Here is your pizza

 

My cell phone chimes as I drive through traffic on a detour due to the city digging up a street I usually take.

At a stop light, I respond.

“Where are you!” a shrill female voice on the other end demands. “You were supposed to be here already.”

The woman only confirms the dread I felt when I got assigned to make the deliver and the other delivery guys giggled, as if the knew something I didn’t. and wouldn’t tell me.

“You’ll find out,” Jude said with that sly, uncomfortable smile of his, and a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“She’s hot,” he said, although he hinting at something darker, some aspect of this regular he wanted me to find out for myself.

Customers come in a wide variety, some far kind, some are mean, some are generous, some of greedy, and some fit odd categories that stretch beyond usual definitions. And from the way Jude acted, this is one of them.

Hot?

Perhaps Jude senses something in me that I try to keep hidden. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, and it scares me to think how I will respond if she is as “hot” as Jude suggests. I would rather have someone impatient for their pizza and rude about by not being there on time, then to find myself tempted.

“I’m on my way, honest, Lady,” I tell her as the light changes. “I promise your pizza won’t get cold.”

“It better not be!” she snarls then hangs up.

I try to put all of this out of my head, this odd feeling I’m getting, and the odd humorous and knowing looks on the faces of the other delivery people who watched me leave.

It’s my horniness that makes me read into their reaction, perhaps they even sensing my need and feeding into it with these silly innuendos.

I may just be a delivery guy, but I take the job seriously, like a professional, capable of separating my personal needs for what I get paid to do.

I pull up to the curb and then carry the box to the glass door, ringing the buzzer, and getting the response through the tiny grill speaker: “who is it?”

“The pizza man,” I say.

“About freakin time,” she says, and the buzzer lets me into the vestibule. “I’m on the top floor.”

I go through the inner door, then up one flight, then the next, as if climbing, feeling a bit like the Prince visiting Rapunzel in her tower, getting more and more nervous with every step, thinking of Jude’s expression and the laughter I saw in the eyes of the other workers.

I reach the woman’s door and knock, and the door flies open to reveal her standing on the other side, so scantily dressed I almost see through her, every curve of her only marginally hidden behind the thin veil of her negligee.

“You certainly took your time,” she says.

I try to respond, try to explain about the road opening and the detour, but I am speechless, my gaze focused completely on her, from that painful wedge between her legs, to the pink tips of her breasts, to her slightly slanted and perfectly kissable lips, to her eyes – like deep pools of brown in which I am already drowning.

“Well?” she asks.

I thrust the box at her, its warmth against my fingers as if I am already touching her.

Her eye brows rise like question marks.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, although it is clear from the humored look in her eyes she already knows and has already guessed just how long it has been since I have stood before a goddess like this, seen firm breasts like hers, felt the urgency I know I should not feel. I am in a deep fog. I can look nowhere else but at her, and yet, the more I look the more befuddled I get, and speechless.

The vague memory of my fellow workers laughing comes into that fog.

I cough slightly and give her the price, doing my best not to stare where I can’t help staring, trying to think of anything other than sumptuous meal that she has laid out before me, not pizza but something infinitely more desirable, as if she is the delivery girl bringing me the meal my imagination ordered up.

I need to concentrate on my job, I tell myself, although planning the more terrible vengeance on my work mates when I get back to the store.

“Yes, of course,” she says, her beautiful lips smirking. “Why don’t you come inside. I suppose you’ll want a tip.”

What I want, what her eyes claim she is offering, make me speechless again as I stubble across the threshold, pulled along like a play toy at the end of string, or rather, drawn in by the rising thing between my legs, a thing that makes itself all too evident, and which she clearly also notices and her smirk turns into something nefarious.

The reasonable part of my brain has vanished. All that remains is that small brain, driven by instinct, a devious inner being that betrays all my best intentions.

I know I can no longer stop the inevitable and I step ahead, one foot after the other, until I’m inside, she closing the door behind me, admiring me.

“They sent a real looker this time,” she says. “You look terribly cute in that little blue uniform. I’m sure you’d look even better if you took it off.”

For some reason, this remark kick starts my main brain again.

“I just need to get paid, lady,” I tell her, even though my whole body quakes with desire to have her or perhaps for her to have me, my reasonable brain telling me, “This is all wrong,” and telling me to flee while I still can.

I’m going to roll Jude up in pizza dough and shove him in the oven when I get back, if I get back, if I’m not baked in this woman’s oven first, if I can remember the way back having left no bread crumb trail to follow.

“I said take your clothes off!” she demands, no longer laughing, her stare deadly serious. “Take them off and get on my couch.”

She points to the couch, and like a zombie I comply, clothing abandoned behind me on the floor with each step, knowing I can’t stop it, knowing that she intends to rape me, knowing that my inflated condition, the bulge below my belt providing her with all the invitation she needs.

Then, I’m naked, on my back, as she strips off her gown and climbs on top of me, easing her pussy down onto my throbbing cock, riding me like she might a horse, up and down, until all I can do is grasp her breast and ride it out, feeling my cock swell up deep inside her with every thrust, feeling my need mingling with hers, up and down, again and again, my mouth finding the tip of her breast. I am a child suckling. I am helpless to do anything but what she demands, what her body insists on, and what my body aches to provide, up and down, my cock feeling every inch of the soft interior, feeling her pussy tighten around me, feeling her whole body quake with her need, she riding me, she owning me, she pumping me until I cum, and then won’t stop, making me cum again, making me to this until finally she cums, too.

Then, when she is done, she puts back on her gown, motioning me to dress.

“You’re money is in the envelope on the table,” she says, somewhat coldly. “You already had your tip.”

I dress. I grab the fee, and then stumble out into the hall, hearing the door slam behind me, hearing my footsteps on stairs, my whole body still vibrating, as if I am an echo, as if I have been emptied out.

I feel violated and yet incredibly pleased, and suspect, even Jude doesn’t know what happened here, and I will never tell him, knowing also I might never be asked to make the same delivery again.

 

 

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