Why did I fall in love with this guy? I mean, of all guys out there, in the city of London, fuck, even in the whole of Britain, I had to fall for the one guy I can’t have.

But I can’t help it. I mean, you can’t just not fall in love with him. He has that power over you, that rare and illusive power to make you spontaneously cream yourself with one single wink of the eye.

He’s dangerous. I know what he does to women. He fucks them once and leaves them hanging, pining for his mind, his soul and his gorgeous dick. He can turn the biggest prude into a cock-hungry sex addict.

Of course, that’s all hear-say, which is passed on to me over the water cooler on Monday morning. And I can’t help but feel jealous. Jealous of these silly women whose libido has come to depend on him.

And I don’t understand this crush I have. Clearly he’s wrong for me. Not only is he wrong for me, he’s also my best friend. Yes, Mr Hot Cock is my best friend. And all the women in the office are jealous of me.

The reason is simple. I am but the receptionist, sitting behind my desk, with my geek specs and my well-worn All Stars. Why should he even deem me worthy of his attention? Obviously, they are much better suited to be with him, because of them looking like movie stars and goddesses and not at all filled up to the ears with botox and sillicone.

Fuck them. Nobody knows him like I do. They may know what makes him moan, but I know what makes him laugh, what makes him cry, what makes him so happy, he needs to stop himself from bursting with joy.

I love him. I want him. I want him to scream my name at night and hold me tight in the morning.

But I’ll never be able to tell him. I’m not his type, I just know it. I hate that he falls for those impossibly beautiful girls in the office. I hate that I can’t live up to his standards.

I hate that I love him, because I’ve never loved someone as much as him.

And I want him to love me back. 



Serial shagger, Lothario, Casanova, you name it, I’ve heard all of them. All nicknames from the guys at work. Seemingly jealous because I have copped off with Lara from Accounting or Jessica from Marketing.

I wouldn’t be jealous of me. Sure, they’re all babes, but they’re not extraordinary. They are all of the same kind, bitches with unusually large breasts and suspiciously plump lips.

But they’re not who I want. They’re who I fuck to feel better about myself. Yeah, I know, I’m just a big piece of shit who shouldn’t treat women like objects, but they don’t know the real me.

The fact is that there is only one girl in my heart. The one girl I can never have and that all the other girls can’t compare to.

But she’s my best friend. I can’t go copping off with my best friend! What if that fucks up this bond we have? What if it goes wrong, what if…

What if I can never stop thinking about her? Because I just can’t. She haunts my thoughts, dreams, my everything.

I fantasize about her. God, she makes me harder than any of those ridiculous women at work can. How can I not fantasize about her? Not only is she shit-hot, with beautiful eyes, full, round breasts and a pert arse, she is perfectly capable of talking me under the table with the sheer intellect she has hidden in that gorgeous head of hers.

I love her for her brain. I love her for her voice. I love her.

Every time I pass reception in the morning, she is there, smiling at me, asking me how I slept.  And every time I go home, she is there, smiling at me, asking me if I want to go and have a drink.

I always accept.

Because I cherish the time I spend with her. God, I get off on the words she says, the jokes she makes, the smile on her face.

I can never have her, and it kills me.

I hate that I’ve never loved a woman so much as I love her.

I want her.



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  1. This is just so good! I have reread it for the third time in succession – brilliant Jilly 🙂


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