A Fantastic Scenario

It wasn't such a bad life, Don reflected as he sauntered along the snow covered pavement. He wore a heavy coat, for it was windy, quite windy.
He had finished the night's work and was now heading home. As he walked he listened to 80s shoegaze pop on an archaic walkman. He also played movies in his head, fantastical films where he played a noble, heroic protagonist. This entertained him and made the trek home that much shorter.

When he got home he phoned Wendy.
"How come you didn't stay in New York?" she asked suddenly. Don clutched the mouthpiece of the phone in both hands and said nothing.
"I had a dream about you," she continued. "A sexual one. It was nice." Her voice was warm.
She misses my cock, Don decided.

It wasn't such a bad life. A blonde, doe-eyed luscious wee lassie wouldn't go amiss. 17 years old or 19 years old or else even 40 years old. He saw them all the time on the city streets. He wanted to fuck them. He imagined clasping their breasts and taking them with astonishing force. Or else other times he just fantasized about cuddling them. A few tentative, gentle kisses maybe. Some subtle dry-humping. Was it possible to engage in dry-humping in a subtle manner? He intended to find out.

There was the luscious wee lassie at work. Except she was really wee, even for a 17 year old. And she was brunette.
The other night he had somehow accidentally collided with her. That is if you believe accidents like that are really accidents. He somehow didn't. Their knees had bumped together and they had both apologised simultaneously. He had imagined he had heard a shade of excitement in her voice. But presumably it was nothig more than imagination or else psychological projection. He had visualised her bare knee beneath her trousers. Pale, small, soft. He hoped it hadn't bruised. Although part of him sort of hoped it had. He imagined coming on the bruise. Jesus Christ.

His friend Valdez threw a party on Saturday night and it was there that Don found his archetypal doe-eyed blonde. Christ, she was perfect, impossibly gorgeous. Musta been around 18 years of age. Maybe 17, but a fully grown 17, unlike that frolicsomne wee wench at work. She wore a pretty polka dot dress. Don yearned to empty his satchels across it. He was an egregious bastard. But he was also a tender bastard. He yearned for affection as well.
With some manuevering he managed to end up in on eof the upstairs bedrooms with the lass. They lay on bed together, Don on top, his head nestled on her pert, firm funbags. One thing lead to another and then he found himself frantically dry-humping her. His groin felt heavy and he felt almost nauseas with delirious lust. He stopped thrusting abruptly as he felt the inner leg of his jeans splatter with ejaculate which quickly became cold and sticky. The lass began sobbing quietly. Don felt deflated, sleepy, and slightly unethical. It wasn't a bad life. It was confusing as hell sometimes though.

Important disclaimer: the characters and events in the preceeding story are entirely fictional and, for the most part, are not based on any actual experiences of the author.