I am more exposed than during those naughty walks in the park, for when stretched the thin material outlines every bump, nook and cranny it covers. Such depravity!
But then, I am a little girl. It appears I am coming from the beach... or a swim party.
Oh, the dichotomy of thought this presentation will foster, I realize. I appear to be a very alluring but underage girl... very fuckable. Males will look with guilty lust... females with contempt.
My gushing smile answers her question.
“And what do we need to make you feel even better?” Sergeant Kelly inquires, holding up another anal plug.
A larger version, I begin to protest again as she turns up the hem of my tube bottom. It is to no avail. I am impaled... and though larger... I note it slides inward with more ease.
"How does it feel?"
The intensity cannot be described, standing in near nakedness, that which is covered in thin pink nylon is perfectly outlined, my nipples coming to points beneath the sheer tight fabric.
I may as well be enshrouded in Saran wrap.
"I ... I..." my thoughts cannot be completed.
Sergeant Kelly smiles.
"Let's walk. Hold my hand like a good girl."
The first step sends a brisance of joy to my cerebral cortex. The nerve endings about my impaled squishy backside celebrate the attention... the extended hand and fingers of a woman. The cool evening air rushes up between my thighs to remind that there is little separating me from decency and complete exposure.
Out the door onto 63rd Street, barefoot. No dog walkers nearby. I breathe a sigh of relief.
"My car is down the street. There's this nice little avant garde restaurant near Fort Tryon Park. Very much off the beaten path. I think you'll be comfortable there."
Sergeant Kelly's auto appears as if she purchased it from the police department. A sedan. Plain. Missing are blinking lights and radio communications.
"I'm Miss Kelly when showing you off, little girl. Drop the Sergeant," she forewarns.
A long drive for Manhattan, but Riverside Drive moves well as the rush of commuters dwindles. We reach 207th Street in minutes.
"Now, let's talk about some nice earrings for you... and how you're going to earn such. You can't keep selling your youth for $30 and expect to make yourself comfortable. A girl has to... well a girl has to do what a girl has to do..."
I'm not picking up on the gist... but then again the deluge of female hormones flooding my male mind... my counselor adequately explained the indeterminable results on the brain when testosterone levels plummet and estrogen levels peak...
Miss Kelly parks the car in an illegal spot, turning over a placard on the dash to suggest police business. She opens the passenger door and I know to extend my hand... I am to be walked.
The illegal spot is serendipitous, only steps from the destination restaurant. It is somewhat dilapidated, as with many of the older finer restaurants of New York. When we enter, the Maître, probably the owner, somewhat wizened and speaking with a deep unrecognizable accent, greets Miss Kelly quite warmly. She is known.
"Mr. Smith's booth, Anwar."
"Mr. Smith not here, Miss Kelly," the old wretch ogling my near nakedness.
"He will be. We'll wait in his booth."
The wretch gathers two menus and leads to the very back of the musty near empty dining area, the atmosphere darkening, becoming darker with every step. My hand in Miss Kelly's, she guides, directing me into the booth first then sitting to the outside. Memories of the odious 'date' in Greenwich Village come to mind.
"I'll have wine. Nothing for her," Miss Kelly orders, an albescent head nodding understanding.
He steps away. A controlling hand easily slips under my 'tube' bottom to find my ringed penis and the moisture expected.
"You're wet, just like an aroused horny little girl," Miss Kelly laughs. "You like being led about barefoot and nearly naked."
I blush.