Delivering the Virgin(2)

     



 

Speaking of which, the stopwatch was already running. Heaving myself up,  I stretched mightily, throwing muscled arms into the air before hopping  off my stool. One of the great things about being a delivery guy is  that it keeps you in shape walking all over the city, going up and down  stairs, logging in hundreds of miles. So I worked out all the time,  making sure I was athletic and flexible while also strong. You never  knew if someone was going to order a microwave or god forbid, a  refrigerator, and you were the only person on shift, manhandling that  monster up a steep set of stairs. Fuck, I hated those deliveries, it was  like they expected fucking Superman or something.

But this one was gonna be easy. I pulled on my delivery jacket, a  nondescript grey zip-up with the logo NYC Concierge on the sleeve, and  smashed a baseball cap on my head. Yep, very much an anonymous delivery  man now. Clattering down the stairs, I hopped onto a Vespa and zoomed  off to my first stop, Coeur L'Amour. Mopeds are girly but uncannily  useful in the City, able to wiggle through traffic jams, even jump  sidewalks when need be. And pulling up in front of the boutique, I  switched off the motor only to find the door swept open in welcome.

"Mr. McGrath," purred Amelia the salesgirl. "So good to see you."

Fuck, the blonde recognized me. I'd been here more than a few times to  buy stuff for ex-girlfriends, women that I'd fucked, anyone who needed  something to shut them up and keep them happy. And unfortunately as a  high-end place, Coeur L'Amour associates made it their business to  remember every high roller, even my uniform and baseball cap hadn't been  a sufficient disguise.

So I decided to make the best of it.

"Hey," I grunted. "I need a robe."

And the blonde winked slyly.

"I have just the thing, Mr. McGrath," she purred again, "Let me show you."

And she led me to a rack in back filled with lace fripperies, silky  things that were barely two inches long and three inches wide. What the  fuck? This shit cost five hundred bucks, were they kidding me? Hell, I  should go into the lingerie business, this was clearly a high margin  industry.

But at least the rack of robes was a little better, at least there was a  decent amount of material. Amelia pulled one, then another off their  hangers, a pink thing, then a purple one, the array dizzying, all sorts  of colors with lace and embroidery in tasteful patterns.

But this was a delivery and the customer could be a sixty year old crone  for all I knew. So I picked one that was middle of the pack, decently  long, pink satin with a tie at the waist.

"I'll take it," I grunted and Amelia cooed.

"Excellent choice, Mr. McGrath, I'll ring it up for you. And should I  gift wrap it?" she asked, fluttering her lashes. I shook my head  tiredly.

"Not this time, thanks," I said shortly and Amelia was off, her fingers  flying at the register, her long nails click-clacking on the keyboard.  And finally, she folded the silk into a tiny square and deposited it in a  fancy bag.

"Here you go!" she chirped. "And here's your receipt," she said, handing me a slip of paper with a wink.

I grabbed it, crumpling it in my hand. But once outside, I took a glance  and the bile rose in my throat. It wasn't the purchase price that was  shocking, it was the fact that the salesgirl had drawn a heart on the  receipt and added her name and phone number. What the fuck!?! Amelia had  done this last time and I'd ignored it, grinding my teeth at the  come-on. She was absolutely not my type, skinny, blonde, with the nails  like Cruella de Ville. What the fuck, this bitch couldn't get a clue,  and I was ready to barrel right back in there and chew her out, waiting  customer be damned.

But fuck. There was no time, I needed to make my delivery. So jaw set  with frustration, I got back on the bike, strapping the stuff to the  back. What the fuck was wrong with females in this city? They threw  themselves at me right and left, and you know what? I was over it. I was  looking for curvy and round, with heft and some real weight, creamy  flesh to grab and hold, and in this city of skinny minnies, it was  fucking hard to find. Fuck me, this fucking sucked. Can you believe it?  In this city of fifteen million, I couldn't find a sassy, curvy girl to  meet my needs.         

     



 





CHAPTER THREE


Tucker




I pulled up in front of a dilapidated tenement building, the kind of  thing that hadn't been renovated in seventy years, the window frames  sagging, the interior hallway dirty and ragged with years of caked-on  dirt, a sad row of metal mailboxes lined up against the side. Seeing  that the lingerie and soaps had cost a pretty penny, I was surprised to  be dropping them off at such a down-and-out location. But then again,  New Yorkers are a weird bunch. It's such an expensive city that people  splurge on the little things to make life more bearable  –  expensive  shampoo, smokes for a deep drag, shit even cocaine sometimes. That's the  beauty and the downfall of the city. There's something for everyone but  it might cost an arm and a leg.

But it wasn't my place to judge, I'm just the delivery guy. So I bolted  up the five flights, stopping at a run-down landing which showcased  three doors. Looking at the address, I knocked on 5A, the one furthest  to the left, the paint on the door peeling, scratches on the wall the  product of long nights and too many moves.

I was expecting some middle-aged lady or some dude with a live-in  girlfriend, some frat boy making his apologies. But instead, the girl  who answered the door took my breath away because she was delicious. The  door cracked open and a pair of big brown eyes peeped out, topped by a  mass of curls swept in a messy topknot.

"Hi," came a breathy voice as an arm extended awkwardly around the door. "Can you just hand it to me?"

"Sure," I said, my senses on alert. If I wasn't mistaken, the girl's  awkward attempts to hide herself were because she was naked. I could see  that the arm was attached to a bare shoulder, and the way she cowered  behind the wood slab was pretty telling body language in and of itself.

"But ma'am," I said wryly. "I'm gonna need your signature."

And the girl sighed, a gusty breath from behind the door.

"Can you just forge my signature for me?" she said, exasperated. "Please?"

I shook my head, almost laughing. Honestly, if she'd said, "Could you  sign for me?" or "Please draw an X on my behalf," I would have been  happy to. Sometimes people aren't in a position where they can sign  because of epilepsy or some medical disorder and I've signed for other  folks more than once. But the way Ms. Holmes had phrased it, "Can you  forge my signature?" basically made it impossible. Nah, I didn't want to  go to jail and besides, I was curious.

So I shook my head, getting my electronic pad out.

"Sorry ma'am," I growled. "No can do."

And there was some shuffling from behind the door as well as another gusty sigh, an exhale of Titanic proportions.

"Okay okay, I'll do it then," came the voice and the girl appeared this  time  …  butt naked except for a pair of jeans wrapped around her middle.  My mouth dropped open because she was the most gorgeous woman I'd ever  seen. Curvy with huge boobs, a fat ass and wide, swinging hips, the  denim did nothing to hide her generous proportions, she was Venus de  Milo come to life. My cock punched out immediately, my staff rock hard  at the miles of creamy flesh before me, barely covered, side boob, under  boob, top boob, all on display coupled with a tiny bit of pussy hair  right where the denim stopped, the material unable to hide much.

"Sorry," she muttered, looking down, trying to shake her hair forward to  hide her face while biting her lip. "I just moved and can't find  anything," she gestured to a mountain of boxes in back of her. But that  movement caused everything to go awry. The jeans slipped despite the  girl's effort to keep them clutched under her armpits, falling to the  ground in a crumpled pile and suddenly she was slickly nude before me,  everything showing, cunt, tits, ass, miles of creamy flesh trembling and  jiggling.

And I did what any red-blooded man would have done if his girl was naked  in public. I stepped into the apartment, slamming the door behind me,  protecting her from the eyes of inquisitive neighbors or anyone else who  might stumble by. Because she was mine. This little brunette with the  pink nips and beautifully flushed pussy was mine, all mine.         

     



 





CHAPTER FOUR


Laurie




Holy shit, the delivery man was fucking hot. I'd been shivering on my  couch, the effects of the hot shower dissipating, cold, wet as a mouse,  with nothing to cover me but these blasted jeans and the flannel shirt.  They were basically useless because the shirt was soaked through already  and the jeans? Damp denim is no fun when you're wet and cold.