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Golden Girl

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You would think that a gold medalist Olympic swimmer would be more famous. No one ever recognized her when she was out in public. No one ever ran up to her and cried out, “Ayuko Hayami, Gold Medalist Swimmer for the 200 meter breaststroke, representing Japan in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, you are my inspiration!” No one ever thrust four dozen roses in her face and declared their undying love for her and her record-setting butterfly time from college. She’d had a few men thrust four dozen roses in her face and declare their undying love for her tits. Not quite as romantic.

The only people who thought she was cool or more than a sex doll were the kids. It wasn’t hard to impress kids. She told them she won a gold medal and taught them how to doggy paddle, and suddenly she was cooler than Spiderman. There was something to be proud of in being a single woman who ran her own swimming instruction business, of course, but no one else cared about that. Kindergarteners didn’t look at her ass in her skintight (and by the way, completely professionally standard) one piece swimsuit and drool like a rabies-infested stray dog. Kids stared at her boobs when they spoke to her; not because they were perverts, but simply because they were small and too shy to make eye contact. Her bright blue eyeshadow and winged eyeliner that never came off no matter how long she was in the water were pretty, not seemingly an invitation to try and take her home. Children were a treasure. God help her if she ever had any.

Ayuko had been in the shower this whole time, warm tendrils flitting across her body like an octopus in one of those porn comics her little brother had been busted for having back in the day. That had been seven years ago at the most. It sure felt like a lifetime. She turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. With her blow dryer in hand she stood there, stark naked, studying herself in the mirror. She was suddenly a newborn Venus. Perched on a seashell, fruit of the sea’s loins, the most beautiful creature to exist in past, present, or future. What was once a pixie cut was now long, dark locks wrapping around her body to tastefully conceal. Her arm was outstretched across her breasts, a single nipple teasingly exposed to the salty sea air. Around her were doting attendants, singing exultations.

She was going on a date tonight. If she could even really call it a date. It was more of a “meet up at the most expensive restaurant in the prefecture, drink wine by the bottle while discussing Baruch Spinoza, and then end the night off by fucking in the back of a Ferrari, no strings attached” kind of deal. The lady she was meeting up with was called Madame President. She refused to divulge any other name besides Madame President. She was way out of Ayuko’s league. She had long, wavy blonde hair. She was gorgeous. She always wore these outrageously sexy and revealing clothes that certainly cost thousands. She owned her own highly successful software company. She was intelligent. She adored red lipstick and sunglasses. She was filthy rich; she owned the previously mentioned fuck Ferrari. She loved to have a good time. Perhaps she even thought she was cool or more than a sex doll. Ayuko was a little bit smitten.

With one last spritz of her perfume, Ayuko Hayami was all ready to go. She had on her signature blue eyeshadow and winged eyeliner. She’d bought herself the perfect little black dress just for this night, and it hugged her in all the right places. Ayuko had opted for flats instead of heels. Not quite as classy, but it beat having sore feet. She doubted Madame President would judge her too much. Hosiery was absolutely horrid, but she had overheard her date say she loved it, so she was wearing it. A loud ding made her look towards the kitchen timer sat on the corner of her vanity. It was time to go. She hurried towards the door, gave one last pet to her usually very active but currently very sleepy corgi Umi, and left to meet her own personal Botticelli.