With a low snarl in his throat, the delivery guy kisses me harder, moves a hand down to squeeze my ass. He’s turning us around, backing me up against a stack of boxes—canned goods—and I pray they’re heavy enough to withstand what’s about to happen.
The kiss breaks, and in the frenzied haze between us, I reach under my short skirt, pull off my panties, and stuff them onto a nearby shelf. His zipper rips open. This is happening, for real—I’m going to let him fuck me bare, right here in the shadows of the storage room. I’m protected against pregnancy but not STDs, and this guy looks like he’s been around.
“You good?” I whisper.
“I ain’t got any diseases, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thank god.” I hitch myself back onto the edge of a box and open my legs. Whether I believe him or not, I’m going for it.
He moves in between my thighs, and I get a glimpse of a big dick—attractive as dicks go, a shade darker than his skin and longerthan average—right before he pushes inside me.
“Shit,” he barks, surprise in the hoarse exclamation. “You’re so wet.”
“Shut up and fuck me.” I claw him closer, my fingers digging into his muscled shoulders. He feels good. Solid, strong. Strong enough to hold me together while I come apart.
My breath is shredded with panic and frantic craving, jerking from my lungs as he starts to move, to pound my pussy. The thick heat inside me feels so good, I want to cry.
“Harder,” I whisper.
He wraps a forearm behind me, gripping the back of my skull with one broad hand as he fucks me. He’s keeping my head from hitting anything, but my spine is still being jammed hard against the boxes over and over. I don’t care—I welcome the impact, the brutal force of his body dominating mine. It’s what I need—to lose control on my terms, to not be so entirely at the mercy of the thing that lives in my head.
“Yes,” I gasp brokenly, my legs locked around his waist and my nails driving into his broad shoulders. “Yes, yes…”
He grabs my face with his other hand, takes my mouth roughly. There’s a honeyed heat in his kiss—I didn’t notice it before. He’s tongue-fucking me while his cock plunges between my legs. Then his hand drops, finds the place right above where we’re joined. He locates my swollen clit and starts circling it with his thumb while he fucks me.
I’m writhing, lust-seared and desperate, straining for the climax. When I’m mere hours away from an episode, every sensation is already heightened, and it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. But there’s a grating mutter at the back of my mind, a self-condemnation, a dark chant ofslut, slut, sluteven as I try to claim thisbit of relief.
No. I will not slut-shame myself. I refuse to feel guilty about what I do to survive my life.
If I can orgasm, the endorphins will ease my torment for a while. I’ll be able to function a little better, at least until the episode finally hits.
But that stupid judgmental voice in my head keeps pushing me back from the edge.
“Please,” I breathe hoarsely. “Please, please…”
“I’m not coming until you do.” His whisper explodes against my lips, a desperate promise, and my body tightens suddenly, as if his oath were a command. Oh thank god… I’m coming, sharp and hard, a knife to my clit, a blade of pure light shearing through my belly. I release choked little sounds as my pussy convulses around his dick.
“Shit,” he groans, his arms going rigid and his hips ramming tight against my body. I feel his dick pulsing, deep and hard. He’s coming inside me, this guy I just met. Didn’t even meet him, really. I don’t know his name.
We’re heaving, still locked together—sweaty, filthy, shuddering. He surges into me one last time. Groans. Pulls his cock out of me, shining wet, and backs away. He stuffs it back into his underwear and zips up his jeans.
Instead of hard-muscled arms and a warm chest, I’m alone in the empty air again. The afterglow is good; it has temporarily muted the creeping unrest beneath my skin. I grab my panties and pull them over my shaking legs. When I stand up, I feel his cum sliding from between my pussy lips, soaking the panties.
He’s staring, breathing hard, devouring me with his eyes like he’s taking a photograph of the way I look in this moment. The flare of interest in his gaze, the visceral intensity of it, makes my heart race faster again. He seems about to ask me something, but then it’s likea curtain drops over his eyes, concealing the raw emotion and replacing it with a casual grin.
“That’s one load taken care of.” He winks at me. “I’ll finish up with the crates. You’ll need to sign for them.”
“Of course.” I tug an elastic from my wrist and bundle my curly, brown hair into a messy knot, so it’s up off my sweaty neck.
He watches me, and while my hands are still occupied with the knot, he reaches out and sinks his hand into my hair, sliding his fingers through it slowly, indulgently, almost tenderly. Like he has a right to enjoy the sensation.
A fresh surge of arousal rolls over me, along with a wave of panic.
This isn’t happening. It’s always one and done for me—I never wantmore.
My hand flies before my brain catches up, and I slap the side of his face.
“We’re done,” I say, breathless. “We got what we needed. I’m revoking consent.”
