by Jade West
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.
Chapter Eleven
Jenny
With Dick Whittington keeping me company, spending Christmas Eve without any actual human beings in the vicinity didn’t feel quite so bad.
He was cuddly and cute and his purr was so loud it reminded me of a helicopter droning. He did that weird spiky thing where he prickled my legs with his claws over and over, but I don’t think he meant anything by it. I think we were actually pretty good friends considering we’d only been officially introduced just a short while ago. I guess the double dinner and saucer of milk may have had something to do with that.
Mr Hart’s sofa was the perfect place to snuggle up for TV. I sank down into the cushions and thanked my lucky stars that the year end was panning out so much better than expected.
I say lucky stars, but the thanks should have been firmly at Mr Hart’s feet, even though he didn’t have a clue how much his request had meant to me.
Maybe one day I should tell him.
The packet of vaguely posh chocolate biscuits I’d grabbed from the shop on my way home last night and wrapped in cruddy paper hardly seemed the most gracious of gifts to be leaving him, but it was the best I could do.
Dick followed me upstairs as I grabbed the gift from my overnight case and got changed into my slobby PJs.
“Cute, right?” I asked him, pointing out the glittery dream girl lettering on the front as he stared over from the doorway. “Put in a good word with your daddy, will you? Tell him I really am a dream girl. His dream girl. There’ll be a big saucer of tuna in it for you, I promise.”
I laughed as he blinked at me, seemingly unimpressed by my giggly ramblings.
I washed up ready for bed, raking a brush through my hair before bundling it back up in a scrunchy bun, and then dashed back downstairs for the Christmas tradition I hadn’t missed since I was a little girl, even though it was dumbass as hell as an adult.
I put a couple of cookies on a plate and poured out a glass of milk, leaving them on the fireplace for Santa like a goofball before sliding Mr Hart’s crappy present under his beautiful tree.
And that’s when I saw it. One solitary present hiding under the baubles.
My heart raced at the thought he’d left something important behind, hoping it wasn’t some games console for a kid relative who’d hate him until the end of forever.
I took it out and looked for a name tag. I found one hanging underneath the big red bow on top.
Jenny.
I stared at the writing.
No.
No way.
He must have a relative called Jenny. She was probably po
uting at the dining table in London right now, cursing him for his oversight.
Yeah. He definitely had a relative called Jenny.
The thought gave me the most ridiculous little flicker of disappointment. Not because the present was clearly not for me, but because a relative with the same name as me might put him off growling it out when he was balls deep inside me.
Like that was ever going to happen.
I forced myself to grin about the stupidity of the whole thing, sliding that present back under the tree and telling Dick Whittington I’d send his human daddy a text message in the morning to let him know it was safe.
He could always post it. Better late than never.
I was still on all fours under the Christmas tree when I heard the rumble of a car in the driveway.
It scared the shit out of Dick Whittington and it scared the shit out of me too. He dashed out of the living room as my heart pumped in my chest, and I managed to throw just the quickest glance over my shoulder as the headlights glowing through the curtains clicked off.
I was reversing with my ass in the air as I heard the unmistakeable click of a key in the front door.
As stupid as it sounds, it didn’t occur to me it was Mr Hart until he was standing as plain as day in the living room doorway. I was up on my knees with my mouth open wide when his glittering eyes met mine.
“Shit,” I hissed, and pressed my hand to my chest. “Jesus goddamn Christ, Mr Hart. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He dropped his case to the floor and held up his hands, looking entirely unlike his usual stern self as he took a step forward.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have called first.” His eyes roved all over me, and I felt the familiar flush on my cheeks as I realised how I must look, crouched on his living room floor in my stupid dream girl top and spotty yellow bottoms.
Great. Just great. Way to go, wardrobe choice.
I tried to make light of it as I got to my feet, folding my arms across my tits like he hadn’t caught a good sight of me already. “Break down? It’s shit to have car trouble on Christmas Eve.”
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Weather?” I tried again. “Is it snowing?! I didn’t think it was going to be a white Christmas…”
He gave me the strangest little smirk. “No, Jenny, the weather’s just fine.”
He took off his coat and dropped it over the arm of the sofa, and I’m sure my face was scrunched up like a cabbage as I tried to work out what the hell he was doing back home.
Not that I was complaining.
I was prickling from head to toe, nervous and excited at the thought he’d be here on Christmas morning.
And then I got it.
Of course I did.
My heart dropped and I let out a sigh.
“You came back for the present!” I said. “I was going to text you in the morning to let you know it was still right here.”
I reached under the tree and pulled out the mysterious Jenny box, holding it out between us with as much of a smile as I could manage.
His eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. “The present?”
“For Jenny,” I said. “You forgot it.”
He paused for a long moment, staring from me to the box in my hands and back again, and then he laughed.
He laughed such a delicious laugh I thought I’d combust from the sound.
“You think I’m back for the present? That it’s for someone in London?”
I tipped my head. “Aren’t you?”
And he laughed again, one of those real laughs that makes you laugh too, and I didn’t have a clue why I was laughing along with him or why we were laughing in the first place, but I couldn’t stop.
“Come,” he said as he caught a breath. He beckoned to the kitchen and I followed on autopilot with that stupid box still held tight.
He took two glasses down from the cupboard and a bottle of red from the rack and uncorked as I stared on, dumbstruck.
“You like red?” he asked and I nodded.
I took a seat at the breakfast bar opposite him, placing the present on the counter as he slid a healthy measure of wine in my direction.
“Cheers,” he said and raised his glass, and it was so easy to clink his right back, even though I still didn’t have a clue what the hell he was doing here, who Jenny was, or why we were cheering him stepping through the door at gone midnight on Christmas eve when he should have been a few hours down the motorway.
He was still in his suit from the office, his tie still straight and his shirt still crisp, and I wondered how the hell he did that, looking so pristine after a whole day in the thing.
I always looked like I’d been sleeping in my office clothes by midday.
He loosened the knot as I watched him, and I couldn’t hide my stare, gawping as he tugged it free and coiled it around his fingers.
He dropped it on the counter and took a healthy swig of wine, and that laugh was still tickling him, I could feel it tickling me right back across the table.
I jumped as Dick launched himself from the floor into my lap, then grinned to myself as Mr Hart’s eyes widened.
Shocked.
He was really shocked.
Really, really shocked.
Oh how the pride washed over me.
“He came in,” I said, stating the obvious. “It wasn’t easy. I had to call him over and over. I even climbed up on your patio table and called over the back wall.”
“And he came in? Just like that?”
I nodded, my grin beaming wide. “Just like that, yeah. I think he likes me.”
The cat butted my chin in illustration and I could’ve hugged his ginger ass so tight for making me look so damn great at this shit.
I waited for the congratulations and the heaped-on praise, hoping this was it — the moment Mr Hart fell hopelessly in love with me and said I could take care of his precious Dick forever.
But no.
No congratulations came, only a fresh round of laughter that saw him practically doubled up in hysterics.
And I didn’t get it.
I didn’t get it at all.
“What?” I asked. “He does like me. He ate all his salmon up and everything. He’s not jittery at all.”
He shook his head, and his eyes were creased with life in a way I’d never seen them.
I loved it.
I loved him.
Oh fuck, how I loved that gorgeous man.
He pointed to Dick Whittington and I hoped this was it, the eventual praise.
Please, Lord, let him realise my brilliance.
“That’s not my fucking cat,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Jackson
I couldn’t hold it back, the laughter.
It felt alien to laugh so freely, so openly.
Her face was a picture, her eyes wide as she stared down at the furry intruder on her lap.
“He’s not yours?! But he came in… he came when I called him…”
I looked at the huge ginger cat with the biggest smile. I recognised him vaguely, a pampered thing from a few doors down.
The admission came more easily than I anticipated.
“I don’t have a cat,” I told her. “I’ve never had a cat.”
Her confusion was palpable.
“But you said… about the cat-sitting…”
She was divine. Beautiful. Innocent and wholesome and shining with good intentions.
It made the dirty little minx under the surface all the more irresistible.
I gestured to the box on the counter, all dressed up with its silly bow.
“Open your present,” I told her. “It’s after midnight, technically Christmas Day.”
I didn’t think she could look any more confused, but her brows creased like cuteness personified as she struggled to keep up with my revelations.
“It’s for me?!” she asked. “The present is for me?”
“For you,” I c
onfirmed and slid it closer. “I thought the Jenny on the gift tag would have been sufficient enough to let you know.”
“But I… you didn’t need to…”
All my laughter dried up. “I wanted to. Happy Christmas, sweetheart.”
Her irises tightened, lashes fluttering for the quickest little beat.
Sweetheart.
She liked it, and so did I.
Her fingers danced across the wrapping, so hesitant. “This is really for me?”
“Really. Please open it.”
She gave the sweetest little shrug and took a sip of wine, checking out my expression for sincerity before tugging the bow free and tearing into the wrapping.
I stared intently at her as the laptop box came into view. Her hands were shaking, mouth open wide.
“For me?!”
And there was my moment. The moment I’d been dreaming about.
“You do need one, yes? A personal laptop?”
I waited eagerly for the crimson flush and her cheeks didn’t disappoint me. “Well, I… I don’t have one… mine died… at university…”
I leaned across the counter, chin balanced on my palm as I let my eyes slam full force into hers.
“How do you think I know you don’t have a personal laptop, Miss Morris?”
She wouldn’t meet my stare. “I, um… I don’t know, sir…”
I let out another laugh, but this one was harder. Calculated.
“Oh, I think you do. I had some time with your work machine after Richard fixed the driver issue. I thought I’d make doubly sure it was fit for purpose.”
She knew. Her whole body was humming with embarrassment. It was a pleasure to observe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Whatever you clicked on… if you clicked on anything… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Mr Hart.” Finally her eyes chanced a meeting with mine. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I promise. I get carried away sometimes… with my imagination… and I just…”
I kept quiet.
“And I just… write things sometimes… stupid stories…”
“Stupid stories?”
She nodded. “Silly things.”
I tipped my head. “That’s what they are, are they? Silly things?”
