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LITTLE BEAR GIRL

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Market Research

Luca Berlin

Cover: Giada Armani

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

Market Research

"It's over, over, over."

Anne tried to make her voice sound as determined as possible, even if she didn't feel like it at all. At least she looked into a face that looked as miserable as a puppy dog who had just watched his mother being run over by a tanker. He's not gonna start crying, she thought. The corner of Sören’s mouth twitched treacherously. But was it so hard to understand that they just didn't fit together?

Okay, in the beginning the fine Mr. Langenhagen had really impressed her. Of course, coming from a wealthy family and just as ambitious as her, he was a promising medical student, an aspiring head doctor. He didn't look bad either. In the beginning, he had always reminded her of this guy from an ancient action series. The "A-Team" was the name, and the actor George Peppard was a daring radiant man with stunning blue eyes.

But action? Not with Sören. He was soooo boring. His life was more like a ZDF spaceship episode. Recently, he had increasingly spoken of home and children. She was in the middle of her German studies and not even 24 years old, please.

And the whole vanilla cuddly stuff in bed wasn’t her thing either. The old in and out game, lovey-dovey missionary position with the lights off. As far as sexual freedom was concerned, Anne sometimes suspected that Sören had strayed into the wrong decade. The prudish fifties - that would have been his world.

"And it's not working out with us in bed either," she blurted out. She was both shocked and relieved to have finally said it.

Anne sat on the couch next to him in Sören's apartment - of course in the noble Eppendorf, of course financed by his parents – the same couch that provided so much comforting closeness and now offered distance. That wasn't so easy, though, because Sören was trying to kiss her. A more than helpless attempt to repair what was hopelessly in pieces, she noticed and tried to push him away. But Sören grabbed her hands and held them strongly, while his mouth sought her lips. She reared herself up. Useless, the damn designer sofa was so soft and big that it literally sucked you in. So, she tried to roll away sideways, but now he was half on top of her, so she had even less room to move.

"Stop it,” she hissed angrily and noticed with surprise that he didn't react in the slightest. He had always given in as soon as she struck that note. Not today.

"If that's what you want, you bitch," he spat angrily.

Meanwhile he had let go of her hands and so she tried to push his shoulders away. But she was just so unsuccessful that she could only summon a feeble arm twitch . Sören had meanwhile taken her by the chin, brought his face close and pressed his lips on hers. His other hand wandered coarsely over her body, sometimes sliding under her bra or between her legs under the waistband of her jeans.

"You're hurting me," she wanted to say, with ice-cold contempt. But as soon as she opened her mouth, his tongue pressed between her teeth. It just turned into a pathetic mumbling. She tried in vain to kick him and free herself, but her legs stepped into emptiness. Instead, Sören pushed himself even further over her and now she felt his erection. It was hard as a rock and seemed to be yearning to seize her body.

At that moment, she was overcome with a feeling of complete helplessness. She was the antelope in the paws of a lion, the rabbit in the stranglehold of an anaconda. What could she do but become compliant? She timidly began to meet his tongue with hers, to accept his lips with hers. She could feel herself becoming very soft and supple. Almost automatically her thighs opened. Her breath went faster. Now she made only weak attempts to reject Sören. How sweet and exciting it was to be so completely defeated.

"Please don't," she sighed and lifted her lower body slightly so that he could pull down her jeans and panties more easily. Next thing you know, his own pants were on the floor. Finally, he knelt between her spread legs. His cock, when hard, was anything but boring. It was a mighty girth that had frightened her the first time. Even now she was in awe at the sight of him. If only the prospective surgeon had used this tool more confidently. But now he might do it, and she'd die of delight. In blissful anticipation, she closed her eyes and waited for the powerful blasts that would give her the orgasm of her life. "No, no," she pressed out once more to savour the wonderful feeling of her powerlessness.

Then what? Then nothing happened. She opened her eyes again and saw that Sören had turned away and just pulled up his pants again. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean to. I don't know what got into me either."

Ten minutes later, she was rushing out of the apartment. Frustrated, angry and finally done with him. In the end, he had even cried. What a loser! With quick, determined steps, she stomped towards the subway. Soon she had reached the shopping arcade, which led directly to the station. On the left the McDonalds, on the right Görtz, then the magazine shop and the Esprit branch where she had left so much money. The familiar shopping terrain seemed strangely calming and the emotional chaos inside slowly seemed to order itself. She was glad to finally get it over with. She was sad because she had hurt him. She was angry because he was acting like an idiot. She was angry because of her own dumb behaviour, and she was frustrated that Sören had withheld from her what she so longed for.

Was she really a slut? Somehow she even liked the idea. She looked at the men who came towards her. Some of the good-looking ones smiled flirtatiously at her. After all, she was single again, and she intended to savour that. She deliberately began to sway her hips more as she walked. She imagined how the men would look at her. Smart businessmen who’d fantasize about an hour with her in an expensive hotel, strong craftsmen who would take her without any manners in a shabby construction wagon, and students who would lure her into their shared rooms with world-weary poses and poetry quotes.

Anne didn't necessarily think she was a beauty. She had dark brown hair by nature and brown eyes. Not a very original combination, or at least she thought so. She had the hair styled by a trendy hairdresser in Hamburg-Altona to a currently quite trendy short hairstyle. Although a thick strand of hair always tended to slip over her left eye, she had rarely felt so comfortable with a haircut.

Her pout could drive any man crazy, a loving admirer had once whispered in her ear in a pub on an alcohol-filled night. On bad days, she hated her lips. On good days, she hoped that beer and wine disinhibited her suitors to the point that they had nothing to offer but their true selves. After all, she still had some nice eyes to offer. They were only medium in size - thank you very much! But their oblique almond-shaped shape would lend her face a somewhat Slavic flair.

"Don't even think about it. You're no Claudia Schiffer," her mother had said regularly when she saw Anne standing in front of the mirror. Which was dumb in the first place. Like it often happened when it came to her mother. On the hit list of her most popular niceties towards Anne, however, the Claudia Schiffer slogan was only number three. The absolute front runner was the accusation that she was too superficial and would not do anything with her life. Number two was then the assertion that she was too choosy with men and would never find anyone with this attitude. Why was this so important to a successful single mother - Anne's mother speciality? Number Two was not brought forward without reference to Number One. As the fluttering, disheartening person she was, nothing could be more important than a breadwinner.

But now Anne didn't want to burden herself with such gloomy thoughts. Let's stick to my appearance, she thought, while she strutted through the area with her seesawing bottom. Okay, her ass. She and her butt weren't exactly best friends. Sometimes she abhorred it for being too big and perky. Then she felt like a cow, swore that she would start a tough slimming training session on her butt tomorrow, and choose the garments that looked as much like a potato sack as possible. Sometimes, she thought it was too feminine, and wondered if she would also be called "The Butt" if she were famous like Jennifer Lopez. After all, she wasn't fat except for her bottom. Of course, she would have liked to have been a little slimmer, isn’t that true for every woman?

What else remained of her recently so criminally neglected princess body? Orange-sized breasts, which defied gravity pointing cheekily upwards. Small, pink nipples, and decently long legs. Not short, not too bulky. At school, she even turned out to be a very good and persistent runner.

These days, however, her stilettos would barely be lifted above the ground, as if she had stepped on a puddle of superglue. Suddenly, her gaze had fallen upon a crimson piece of fabric in the window of an upscale boutique. Certainly, way too expensive, but it was just raaaaavishing. Anne walked towards it until she stood very close to the shop window. "M," that was exactly her size. "Noble cardigan with Byzantine floral motifs," the sign said. But at 160 Euro it was actually beyond her possibilities. On the other hand: Didn't she perhaps need some comfort after the troubles with Sören?

"That thing would look good on you."

Anne looked around in surprise. A young woman about her age had approached her.

"You'd need it one size smaller. It would highlight your nice figure even more."

The woman smiled at her openly. She wore jeans like Anne, but they were much more figure-hugging. In addition, a white cropped top. She had a real model shape and her face was almost flawlessly beautiful. With her long, raven hair she looked like a French actress she had recently seen in the cinema. Anne liked her very much. She was also flattered that this girl praised her appearance.

"Unfortunately, it's too expensive for a poor student like me," she replied.

"I guess I'm just in time, I guess," grinned her new acquaintance. "I could offer you 140 euros."

Anne had to laugh and then said with a smile, "I'm not that kind of girl."

The person opposite her snorted. Then she explained: "We are doing market research here for a cosmetics manufacturer. They want to develop a new perfume and interview potential customers first. That's why I am here talking to strangers. The whole thing takes about 45 minutes. For this, there is a voucher of 140 euros."

"And in the end, I don't have to buy a fridge?"

The girl laughed.

"My name is Florence, by the way. And you can also win a crazy luxury wellness holiday in a castle in Moldova in late summer. This is really the most beautiful season of the year. Just dreamlike," cooed the girl. "Not so bad of a compensation for 45 minutes of work with only a few harmless questions to answer, right?"

Anne was happy to give in. "Okay, you talked me into it," she said.

Together they walked a few steps to the nearby entrance of a business building. Both went upstairs and then Anne stood in the room that was prepared for the interviews. Upholstered chairs were standing next to individual tables for the testees. In between, plants in large vases provided a feeling of seclusion. Gentle warm light added to the pleasant atmosphere. In the background, soft lounge music resounded.

When the task place looked like this, what could she expect from the luxury spa vacation in the castle, she thought in amusement. Moldova? Wasn't that this little country somewhere in south-eastern Europe? Like so many others, it had arisen with the dissolution of the Eastern bloc, she believed to remember. It practically never appeared on the news. She wondered what it was like there. However, the chances of finding out were close to zero. She'd never won anything before. The winner would probably be one of those women sitting on the chairs. They might have been between 20 and 40 years old. It seems like they had nothing in common with her. Elegantly dressed businesswomen sat there as well as saleswomen or doctor's assistants, Anne noted.

"Don't think too long, answer spontaneously," Florence whispered to her as she pushed her questionnaire and pen into her hand. Anne received both and sat down. Seconds later Florence brought her an unprompted fruit juice. "Freshly squeezed," she whispered with a smile and disappeared again. Anne watched her disappear and once again admired her figure and the way she moved. Then, she carefully sipped the juice. It tasted exotic with a slightly metallic aftertaste and very sweet, but not at all bad. She drank it in small sips and was happy to realize she was feeling much better. When it came to Sören, she had clearly done the right thing.

But now, to the questionnaire. It wasn't quite as harmless as Florence had made it seem. Sure, the first questions related to the world of fragrance. She was asked to name her favourite fragrances and to indicate how much money she spent every year on perfume. Then the questionnaire scrutinized her personal life. Were you single or in a committed relationship? How many times a week do you meet with friends? Gradually, however, it was more about intimate things. Anne took another sip of the fruit juice. She barely noticed the metallic aftertaste.

Then there was this odd question: "Can you cite films in which sexual violence occurs?"

Wow, they were really trying to get to know her. Nevertheless, she was simply too much in a good mood to play the uptight girl. She didn't hesitate to tick yes. Funny, she felt almost tipsy, but maybe her new openness just went to her head. As Florence had advised, she answered without thinking too long.

"Yes," she knew the terms sadism and masochism.

"Yes," she'd read a lot of novels about it, too.

"Yes," she had sexual fantasies which included violence.

"Yes," she'd like a strong partner to dominate her.

Three quarters of an hour later, Anne tiredly put the pen to one side. She still felt a little hazy. The fresh air outside would do her good. Florence, who had first glanced at her questionnaire, took her out and handed her the money. To say goodbye, the girl embraced Anne once more and whispered in her ear with a velvety voice: "I just knew. You're with us. See you soon."

But that doesn't make any sense, thought Anne. She sensed how the fresh air was actually clearing her head again and headed towards the boutique, where the "noble cardigan with Byzantine floral motifs" so longingly asked to be bought. In "S" or in "M" - that was the question.

Girl number 160

"This is supposed to be the holiday castle," said the chubby girl with the bright red, wavy hair, disappointed. She had read Anne’s thoughts. Their minibus headed for a two-storey, elongated building made of red cement bricks. It was big, well-groomed and with a quite distinguished charisma, but very different from what a luxury holiday resort was supposed to look like.