Jackson

 

I was barely an hour across the country and already at my second service station. If that didn’t speak volumes, I don’t know what would have.

I’d already given myself the sensible self-talk in the car, reassuring myself I was doing the right thing by driving away.

Jenny was set up comfortably with a decently festive Christmas Tree and I’d made sure her present was easily discoverable underneath.

She had everything she needed for a perfectly pleasant holiday break, and was likely eating mince pies and watching some Santa show or other on TV quite happily even as I was standing in the coffee shop queue.

In fact, the likelihood was that she’d have a more satisfying Christmas than I would.

I took my third Americano of the journey to the seating area and logged into my laptop, realising with a smirk how I’d subconsciously chosen a table with my back to the wall.

It was a stupid idea to call up my copy of Jenny’s Stuff and start clicking through the contents, and an even more stupid one to indulge in another read through of her stationery cupboard fantasy when I should have been clocking up the miles toward my brother’s place.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

I’d have been lying to claim that her descriptions of me in these things weren’t flattering. They were very flattering. Possibly even the most flattering encounters with myself I’d ever been graced with.

Seeing myself through her big baby blues was enough to make my pride swell almost as much as my dick.

Her observations were too insightful to be falsified, and written too sincerely to be a fleeting fantasy.

The girl saw everything. Noticed everything.

Wanted everything.

She didn’t just want me to make her whimper as I slammed that tight little cunt from behind. She wanted dark, dirty whispers in her ear as I told her what a good little girl she was for taking me so deep.

She didn’t just want me to crush her tight against the stationery racking and have my filthy way with her, she wanted to feel it. Feel me. Feel how much I wanted her as I ravaged her nubile little body and made her mine.

That’s what she wanted more than anything — for me to make her mine. To take her, and conquer her, and consume her in the way I approached every other aspect of my life.

Aggressively, obsessively, with full, unrelenting force.

In short, she wanted me to be the man she’d seen the promise of from glimpses of me at my best in the office.

It was the theme throughout her stories, a running constant through every single one of her fantasies.

She wanted me to be the kind of strong, experienced mature gentleman who’d enjoy her at her best and encourage her onward at her worst. She wanted someone who knew how to handle her, not just in body — which was clearly high up her wish list — but in both spirit and mind too.

She wanted to feel safe. Wanted. Understood and respected and revered as a delicious young woman who would always do her best to be her best.

She also wanted my dick to be every bit the weapon the right-hanging outline in my suit trousers had promised, and I knew with a cocky smirk that I wouldn’t disappoint her on that front.

Reading how the fantasy version of me stretched her sweet little cunt around my cock and made her take it all had my palms sweaty before I was even halfway through my coffee. The words jumped off the laptop screen, so full of life I could hear the racking thump against the back wall with every thrust of my hips. Hear her shallow breath, and flesh slapping flesh, and supplies rattling around on the shelving.

I could almost feel her silky blonde ponytail wrapped tight around my fingers as I pressed my lips to the tender shell of her ear.

Take it, little girl, give me that sweet virgin cunt.

Imaginary me strummed her clit until she moaned like a whore, bucking back against me as her cunt milked me dry. Imaginary me ripped her blouse loose and pinched her hard little nipples until she squealed.

Imaginary me was rougher than I’d be in real life, showing no concern for how much she’d be hurting with my thick dick inside her for the very first time.

Maybe she wanted it that way.

Maybe I wanted it that way too.

I was utterly lost in the pages when my phone bleeped with a text message. Part of me hoped it was the sweet girl herself with a household emergency, but I was blessed with no such luck.

The message was from my mother, already whining at my lateness, bemoaning the fact that I was supposed to be chauffeuring the extended family like a gullible prick since the rest of them had been on the whisky since midday.

It was the first I’d heard of it, and the last I wanted to hear about it.

I wasn’t anywhere even close to arriving and the dregs of my enthusiasm had long dried up dead. No amount of CPR in the world stood the chance of bringing them back to life.

I could picture it just as vividly as pounding Jenny’s virgin pussy in my stationery cupboard — Christmas in London with the whinging and the whining and the digging comments about everyone’s bank account balance.

I thought back to the year previous and how I’d arrived back home feeling more tightly wound than if I’d spent every waking minute at the office during a crisis.

And yet, there I was, heading on down for round two like a glutton for punishment.

The prognosis of continuing my journey was bleak. Almost as bleak as the prospect of never experiencing Jenny’s magical office fantasies for real, because that was what I really wanted.

More than Christmas dinner with my ball-ache of a family, or a solitary Christmas doing overtime from home.

I wanted Jenny Morris.

I wanted her big blue eyes staring up at mine, cheeks flushed pink as I told her all the filthy things I was going to do to her.

I wanted to be the man who claimed that virgin pussy and made it mine. Who made all of her mine.

Only we shouldn’t be in the office, not for the first time. She was wrong on that front.

We should be at my place, with her lying sweetly on my bed with her knees to her chest and that virgin cunt splayed wide for my fingers. I’d dip my way in slowly, savouring every tiny scrap of resistance her body offered mine.

And then I’d fuck her.

Hard.

Deep.

Fast.

I’d fuck her until she cried my name, my actual name, and begged me to take the rest of her as hard as I’d taken her pussy.

My thumb hovered over my handset, scrolling up and down my mother’s message as my demons waged war on my shoulders. It was close. So close I slammed my laptop closed and bundled it back in its case before I’d even made my decision for certain.

I wasn’t entirely sure which way I was heading until I was back in my car and my thumb took on a life of its own.

Something’s come up, I typed to my mother. Work emergency. Can’t be helped, sorry. Enjoy your Christmas.

As I swung the car back up the motorway, I knew for sure I’d be enjoying mine.