Chapter 1
*The characters in this book are fictional and fully understand the need to use protection during sex. If it is not mentioned in this novella, it is only to prevent the slowing down of the story or interruption to the fantasy element. Have fun and be safe!*
Tuesday mornings suck.
The only thing worse than a mad rush, is a maddeningly slow day and I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I’d just finished working my regular shift, the graveyard, which was always slow.
My night consisted of three types of customers: shift workers on break, cops, and drunks. Those are the only kinds of people who stop by a grocery store at two o’clock in the morning.
I’d barely made it to my seven o’clock stop time when Pam pulled her usual shit. She waited until a few minutes before I was supposed to clock out to say she really needed me to work a double.
I hated working doubles. My fingers were sore, my eyelids were heavy, and my brain felt like it was ready to explode.
If I have to hear the store’s jingle one more time, “Shop at Savory Saves and make your savory savings shine,” I think I’ll walk over to the giant rock hard salamis and bash in my own forehead.
But Pam knew I’d accept the extra shift. I always did. It’s what a single mother does, especially so close to the start of the school year. You should have seen the list of shit the first grade teacher was expecting my six-year-old to bring to school that year.
Since when did three different sizes of Tupperware containers and a disposable camera become necessary school supplies? It was insane.
So Jonathan would have to stay home with my mother AGAIN. She’d be fine with it, but I really missed my boy. He’s all I had since my husband left me for that nineteen year old twerp.
How can I, at thirty-five years old, compete with a nineteen year old?
It was the question that plagued my mind at least once during every work night. At the start of the evening, when the young blonde bombshells were shoving six packs of beer and bottles of rum into their boyfriends’ shopping carts, some of which were twice their age, it dragged me down so much I literally felt tears threatening to pour from my eyes.
Then I reminded myself that I didn’t need a man like that. I didn’t need someone who was willing to abandon my child and me just for a new and hotter piece of pussy.
That’s what it was you know. The sex. First it would have been the curiosity of it. My douchebag of a husband had seen her in his wine shop a few times, sauntering around in short shorts or super tight jeans and wondered how it would feel to shove his cock inside of her.
He wondered what kind of sounds she would make and just how flexible those legs were. He wondered what it would feel like to have her lips moving up and down along his shaft.
And that would all be before she actually said a word to him. Trust me, I work with enough males to know exactly how their minds work. Those fantasies of his would be nothing more than nasty thoughts…until she gave him the “all clear” signal, which would probably be something as simple as leaning forward at the cash register to show off her cleavage.
Or maybe she’d passed him her phone number and asked him to call her whenever he got in something really good. You know…a bottle of wine she meant.
Then she was suddenly riding his cock every single afternoon.
That’s how it went down, I’m sure of it. And where was I during this time? I was picking our son up from kindergarten or maybe I was making him mac and cheese with hot dogs chopped up in it the way he likes it.
What I wasn’t doing was finding my own young stud to fuck.
That’s what I should have been doing, right? Well not me, I’m Gina the dependable.
Gina the great mom.
Gina the nice lady next door who always lends a cup of sugar.
Gina who doesn’t mind that your music is a little too loud.
Gina who will gladly accept a double shift.
Never Gina the cock riding whore.
Secretly, I wished that were me.
As I started my double for the day, right at the seven o’clock hour, the store was still empty. It would be filling up soon with people rushing to buy gum, cigarettes, and lunch for their work day.
I stood alone, my legs and back aching, checking myself out in a small mirror I kept on the side of my register. I was exhausted, but I didn’t look so bad. My eyes were slightly red but my reddish hair was still pulled back into a tight ponytail. My lipstick needed a little touch up on my next break.
Beyond the stuff I could fix, I thought my face was pretty cute. My cheeks were a little bit chubby but I knew a lot of the guys at work thought I was attractive. One of the young baggers called me a MILF once when he thought I wasn’t listening.
A MILF. A Mom I’d Like To Fuck. Nice. I’ll take that.
Thinking about it made me kind of excited. I sat down on my swivel chair and thought about the kid. He wasn’t a kid really. Maybe eighteen. Okay, a kid but why is it okay for my husband to fuck a girl a year older than that and I can’t even fantasize about it?
Exactly.
He was a strong kid with a big powerful chest, short hair, and a wisecracking grin. He was the store clown but he was quite good looking.
How would it happen? How would it be possible?
To me, that’s the key to fantasy. Just imagining it is not enough. I have to envision how it would possibly happen. It can’t be the fake porn kind of scenario.
You know, where the guy shows up to fix the girl’s sink and she says, “But I don’t even have a sink” and then lets him in anyway. Suddenly he’s giving her that gigantic plumber’s pipe.
So how would Jimmy the bag boy make it work? Let’s say he offered to give me a ride home from work. Then, while in his car, he tells me that my shirt must’ve gotten dirty at work and offers to have his mom clean it for me back at his place…
See? No, that’s where the fantasy has to stop. It’s not real. How could I imagine a guy bending me over his washing machine if he just mentioned he could have his mom, his MOM wash my shirt.
These are the kind of internal arguments I have with myself all the time. In reality, Jimmy didn’t say any of this, but I’ve already ruled him out as a potential fuck.
How do men do it? How do they set themselves up for a one-night-stand or just a quick lunchtime fuck at the office? I can’t even make it through a damned fantasy of my own.
So there I was at my cash register, just kicking off the new shift, when I decided to make this fantasy thing work. I would have a successful fantasy session before the end of this long shift.
And it started with a guy I call Mac. I don’t know his real name. He’s a cop, a big ogre of a man. Not bad looking, just huge, like one of those guys who fling