Page 8 of All I Wank for Christmas

Fuck, he was hot. He’s all I’ve been able to think about since he gave me that candy cane and walked out of my jerk-off room with a wave and a big smile. I never drool on a dick. I just lube it up and give it the required yank.

But him…I wanted topleasehim. I wanted to make his session the dirtiest and smarmiest hand job he’s ever received. I even surprised myself when I spit on him. I’ve done a lot of dirty activities in my adult life, but watching my spit dribble down that man’s gorgeous dick was surreal.

And his dick was gorgeous. Beautiful with a great curve that would destroy a woman when it rubs her G-spot. It wasn’t ugly at all like some dicks are. Even his pubic hair was trimmed and tasteful. His length was a good seven inches of thick glory, weeping with pre-cum on the head. If I thought I wouldn’t get fired, I would have taken the whole thing in my mouth and sucked the stress he mentioned straight out of him.

But Linda One has repeatedly warned us about throat gonorrhea, and that shit sounds scary as hell.

That smile. Fuck me, that smile crushed my heart, and the sounds he made as I stroked him will fill my bean flick bank for months.

Where did he come from? Maybe I should have asked when he asked my name. If we were getting personal, I could have asked if he’s staying at his grandmother’s house in town for the holiday. I’ve never seen him before, but now I’m scared I won’t ever see him again.

I pull the blanket around me tighter, shivering a little. No use getting upset about a guy I didn’t know this morning, for fuck’s sake. My eyes are heavy, and my arms and hands are tired from my workday. I think about rubbing one out to thoughts of Jasper, but my eyes droop.

I must fall asleep because I wake up to the credits rolling. Sitting up, I look around the room. Everything seems fine. The next episode automatically loads on the TV, and everything’s as I left it.

Something woke me, and something in the back of my mind is off. A sound? A knock at the door? I pick up the baby monitor I have for Mom and shake it. No static. No noise from Mom’s room. Hitting it lightly with my palm, it sputters static, but is otherwise silent.

Getting off the couch, I walk to the window, tiptoeing in case it’s an intruder. The driveway is empty except for my old, black Chevy truck I bought second-hand when I graduated college and needed some kind of vehicle. Helena’s car isn’t there, so it wasn’t her making the noise. She’s probably out with friends like a normal nineteen-year-old.

A scratching sound comes from the ceiling, startling me. “Fucking squirrels,” I yell, huffing off to the laundry room for the broom. It took forever for the pest guy to get rid of the squirrels the last time they got in the attic. Just what I need. “Fuck off!” I bang the ceiling with the broom handle, and I must have scared them off. Maybe I gave the squirrel a heart attack or caused it to run out of whatever entrance it has into my attic.

Throwing the broom down, I stomp back to the couch. “That’ll be another six hundred bucks. Fuck my life. I’ll have to give a senator hand jobs and take the hush money to pay for that work.”

The scratching on the ceiling starts again, and I shake my head. The sound moves across the room and around the chimney. I squint at the top of the fireplace mantle and think. If that’s a squirrel, it’s a big mother fucker. If it’s near the chimney, there’s probably a hole in the chimney where it’s coming in. Great. That’s a chimney sweep visit.

The animal stops at the chimney, but there’s another sound that sounds like a person grumbling to themselves. A moment later, a distinctive grunt comes from the chimney.

That was not a fucking squirrel.

There’s someone on my roof. This is worse than squatting rodents.

Terror floods my veins, and I freeze. My knees tremble. My bladder suddenly feels full, and I squeeze my knees together in terror, trying not to fall on the floor and trying not to piss myself. My heart pounds out of my chest. There’s a murderer on my roof, and he’s going to come down the chimney. At least the murderer has a sense of humor if he’s coming into the house like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. He can be known as the Santa serial killer.

It’s a good schtick for a killer, I guess.

Pebbles drop to the ground as pieces of brick and old bird nests fall through the grate. More grunting. A curse word. I tilt my head, straining my ears. The voice is…sexy. Great. I’m going to be murdered by a hot serial killer with a morbid sense of humor.

Legs appear in front of me, and I look for a weapon, not finding one. Why don’t I have a weapon? I make a mental note to buy a big fucking gun if I survive this. Wait. I don’t know how to use a gun. OK, I’m going to buy a big fucking machete if I survive this.

Tight red pants over chiseled thighs appear. Is this guy really dressed like Santa? This just keeps getting worse.

With a grunt, the guy pulls himself through the fireplace and appears, bent over and on all fours. He smacks dust from his suit, and I lament the filthy state of my chimney. If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d be embarrassed. I work hard to make sure there’s little dust and dirt in the house.

When he stands up, soot streaks his forehead and cheeks, but I still recognize him. My heart pounds so hard that I worry it’ll pound straight out of my chest. It doesn’t pound in fear. It pounds in shock and excitement. Maybe even a little horniness.

“Jasper?”

“Hi, Holly.” He gives a small wave. “I’m glad you’re up. I need a little help. And, well, I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t just knock. Would you believe me if I told you that I thought it would be weird?”

Anger replaces my excitement. I grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists. Is he stalking me? Is he mental? He must be if he’s sliding down chimneys of girls who jerk him off for money. What kind of maniac does that? “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask. “Did you follow me?”

“I did not follow you. I just happen to…know where you live.” He bites his lip and puts his hands on his hips as he looks around my living room. “Somehow, when I say it, that sounds worse.”

I back away from him until my ass hits the wall with a thump, and my legs tremble so hard that I’m worried I’ll slide down the drywall. My neck hits the thermostat, and I quickly check to make sure I don’t accidentally turn up the heat. My eyes flick to my cell phone on the table near the couch where I left it when I came home. Can I get to it in time to call Sheriff DeWitt? I curse when I realize it’s dead anyway. I was going to charge it before bed.

Jasper moves between me and the table. Should I yell for Mom and have her use the old flip phone she keeps for emergencies? How would I even explain? Would he hurt her? Her sound machine blocks out most noise. I doubt she’d even hear my scream.

“Why the fuck did you come down the chimney?” I yell. “Most stalkers use the fucking door or a window. If you were normal, you’d jump me in the parking lot on my way to work! Are you trying to be cute? Do you think this is funny?”

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