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.