My cock is aching in my jeans as I stare numbly ahead.
I have her photographs saved to my desktop. I also have her current address, and the one in Hampshire she lived in before that.
The electoral roll software at work has more benefits than scoping out bad client credit risks, it seems.
I had her history at my fingertips, right there for the taking.
Abigail Rachel Summers. Twenty-seven years old. Six years younger than me.
Born in Fleet. Excellent credit rating.
I found her on the business connect website, keeping my search anonymous. She hasn’t updated her profile with her new position, whatever that may be, but in her old life she was doing well for herself.
Head of Customer Relations at some business services company. Her profile picture was smiley and professional, her dark hair in one of those fancy buns. Her work pictures show a woman who is comfortable in her own skin. Comfortable with her place in the universe.
I feel so fucking sad for her that the universe chewed her up.
Stephen Hartley is a listed contact in her organisation overview. Sales Director. Handsome guy. Longish hair. Maybe a hint of throwback goth if you took the suit out of the equation.
Somehow I know he’s the douche in question. Call it instinct.
I feel all her broken pieces. I feel her sadness. Her hopelessness. Her despair.
I’m no fool. I know she’s mirroring my own. I know it’s my own hopelessness reflected right back at me.
It doesn’t make it any less real.
Stephen Hartley is every kind of spineless. I have the urge to hunt him down and give the prick some payback, which is all the confirmation I’ll ever need that deactivating my profile and treating this fantasy as the one-time-only affair it’s intended to be is the only rational move available.
It’s definitely rational.
Painful.
Uncomfortable.
Sad, almost.
But rational.
I allow myself one last lingering look at my black swan before I close my laptop.
And then, with my cock in my hand, I imagine the next, and only, time I’ll ever see her again.TenWe need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.
Albert CamusAbigailI’ve never known a week pass by so slowly.
All the time-killers in the universe couldn’t make the days go any faster, and no amount of fantasising in the world makes up for the void I feel every night when midnight comes and he isn’t there.
I keep my profile active, just in case. I log in every night just to stare at his greyed-out profile.
I read our previous messages until they give me shivers.
I stare at the photo of his beast of a cock and imagine how it will feel to have it forced inside me.
I wonder if I’ll beg him to stop. I wonder if he’ll make me bleed.
I come at the thought of both.
I’m fucked up and I don’t care. I’m flying high, unhinged and free.
Insane.
I’m clearly fucking insane.
I come until I’m exhausted. Over and over and over again.
I barely sleep.
And when I wake, the first thing I do is log on to stare at his greyed-out profile again.
And read those messages again.
And stare at that monster cock, the horrific piercings, and I come again, imagining it pumping inside me, so hard, so rough, so bad I’m screaming.
Insane.
Clearly insane.
The days of silence bring distance. His earlier familiarity easily fades, leaving only the promise of darkness.
I’m not ready for him and I never will be, but I’d be a fool not to at least try to ready myself. I buy myself a vibrator online, one they aptly call The Monster, and open the parcel with shaking fingers just three days before I meet the monster for real.
I have his cock on screen and my fingers on my clit when I try my new purchase.
Beautiful dread hits hard as I strain to get the head in. I’m panting like a whore when my pussy finally gives in enough to take it. The stretch hurts so bad that I have to grit my teeth.
I imagine it’s him. Imagine that I have no choice.
I’m sobbing at the ache. Flinching at the way every inch hurts like hell.
But I keep on going. I make my pussy take it, just like he will. I whimper a mantra of no, no, no, and I like it. I hope he likes it too.
I hope it makes him fuck me harder.
Oh fuck, how I want him to fuck me hard.
I push onto The Monster and cry out as it fills me.
I fuck myself until I’m raw just thinking about him. I fuck myself until I’m thrashing in my own sweat and my pussy is a burning squelching mess.
And so it goes on.
Every waking moment my thoughts are for him.
And in those scarce moments where I’m not either working or playing with myself, I’m planning my date with my nightmare.
I left most of my evening wear in a charity shop back in Hampshire. It makes my choices easier at least.