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Jill Conklin walked purposefully past Ghirardelli Square, she felt relieved to be away from her often lonely and tomblike digs. The sun caressed her young scrubbed face, her glossy long brunette waves and the alluring curves of her nubile eighteen year old body. She couldn’t fail to notice the admiring looks she drew from both men and women, as she strode proudly down the hill, her pert, braless breasts jostling provocatively under a saffron yellow tank top, and the ripe mounds of her buttocks swaying deliciously in the skin-tight, paint-spattered jeans.
There were street musicians, magicians, tourists, peddlers of every sort and couples walking hand in hand. They all paid tribute to her with their eyes, and some spoke to her with comments and suggestions — both clean and dirty. She had grown accustomed to this sort of attention, and fielded both looks and remarks with aplomb. It was great for the ego and yet, she knew how lonely she really was being a young girl away from home, away from Chris and very much alone in San Francisco. The couples who sat sprawled on the sloping green of the park gave her a pang of remorse, as she remembered Chris … and those wickedly exquisite nights in her bedroom in Kansas City …
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.