Special Delivery 


The story starts when I was twenty-one.  A junior in college.  I was
delivering pizzas at nights and on weekends to help pay for rent and
books.  One evening I had a delivery to an address in a newer townhouse
development a few miles from campus.  The people who lived there were
mostly young professionals who worked downtown--college students
couldn't afford the rent.  But it was usually a good place to deliver.
Tips were better.

I went up a flight of steps and knocked on the door, which was promptly
answered by a man I would guess to be thirty or thirty-five.  He was
well-dressed but casual, his shirt open at the collar, his khaki pants
freshly pressed.  His leather loafers bore no scuff marks.  He was trim
and fit, and except for the neatly trimmed goatee he looked every bit
the lawyer or rising executive relaxing on a Friday night with a few
beers and a pizza.

"That was fast," he said with a smile.  "Set the pizza right there,
please."  He pointed to a bar that served as the divider between the
kitchen and the eating area.

He fished in his pocket and handed me some bills.  "Now," he said,
"tell me which you prefer, a standard monetary tip, or perhaps
something less orthodox."

And at the same time he was sweeping his hand towards the den on the
other side of the kitchen I saw her.  She was naked, stretched on her
stomach on the floor.  Her hands were stretched above her head, her
legs held open with padded cuffs tied to the legs of chairs on opposite
sides of the room.  Her skin was beautiful, the mellow white of French
vanilla, broken only by the extravagance of brunette hair that lay in
wild ringlets across her shoulders and back.  The only other
contrasting color was the red pillow that had been placed beneath her
hips, tipping her creamy ass into the air.

I felt the shock down to my toes and it surely registered in my face,
but the man merely spoke in conversational tones.  "Missy loves to be
looked at, and I'm sure you agree that the pleasure of watching her
extends both ways."

I didn't reply.  My throat was tight.  I was still staring at her.
Her eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open.  She had a fresh,
innocent face, like so many college girls, which is exactly what she
was.  She smiled ever so slightly, a dreamy inclination of her lips,
and looked at me for a moment before closing her eyes again.  I don't
know if she saw me or not, she seemed to have other visions dancing in
the mahogany dept of her irises.

My customer continued.  "So here's what I propose.  I can give you a
very generous five-dollar tip, or you may take your tip in the form of
five swats on her wonderful bottom."  Perhaps in reaction to the alarm
on my face, he hastened to add, "Please be assured it will please her
as much or more than it will please you."

Well, I had delivered countless pizzas and I had encountered numerous
strange scenes in people's houses, but nothing had ever come close to
this.  I was in absolute and utter shock, and suddenly the man and his
goatee took on a devilish air and I backed toward the door saying, "No.
 No.  Good bye."  And I flew to my car as quickly as possible.

I was four blocks from the place before my mind kicked back into gear,
and then it raced a hundred miles an hour.  The man with the goatee
looked more and more devilish in my mind's eye, and I feared I had
stumbled into a scene where someone was going to get hurt.  I pulled
over and called the police.  I gave them the address and told them I
thought there might be a woman in trouble.  My hand shook as I hung up
the phone, and the rest of my shift passed in a haze.

The next morning I scoured the paper looking for any story of a man
arrested and a woman held hostage.  There was nothing.  For days and
days I looked but there was never any mention.  Finally the event began
to lose its immediacy.  I went back to my studies and kept delivering
pizzas, although every time I took an order from the townhouse
development I passed it off to another driver.

I tried to forget everything about the encounter but one thing remained
in my mind above all: the stark, spread open naked woman, trussed and
presented like some sort of pagan offering.  The more I tried to make
myself forget the more it popped into my head, and I was ashamed.
Ashamed of the details that grew, either from actual memory or an
overlay of fantasy.  The images offered up the slope of her ass, cast
in light and descending shadows, the deep cleft in her cheeks making an
arc that ended between her legs at the flowering rim of her sex, which
itself was in bright-pink bloom and glistening with her dew.  In the
middle of the night I would wake up thirsty with the wonder of what it
would have been like to touch her, to run my hand along the inviting
course of her bottom, to brush the length of her pussy, to wet myself
with her juice.

It was wrong, it seemed to me.  It was all wrong.  Exploitation.
Objectification.  What right had he had to offer her up like his
property?  And wasn't I just as guilty, lying there in my bed, my cock
straining with my desire, my face red with shame?

More time passed.  The school year ended.  Over the summer I took two
classes and worked as many shifts as I could.  Sometimes at night I
still woke up with her naked, prone body filling my fantasies, but it
happened less and less.  I had begun to forget, or to convince myself
that I had forgotten.

Then one night I had a delivery to an on-campus apartment.  I could
tell when I took the order it was a house full of girls.  I could hear
them talking and laughing in the background.  There were five or six of
them, sitting in the living room watching a movie when I delivered
their food.  They were only half paying attention, mostly talking.  The
girl who took the food and paid me was a very pretty blonde, and it was
only in the background that I saw her, her dark ringlets of hair
cascading about her T-shirt, sitting in a room full of her friends,
laughing and chatting.  But she did something with her face when she
happened to glance up at me, a double-take, that registered some
recognition, before her gaze slid off me and back to the friend she was
talking to.  The blonde gave me a good tip for college students, and I
left, clouded and disturbed again.  It was her.  I was sure of it.
Though I had only caught the glance of her face, and though she was
dressed as normally as all her friends, T-shirt and shorts in the
summer night, it had to have been her.  The contrasting
images--innocent, fresh-faced college girl, and bound naked and
proffered sex object--cast me into a brand new cycle of wonder and
confusion.

The fall semester started and again my wonder about her began to be
replaced by other more timely curiosities.  But as fate would have it,
she was destined to come into my life again.

Spring was my final semester.  I didn't have a job yet but still I'd be
graduating and moving on.  I had fulfilled most of my credits and was
able to take a couple of electives for fun.  I signed up for a small
political science discussion course because as an English major I
hadn't taken many courses with current events and I thought I should
know a little something about what was happening in the current century
before I graduated.

It was a twenty-person class, and she was one of them.  We sat around a
large table and she sat across from me.  The first day she was dressed
in a pink sweater and jeans, and she introduced herself as, "Missy."
The only time I know she looked at me was when I introduced myself.
Otherwise, it seemed he didn't notice me.

In class she was quieter than most of the students.  She spoke in a
gentle voice and made good points but she wasn't the kind to engage in
debates.  I found myself quiet, too, uncomfortable in her presence,
afraid of how stupid I sounded trying to talk about subjects I suddenly
realized I knew nothing about.

Then, about three weeks into class, the hammer fell.  The professor
assigned us a project we were to work on in pairs, and out of all the
students in class, he paired me up with Missy.  Our topic was an
analysis of political redistricting and how it affected the balance of
power in congress.  We were to prepare a ten-minute presentation to be
delivered in front of the class in two weeks' time.

After class she came up to me and said, "Hi.  I guess we need to figure
out some time to get together."

I felt myself flushing, caught again between how studious, collegiate,
she was, and the memory of that night nearly a year ago now.  "I, uh, I
work a lot of evenings."

She said, "I know," which made me burn even more with embarrassment.
She added, "How about one afternoon, we can get together at the
library?  I'm out of class at noon tomorrow."

"Um, OK.  I get done at 2:00."

"Let's meet at 3:00, then.  That should give us a couple of hours."

The next afternoon she was waiting for me in the main entrance.  "I've
got some books," she said, pointing to a stack on a table.  "I thought
they would help us get started."

We sat down and went through the books, making an outline of the
history of redistricting and the shifts of power.  We covered
gerrymandering and court action that had shaped the current
redistricting environment.  It was easier, having something else to
focus on, having a neutral subject to facilitate conversation.  Still,
sometimes she caught me looking at her and blushing, and she looked
quickly away, and there ensued an uncomfortable silence broken only by
page shuffling and the scratching of pen on paper.

I had to leave at 5:00.  "Can you meet again tomorrow?" she asked.

"OK."

She frowned at the stack of books.  "I'm going to ask if we can get a
study room to leave these books in," she said, and as I left she was at
the main desk explaining our situation.

The next day we met in a cramped study room and sat at a small table
containing our project books.  In the small space I was even more aware
of her presence, and I kept getting flashes of that dark hair against
her creamy skin.  Needless to say, the session passed much like the
first, with halting progress and long silences.  Finally she snapped
the book she'd been looking through shut and said, "OK, Jack, if this
keeps up we're going to fail this project.  Let's just get it all out
in the open."

I was stunned.  Her sweet expression never changed, her tone was
perfectly conversational, but her manner was nonetheless direct.  The
combination would have set me back on my heels if I wasn't on them all
the time around her, anyway.

Before I could formulate a reply, she continued, "I dated Darren for a
few months.  He was older, he liked to experiment.  It was exciting.  I
learned a lot of things.  In retrospect, his game about offering a
pizza guy a special tip didn't come off so well.  I'm sorry if we
offended you."

"No," I replied quickly.  "It's not that.  But what was I supposed to
think?  You were tied up and, and--"

"Naked," she said for me.

"And, I mean, how was I supposed to know what was going on?  He could
have kidnapped you, for all I knew."

"Did I look like I was in distress?"

The memory of her eyes came back at once, the arousal I had seen there.
 The image made me stir in my seat.  "No," I admitted.  "No, you
didn't."

She chuckled.  "You called the police."

"I read the papers for days afterward to see if they had arrested a
kidnapper."

"Good Lord!  Arrest him?  They embarrassed the hell out of him, and me,
that's for sure.  They practically busted down the door, and let's just
say we were in somewhat of a compromising activity by that time.  It
took us half-an-hour to convince them I hadn't been kidnapped, and that
I was of age, and the whole thing."  She laughed.  "Darren never
offered to call a delivery guy again."

I shook my head.  "I just couldn't believe what I was seeing."

"It takes all kinds, Jack."

I shook my head again.  "I guess."

She said, "So, can we get on with the project now?"

Yes.  Wait.  No.  No.  I'm sorry but--"

"Don't apologize.  I brought it up."

"You mean you actually wanted him to invite a stranger into the house
to look at you like that?"

For the first time a hint of color crept into her cheeks.  "He told
you, didn't he?  That I like to be looked at?"

"Oh, yes.  I remember it exactly the way he said it, but, but..."

"I told you, Darren liked to take risks.  I thought it was a hot idea.
There were some other things, later, that I found out he was more out
there than I was, but yeah, that idea was hot."

"But what about the, you know, the tip thing?"

"Letting you touch me?"

"I think he said spank."

"I guess you could have done it however you wanted to do it."

"So you would have let me..."

"I wasn't in much of a position to protest."

"But what if I had been some four-hundred pound greaseball?  Or a
woman, or whatever?"

"But you weren't, now were you?  You were a cute young guy.  Just the
kind of boy who should like me."

She was blushing more brightly now, but no doubt I was brighter.  I
felt the heat in my ears.  I also felt the heat lower, between my legs,
and my jeans felt tighter in the crotch than they had a few minutes
ago.  I swallowed to wet my parched throat and said, "It's not that I
didn't like you."

"You just liked a five dollar tip better?"

"I didn't take that, either.  I just got the hell out of there."

She looked at her hands, as if she were embarrassed.  "Well, if you did
choose one or the other, which would you have chosen?"

"You," I responded, before I was even aware the word was out of my
mouth.

"Tell me what you saw," she said softly, her breath unsteady.

"I saw all of you," I answered slowly, not knowing what words to use,
not knowing what level of answer she wanted.

"But only from the back."

"Yes, but I saw your hair along your back, and your back, and your
legs, and, and, everything in between."

"My butt?"

"Yes," I said, wondering how the room had gotten so small, how my jeans
had shrunk to the point of pain.

"What about in between my legs, Jack?"

"I, I don't know."

"How could you not know?"

"I think I might have imagined it."

"Tell me what you imagined."

I fumbled and stammered, and she said, "Would you like a reminder?"
Without waiting for an answer she got up and drew the battered old
miniblinds that covered the window that looked out on the rest of the
library.

"You're serious," I gulped.

She laughed, a little nervous despite the fact that she was pushing
things forward.  She said, "Do you find it so amazing?"

"I've just never had anything like this happen before."

"Yes, you did, the night you delivered the pizza."

"But that wasn't about me."

"But you're cute and you're such a decent guy, why couldn't it be about
you?"

I had no answer for that and she pulled her sweater over her head.
Underneath she was wearing only a bra, which she shed with a snap of
the French clasp.  Her breasts were small but pert, capped with large
areola of dark brown.  Her nipples, already hard with excitement,
tipped slightly upwards.

She said in a soft voice, "Breathe, Jack.  I like to be looked at,
remember?"

I tried to breathe.

"You didn't get to see this part before.  Is it OK?"

"Oh, yes."

She smiled then looked at her watch with a gasp.  "It's five o'clock.
You should be at work right now."

"I think I can call in sick."

She reached for her bra.  "I don't want you to get fired over this."

I was going to protest but she went on, "How about I call at closing
time for a pizza?  You can deliver it on the way home?"

I sighed as her breasts disappeared back into her bra and said, "That's
mean, but OK."

She slipped her sweater back over her head.  "I'm glad you're looking
forward to it."

I was dazed and distracted my entire shift, and the hours seemed to
crawl by.  As midnight closing time approached I waited for her call.
I had just begun to think she had blown me off when the phone rang.
11:59.  "Can you make a special delivery?" she asked, and gave me her
address.

When I hung up my boss said, "It's late for a delivery," and I said,
"It's on my way home."

Fifteen minutes later I left with a pepperoni pizza and a fresh boner.
When I knocked on her door she let me in wearing only a bathrobe.  Her
hair was wet and she said, "I've just gotten out of the shower.  How
much do I owe you for the pizza?"

"It's complimentary."

She closed the door and said, "Then at least let me tip you," and she
led me down the hallway.

It looked like she had roommates and it looked like they were all out
for the evening.  She closed the door to her room and said, "I'm sorry
to have teased you earlier," and with a flick at the sash her robe fell
to the floor.  It was all she had on.

She got on her bed and folded her pillow in half and lay down on her
stomach with the pillow under her hips.  "Is this how I was the last
time?" she asked.  Her hair fell in front of her face.

"Mostly," I said, taking in the length of her, unable to believe that
the brief moment I'd had with her a year before had come back like
this.

"What's different?" she asked.

"Your legs."

"How were they before?"

"Open."

"Like this?" she said, and spread them a bit.  The sparse hairs of her
cunt peeked into the light.

"Um, I think they were wider."

"Are you sure?  Or is that how you wished they had been?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted.

She spread them wider, revealing everything, her cunt, pink and shiny
with excitement, opening out along with her legs.

"That's it," I breathed.  I had to adjust the pressure of my erection
in my pants.

"I really like to be looked at," she said, her voice thick with her own
arousal.  "I've been thinking about this all night."

"Me, too."

"How about your choice of a tip?  Five dollars, or touching me?"

"You."

"Then touch me."

I touched my fingertips to her back and goosebumps grew under my
fingers.

She said, "Tell me what you saw when you looked at me that first
night."

I ran my fingers lightly all along her body, her back and shoulders,
through her hair, which was thick with moisture form her shower and
lustrous in the lamplight.  I touched her arms, and her hands, and I
tried to describe her to her, which was at once the hardest and the
sexiest thing I had ever done.  The whole time was more titillating
than anything I had ever done with a girl, even though her clothes had
come off the second we entered the bedroom.  She asked a few leading
questions, not letting me skip over describing even how much of her
pussy I had seen, or if I had been turned on.

"After the shock wore off," I said.  "But I still felt bad about it."

I had skipped over her butt and was tracing the lengths and contours of
her legs, and discovering that her feet were extremely ticklish.

She said, "Don't be shy, Jack, go higher."

As I ran my fingers back up her legs and finally to the swell of her
bottom, she said in a low voice, "Did you ever fantasize about me?"

"Yes," I said, laying my hands out, feeling her now with my open palms.

"Did you ever make yourself come thinking about me?"

"Yes."

Oh," she breathed, almost a moan.  "Oh, I'd like to see that."

I froze, thinking she meant right then, but she said, "Don't stop,
Jack.  You haven't touched me everywhere yet."

I moved inward, into the groove of her ass, and let my fingers trail
downward, disbelieving still that she wanted me to do it, but she
remained absolutely still until my fingertips brushed the puffy lips of
her sex.  As soon as I touched her there, her thighs quivered and she
made small sounds in her throat.  Her wetness was like warm honey on my
fingertip.  I wanted more.  Her lips parted effortlessly when I pressed
into her, and my finger was bathed in the mellow heat of her pussy.

She moved her hips towards me, so that my finger sank deeper, and I
helped her, moving it back and forth, soon joining it with a second
finger, which made her moan for real.

"Is this what you fantasized about?" she asked, moving her hips in the
ancient rhythm.

"Better," I said.  "Ten times better."

"Do you want to taste me, Jack?"

My last girlfriend had thought oral sex was dirty and that had made me
uncertain about what girls really thought about it.  "Do you want me
to?" I asked.

"I can come like that."

"Then I would love to," I said, lying behind her on the bed.

She kept herself as she had been, stomach down, legs spread, ass lifted
by the pillow.  I had never eaten a girl out in that position, but she
made the most inviting sight I had ever seen, so I inched forward until
her beautiful inviting pussy was inches from my face.  I snaked out my
tongue and licked her once, tasting both her natural musk and the
faintly floral scent of her soap.  Like with my finger, she moved her
hips at me, searching for more.

I dove in deeper, licking and probing with my tongue, and she said,
"Oh, Jack," and moved with me.  After a moment I moved lower, searching
for her clit, and I pressed in to capture it, sucking and rolling it in
my mouth.  "Oh, Jack," she said, louder, more urgent, and now she was
really fucking herself against my face and I didn't even care that
her cunt had opened around my nose and it was pressing into her as I
worked her clit.

I was so turned on I was scared I was going to cum in my pants.  The
pressure of the bed against my dick was almost too much to bear, and I
had to fight to keep from making the same fucking movements she was
making, lest I go off.

"Oh, God," she said, and her clit swelled, and "Oh, God," again, and
she bucked back and held herself against my sodden face and trembled as
her orgasm uncorked itself inside her.  She whimpered and cried as it
traversed her body and I held myself tight against her, feeling the
milking contractions of her cunt against my lips and nose.

After it had passed from her body, she relaxed again on the bed,
folding herself back around the hump of the pillow.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"Oh, man," I answered.  "I've never experienced anything like that."

"Good?"

"Oh, man."

"Better than a fantasy?"

"Oh, man."

"Turned on?"

"Beyond words."

"Then come on and finish the job."

I had my pants off in five seconds and brought myself close to her.
"Like this?" I asked, because she was still face down.

She moved her ass, brushing my cock.  "This is how it all started.  It
seems the right way for this time."

I pressed forward into her, the neon thrill as my cockhead passed her
entrance nearly making me come before I was all the way inside her.
But she was so wet that I sank the rest of the way without resistance,
and as I rested against her for a moment, I felt the faint aftermath of
her orgasm still echoing along the length of her canal.

She wiggled against me and I began to move and in almost no time the
orgasm I'd been fighting off lit me up like fireworks and I ground her
down against the pillow as I poured myself into her.

Afterwards we sat at her kitchen table and split the pizza I'd brought.
 She was back in her robe.  I was surprised at how not uncomfortable it
all was, considering we hardly knew each other, considering she was
carrying my cum inside her and we had never even kissed.

She said, "So, Jack, are you going to be able to concentrate on our
project the next time we get together?"

"Oh, man.  Is that what this was all about?  To get a good grade on the
project?"

She reached for another slice of pepperoni.  "I don't want to fail
because you're preoccupied with what-ifs."

"Now I'm likely to be preoccupied with other thoughts."

"Well, try and get your head together at least until we finish the
project."

"Then what?"

"Well, if you want to go our separate ways, you can.  But I think you
owe me at least that other thing."

"What other thing?"

"You got to watch me," she said, wiping some pizza grease from her lip
with her finger.  "Now it's my turn."

"Oh," I said, blushing again despite what we'd just done with each
other.

She made a fake pout.  "Don't you like me, Jack?"

"More probably than I should at this point," I admitted.

"Me, too," she said, and she leaned across the table to kiss me, our
first.  "I think we could like each other a lot more."

"OK," I said, not sure what in the hell I was agreeing to, not even
caring.  She was that kind of girl.