*Editors' Note* Going against Type is a super sexy series by the wonderful Kay Jaybee. Enjoy!
Read "Going against Type", Parts 1-3 here.
Delivery Man Erotica Series by Kay Jaybee
He didn’t say anything. No ‘hello.’ No, ‘you look nice.’ Nothing. Well, not until almost the very end...
As usual, I’d been watching for the clock to tick around to one o’clock. It was the fourth Tuesday since my courier had begun to make more personal deliveries, along with the pile of DVDs he was scheduled to bring. Waiting, restlessly perched on the edge of my desk chair, unable to concentrate on the accounts that demanded my workday brain, my imagination reverted to the position it had held since John’s last visit.
He fantasizes about fucking me and another woman – oh boy – we share a fantasy. I wonder if we’ll do it... what would she be like? Does he like the same sort of women that I do? Surely we must have some tastes in common...tall or short, blonde or brunette...slim or curvaceous...Hell, I’ll never forget his expression as I confessed my bi-sexuality, he was just so...
John’s hammer-like knock on the front door interrupted my thoughts, and I hurried to open it. He came in quickly, his face set into a frown of determination.
Waiting just long enough for me to close the door, he dragged me into the lounge. Slamming the internal door shut behind us, he propelled me; head first, into the very corner of the room, shoving me up against the cool, cream wall.
Quickly, John’s hands came around me. One headed to my crotch, squeezing me tightly through the denim of my jeans, the other reached beneath my shirt, moving directly to my right tit, pinching it hard. An instant and overwhelming feeling of impending orgasm raced through me. Shit, I’m gonna come, he hasn’t even done anything yet, this is unbelievable...
I tried to concentrate as John, ignoring how I sagged slightly against the wall with the speed of my unexpected coming, tugged at my shirt. I attempted to turn to allow him easier access, but he pushed the flat of his palm firmly against my back, pinning me neatly in place. As my left cheek felt the chill of the paintwork, the rest of my body quivered beneath his unexpected domination, a thrill made all the more powerful by the silence of the otherwise still room.
Releasing my breasts from my bra, John continued to tweak my nipples with one hand, while his other attacked the fastenings of my trousers. They were around my ankles before I’d even registered that my belt was undone. My brain whirled, and I found it impossible to keep pace with what was happening. I ought to be reciprocating, I want to feel his dick, stroke his beautifully fit body...
Every attempt I made to move was thwarted, and I soon abandoned trying to touch John. Closing my eyes against the stark glare of the cream paint, I let the sensations he was engendering in me take over.
My legs shook as my knickers were removed, and thick fingers returned to my sodden crotch. That was when he broke the silence.
“You are one dirty bitch, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, I...”
John’s angry voice cut through my sentence in a hurry of frustration. “All fuckin’ week you’ve been in my head. You and me on the floor, you and me on your armchair, you sucking my cock, with your dirty little finger workin’ up my arse. And then...then!” He paused, inhaling deeply as his hand smacked my trapped behind, making me yelp in surprise. “I bet you even liked that, didn’t you, I bet you liked that slap.”
His tone was hectoring and urgent, and he seemed to lose his way, his words dripping with confused lust. So I simply replied with a quietly breathless, “Yes.”
“I knew it.” John yanked me away from the wall, and sitting on the edge of my armchair, hoisted me over his lap, and spanked my arse hard and fast.
All I could feel was the delicious burn of his active palms and the dig of his dick as it strained behind his trousers, towards me. The sound of the slaps that rained against my butt drowned out coherent thought. I shut my eyes again, concentrating on the build up of pain, relishing every strike.
At last, John spoke again, managing to pick up from where he’d left off before he’d begun to punish me, “...and then, then you tell me that you are into women. Have you any idea? Do you know what it’s been like this week with that thought in my head? My god, girl, I thought I’d wanked a lot over you before...but now...”
John hit my burning arse one last time, and then dropped me roughly to the floor, rolling me onto my back. For a moment, he just stood there, stock-still. We were both panting, staring directly at each other’s unblinking gaze. Then he stripped off his t-shirt, and I gulped at the sight of his haired chest, which I swear looked even more incredible than it did the first time I saw it. His trousers and boxers came down in one coordinated move, and he laid against me, his cock poking into my hip, as his mouth came to mine with a barrage of kisses.
As my breasts were massaged against his chest, my brain caught up with the fact that I could now give as good as I got. Kissing John with equal fervor, my fingers reached around to his back, scratching and stroking him in time to the pace of our mouths.
John pulled back, sitting up on his haunches, holding his rigid cock so that it pointed directly at my tits. He began to work himself off with one hand, while his other searched out my soaking clit, rubbing and pinching it for all he was worth.
I can’t tell you what I was thinking; everything was a blur. My body rippled and leapt as his warm spunk dashed my skin, and my second climax in less than ten minutes shot heady shivers across my exhausted flesh.
We didn’t move for several moments. I lay there, my lovers sticky seed dribbling gently down the sides of my chest, while we watched each other regain our composure. A second later, and the erotic spell was broken by the mundane reality of re-dressing.
A thousand questions suddenly burst through my head, and I was just stealing myself to finally ask him the ones I most desperately wanted answers to ...“Are you single? What women are you into? Where do you live? What do you do when you’re not working?”... when my delivery driver beat me to it.
Perching on the edge of the armchair he’d so recently used for my chastisement, John asked, “Who the hell are you, woman?”
Originally published July 2009
Read "Going against Type, Part 1" here.
Read "Going against Type, Part 2" here.
Read "Going against Type, Part 3" here.
