The card looked official. It said “A Message from Direct Mail Services. Your special delivery will arrive tomorrow at 12 noon. As this is an official court document it is a legal requirement that you be at home to receive the delivery.” The card has a very imposing looking stamp with a crown and the wording Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, reflecting, Then I put it down.
I went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. I was puzzled by this message but also a little worried. I mean, what did the courts want with me? I had no debts, I had never been in trouble with the police, and the more I reflected on it, the more worried I became.
The following day I woke early after a restless night and phoned the office to say I had a heavy cold and would not be in. And then the time dragged and dragged. I tried to do things, the washing up, read a book, anything but I just ended up smoking too many cigarettes and scrolling listlessly through my Facebook timeline. The time dragged but, at the same time, moved remorselessly forward. Just as it must have done for condemned prisoners once upon a time I reflected.
I started when my phone burst into life with its jingly jangly alarm call melody. It was noon. I was about to find out.
I looked through the front room window as the delivery man opened the gate and walked confidently up to the front door. His uniform was dark blue with yellow trim, not quite like the Direct Mail corporate uniform, and then he had his cap pulled down to obscure his face. But the way he walked seemed familiar. I smiled to myself. I was feeing better already. I went to the door but he didn’t knock.
“On your knees by the letter box” said a commanding masculine voice. I complied. The flap of the letter box opened and I was suddenly eyeball to eyeball with the fat purple bell end of a most magnificent cock. It was hard, ribbed with veins, the tip already glistening.
“You know what to do.”
This was as much a command as a statement. And I set greedily to work, long slow movements punctuated by whippings with the tongue, feeling it grow ever harder in my mouth as I quickened the tempo. I pressed face against the door to give him the space to face fuck me. He pushed hard as I sucked on his end and three hard choking thrusts later he came with a moan that someone surely must have heard in the street outside.
I gasped and coughed and the come dripped down my chin and onto my top. Then he knocked the door as I hoped he would, document or no document. As I opened the door, he pushed his way in, bow with a stocking over his head. I had never enjoyed his cock before but now that I could smell him I was sure I knew who he was. And he was welcome here, especially if I could enjoy his cock again.
He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and used them with a speed and dexterity that left me unable to resist. He attached me to the stair rail.
“You have been a naughty girl” he said. He took a paper handkerchief and wiped the come from around my mouth. Then he pulled down my skirt and panties, bent me over and fucked me from behind, fucked me hard, fucked me until I could take no more and I felt warm come flowing down my inner thigh.
He freed my hands and handed me a delivery note to sign. In my orgasmic daze
“Sign here please Madame to confirm the delivery was safely received.”
I handed it back. He tore off a copy for me and smiled.
“My number is on there if you have any problems with the delivery.”
“Thank you” I muttered.
“Well I am sure we will meet again. I am glad I could be of service.”
He turned and left without looking round.
I sat for a while, enjoying a cigarette (and cigarettes after sex are always the best ones aren’t they?). picked up the phone and dialled the number on the delivery note. I was sure there was more to be delivered. And I wanted it before dinner.
This was a story for Wicked Wednesday. Click on the image below to see who else is being wicked this week.