Micro Erotic Fiction

A Day in the Life of a 1980s Money Broker

The days were full of high adrenalin, fast talking, deals. While the nights bubbled over with the best looking babes in town…

It was back in the time of Thatcher’s Britain. I was a twenty-two-year-old money broker. Earning the kind of dosh most people can only dream of.

The days were full of high adrenalin, fast talking, deals. While the nights bubbled over with the best looking chicks and pink champagne.

One particular afternoon, everything I touched literally turned to gold.

My pals and I went out to a city wine bar to celebrate and as usual the babes began to hover. I wasn’t after marriage or even a relationship. My needs were simple. After the kind of day I’d had, I was more than eager to get a physical fix from the nearest hottie who seemed like she was up for a good time…

Her name was Katrina. She looked ten out of ten dirty-girl with big hair, low-cut top, short tight skirt, heels and stockings.

We had a couple of bottles of pink bubbly, then cabbed it back to the new penthouse pad I had rented on the edge of town.

As soon as we walked through the front door, she dropped to her knees, unzipped me and pulled my semi-hard length into the warmth of her mouth.

She had a beautiful wide pout and knew how to use it.

Things heated up pretty damn fast, and very soon I was holding her head in place and pumping that doll like my life depended on it. The day’s stresses dissipating with every thrust.

Afterwards, she swallowed, smiled, and disappeared to the bathroom. In about sixty seconds she reappeared in my best dressing gown, looking kind of cute, all swaddled up in towelling.

Leading her to bed, I quickly unwrapped her and was a little surprised at her slender frame. She must have been wearing a padded bra at the club to enhance her figure. Don’t’ get me wrong, Katrina was gorgeous in any case. Looked every inch a beach wear model, but I do prefer a little more to get hold of.

I was pretty tired, so didn’t manage an encore.

The next morning, I pushed her out of the door on the way to grab a coffee at the Happy Eater on route to work, promising to call. We both knew I wouldn’t.

Then it was on with my day… night... repeat…

Yep, the 1980s were something else.

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