Speaker 1: The august heat pressed through my t shirt like a
wet cloth, My glasses kept sliding down my nose, and
my bike's chain was making that sound again, the one
that meant I had maybe three more deliveries before the
whole thing seized up and left me walking. I squinted
at the address on my phone. One seven three eight
maple View, two turnins past the laundromat. The bag in
my rear carrier smelled like grilled onions and teriyaki. Two cheeseburgers,
a large fry, and a chocolate shake. Twenty three dollars
and forty cents, plus a four dollar tip. That was
the only reason I'd taken the order in the first place.
Maple View was uphill. Uphill meant sweat. Sweat meant my
bangs plastered to my forehead, and my already questionable appearance
downgraded to feral raccoon. I pedaled harder. The house was
a craftsman bungalow with a front porch that sagged just
slightly on the left side, garden, overgrown mailbox stuffed a
car in the driveway that was too clean for the neighborhood.
A restored Mustang dark green chrome gleaming like it knew
it was being looked at. I grabbed the food bag
and the drink carrier and walked up the steps. The
door opened before I could knock. He was older, forty something,
dark hair with gray at the temples, stubble, like he'd
forgotten to shave for three days but could afford to forget,
wearing a thin white T shirt that clung to a
chest that clearly knew about bench presses, jeans, bare feet,
eyes that moved over me once braces, glasses, lanky limbs,
door dash, polo soaked through and then softened rough day.
He asked, sir, I have your the drink carrier tipped.
I don't know how my thumb slipped, or the cardboard
got soft from condensation, or the universe just decided I
was due for humiliation. The chocolate shake listed sideways, The
lid popped, and suddenly my entire front was a Jackson
pollock of cold milkshake. Shit. Brown sludge dripped off my
polo onto the porch boards. I stood there, arms out,
mortification burning through me. So hot, I half expected the
shake to evaporate off my skin. He laughed, not mean,
not mocking a surprised, bark of genuine amusement that crinkled
the corners of his eyes. That's unfortunate. Come in, you
can clean up before you head back out. I'm so sorry,
I pleaded. I can get you another order. The shake's
a loss. The burgers are fine, and you've got chocolate
melting into your bra, so maybe stop arguing and get inside.
I followed him, because he was right about the bra.
The house was cooler inside, dark wood floors, bookshelves along
one wall, the kind of books women sigh over in
Instagram posts but never actually read. A leather couch with
an indentation on one end. The kitchen was through a
narrow hallway. He pointed at the sink soaps there, towels
under the counter. You want a shirt to change into.
I know, I'll just rinse it. I have a spear
in my bag. Suit yourself. I peeled off my polo.
The tank top underneath was mercifully less drenched cold water soap.
Grubbing at the brown stains while trying not to look
like I was hyperventilating, the man leaned against the counter,
arms crossed, watching my back prickled. The thing about braces
and glasses and being built like a coat rack. Is
that you get used to people looking past you, through you,
around you. You don't get used to people looking not
the way he was looking now, like I was a
puzzle he'd found interesting and was going to take his
time figuring out. I turned our eyes met I smiled,
not the customer service smile I'd practiced in my bathroom mirror.
Something else, something that pulled at the corners of my
mouth before I gave it permission. He crossed the kitchen
in three strides. His hand found the back of my neck,
thumb pressing into the hollow behind me. My ear warm calloused.
His mouth came down on mine, and I tasted coffee
and something sharper, something that made my knees forget they
had a job. I made a sound, small wanting. He
pulled my tank top up and over my head in
one motion. My glasses caught on the fabric, clattered to
the floor. Leave them, I breathed, and bent to grab them,
put them back on. I did. His mouth was on
my tits before i'd fully straightened, not gentle, not asking.
His tongue dragged across my nipple, and I grabbed the
edge of the sink behind me, fingers curling around cold porcelain.
He sucked hard, drawing me into his mouth, and the
sensation shot downward, a hot wire straight between my legs.
My hips bucked. He laughed against my skin, switched to
the other breast, his hand working the one he'd abandoned,
thumb circling until I was gripping the sink so hard
my knuckles went pale. You're responsive, he murmured, You're uh.
He lifted me onto the sink. The porcelain was cool
against my thighs. He pushed my legs apart, fingers hooking
into the waistband of my shorts, dragging them down. My
sneakers still on, my socks mismatched. I was a disaster,
and he was looking at me like I was the
first meal he'd had in years. Harry, he said, palm
pressing flat against my cunt. I flushed. I don't I
like it. His head dropped, tongue broad and flat, and
then pointed, parting me, finding where I was already slick.
I made a noise that wasn't a word and wasn't
a moan. Something caught in betwen like my throat had
forgotten how to make sound. He ate me the way
men eat when they're starving, when they've been waiting, when
the food isn't just food, but something they've imagined. His
tongue circled my clit, retreated, returned. Two fingers slid inside me,
and I gripped his hair, soft, thick, just enough to
hold onto there. I gasped, right there, don't stop, don't stop,
don't He didn't. I came with my head thrown back
against the cabinet, glasses fogged, one sneaker kicking against the
cupboard door. He worked me through it, slowing only when
my thighs stopped trembling. Okay, he said, standing wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand. Okay, bedroom. I
slid off the sink, you first, because I wasn't done,
because my blood was singing and I wanted to feel
him in my throat. I dropped to my knees right
there on the kitchen tile. His jeans came down, boxer briefs.
He was hard, thick, a bead of moisture at the
tip that I licked away before taking him in. My
brace is caught slightly. I'd learned to angle my mouth
so they wouldn't learned on a boyfriend in sophomore year
who'd complained once and never got to again. And then
I was working him tongue and suction, one hand cupping
him underneath, the other braced on his thigh. He groaned
a low sound I felt in my chest. Fuck, he
breathed your mouth. I looked up at him over my
fogged glasses and smiled. He pulled me up. That's enough.
Bedroom now. We stumbled through the hallway, him walking, me
pressed against his side, his hand on my ass, squeeze.
The bedroom was dark, curtains drawn, bed unmade. He pushed
me onto it, face first, ass up, I complied. He
didn't enter me right away, just ran his cock along
my slit, teasing, making me wait. I whimpered, pushed backward.
He slapped my ass, not hard, but sharp enough to
make me gasp, and then he was inside me, one thrust,
filling me so completely I forgot my own name. That's it,
he said, hands gripping my hips. Take it. He fucked
me from behind, each stroke deliberate and deep, pulling out
almost entirely before slamming back in. One hand wound into
my hair, tugging my head back. The other found my
shoulder blades, pressing me down into the mattress. You like
being used like this, like being a dirty little delivery girl.
I couldn't speak, could only nod, mouth, open, glasses askew.
He pulled out, flipped me onto my side, lifted my
leg over his shoulder, and entered me again. The angle
was different, deeper, somehow, hitting a place that made my
vision spark white. My fingers clawed at the sheets. You're
squeezing me so tight, he grunted, driving in harder, gonna
fill you up. You want that? Yes? I managed, yes? Please.
He moved onto his back, pulling me on top briefly,
just long enough for me to feel the control, before
he flipped me underneath him again. My legs went up
over his shoulders. He folded me in half and drove
into me, and I screamed, not a word, not a name,
just sound, raw and cracked as my second orgasm ripped
through me. He followed three thrusts later, groaning, pressing deep,
and holding pulsing hot inside me until there was nothing left.
We lay there, breathing. My glasses had survived barely. One
temple piece bent. I straightened it with shaking fingers. He
laughed soft. That makes up for the shake. I laughed too.
The afternoon light was starting to slant through the windows.
When I gathered my clothes. My polo was still damp
at the hem. I put it on anyway. He walked
me to the door, kissed my forehead. Ride safe. I
got on my bike. The chain was still squeaking, The
hills were still waiting, but my body hummed, and my
skin smelled like his sheets, and the world felt like
a place I'd been underestimating. My phone buzzed with a
notification new review. The screen was bright in the late sun.
I held it up, squinting one star. No wait, the
stars didn't matter. The text good at sucking cock great
fuck kept her glasses on the entire time, the perfect
dirty bitch. The phone slipped, clattered onto the asphalt. I
stared down at it, heart hammering, a strange heat spreading
through my chest. Not shame, something sharper, something like possibility.
Door dash was done. I had a great idea door whores. Wores.
I hoped you enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love
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you want to hear. Maybe we can make your dirty
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