Next Day Delivery
Nicola had been a regular visitor over the last few days, but this week she was on holiday, so I was not expecting any special service this week. I'm halfway through repairing a cracked Delft tile when I hear a van arrive. Not the familiar diesel rattle, this one is newer, quieter, with a different engine note entirely. Wrong company. I set down my brush and wait.
The knock at the door is brisk and professional.
She's standing on my step with a small, well-wrapped parcel held in both hands and a handheld scanner tucked under one arm. Mid-thirties, I'd say, with straight blonde hair cut to her jaw and pale blue eyes that are taking a frank, unabashed inventory of me. Her uniform is a different colour from Nicola's, a different logo on the breast pocket. That often happened with deliveries. She's compact and confident in a way that suggests she's entirely comfortable with the space she occupies in the world.
"Parcel for Mr. Hartley?" Her English is precise and clean, with a soft accent underneath it that I place somewhere central European.
"That's me."
"Parcel for you." She holds it out. "Sign, please."
I sign on the screen. She scans and the machine beeps back at her. Then she doesn't leave. Instead, she tilts her head slightly and studies me with what I can only describe as amused appraisal.
"You are Max," she says. Not a question.
"I am."
"My friend told me about you." A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "My friend Nicola."
I feel something shift in the air between us. "Did she."
"She told me she always enjoys herself when you give her a package." The blue eyes are steady on mine. "Very smooth collection. Excellent service from the customer." She pauses. "She said you were, what is the word I want, very accommodating."
"I try to be helpful," I say.
"Yes. We delivery girls often bump into each other at our stops. And Nicola and I share a lot of stories about which customers we like and don’t like. Now she has told me about one who goes the extra mile if its break time." She glances past me into the workshop, then back at my face. "I am Agi. I come from Poland. I have my break in, " she checks her watch "four minutes. I was thinking." Another pause, longer this time, the smile widening fractionally. "I wonder if you would like to find out if my service is as good as hers."
I look at her. She looks at me. There is nothing ambiguous about the proposition and nothing coy about the way she's making it. This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants and has decided, with apparent efficiency, that she wants it here.
"You'd better come in," I say.
She steps inside and sets her scanner on the workbench with the ease of someone who has decided the professional portion of the visit is concluded. She looks around the workshop, all the pieces to be repaired, the shelves, the tools arranged in their rows, and nods, the way someone nods when a place confirms what they expected.
"Nicola said you fix broken things," she says.
"Pottery, mostly. Ceramics."
"Good hands, then." She turns to face me. "That is useful. I like a man who knows what to do with his hands."
She is, I notice, already reaching for the buttons of her uniform shirt.
"We will go the bedroom I think," she says. "I prefer a bed. Take me there and I will show you what you are getting."
I take her there.
My bedroom is at the back of the house, quiet, the morning light coming in low and warm through the curtains. Agi walks to the centre of the room, turns to face me, and crosses her arms. Then she uncrosses them. She is composing herself, I realise, not nervous, simply deliberate, taking a breath to get herself organised before she begins.
"Sit," she says, nodding at the edge of the bed. "Watch first. Then we will have plenty of time for everything else."
I sit as instructed.
She starts with the shirt, button by button. She does this without looking down, watching my face instead with an attention that makes me feel pleasantly exposed sliding it from her shoulders with a slow roll that makes it fall in a single fluid movement. She drapes it over the back of the chair rather than dropping it, which I find for some reason intensely appealing, an organised lady, the suggestion that she intends to put it on again later looking exactly as she does now.
"First item delivered," she says gravely, then allows herself a small smile at her own joke. "You are looking at me the same way Nicola said you would," she says.
"How's that?"
"Like you are studying something you want to understand completely." Beneath the shirt she is wearing a plain black bra, simple and functional, and the contrast with her olive skin makes my mouth go dry. "I don't mind. I like to be studied."
The bra clasp is at the back. She reaches behind herself and unhooks it with one smooth movement and slips her arms out of it and adds it to the chair. Her breasts are smaller than Nicola's, high and full and pale, the nipples a soft rose that darkens as the cool air reaches them. She runs her hands from her waist upward over her ribcage without looking away from me.
"Good so far?" she says.
"Outstanding," I say honestly.
She unzips her trousers with the same unhurried efficiency, steps out of them, folds them once, places them on the chair. The knickers, black to match the bra, cotton, equally practical, she hooks her thumbs into her knickers and slides them down her thighs and then to her ankles with a deliberateness that is, somehow, more erotic than any elaborate performance could have been, bending forward as they get lower. She picks them up as she returns to the upright position and adds them to the chair.
She stands in front of me with her hands on her hips and her chin slightly raised, entirely at ease in her own body.
"Now you," she says. "And I will help."
She crosses to where I'm sitting and reaches for my shirt buttons from above, working downward. "This one is a little loose," she observes, touching my collar button. "You should fix it." She pulls my shirt free of my trousers. "But the rest is acceptable." She pushes the shirt from my shoulders and runs both palms across my chest with an appraising firmness that is somehow both clinical and deeply arousing. "Yes. Acceptable."
"High praise," I say.
"I have not finished the inspection." She pushes me back and deals with my belt with swift fingers, then tells me to stand as she works on my trousers, then stands back to let me step out of them. When she draws my briefs down and I spring free she gives a short nod, the professional confirming a specification has been met. "Good. No complaints with the product."
I pull her down to the bed.
She is different from Nicola, not more or less, simply different. Where Nicola is all heat and urgency and that wonderful directness, Agi has a quality of control, of composed concentration, as though she has decided to experience every moment fully and refuses to be rushed out of any of them.
I take my time with my mouth on her breasts, working slowly until her composure begins its satisfying dissolution. I move down her body, and she parts her legs for me with a small intake of breath and the quiet statement: "Yes. Please. Take your time."
I take my time.
She is extraordinarily responsive beneath my tongue, not loud, not theatrical, but precise: a catch of breath here, a soft word in Polish there, her fingers resting lightly in my hair. I find the rhythm she needs and hold it, adding my fingers to hold her open to allow my tongue to probe deeper when her hips begin to lift. She comes the first time with a long, controlled exhale and a tightening of her thighs around my head that relaxes slowly, slowly, as I ease her through it.
"Good," she says, when she can speak. The word carries considerable weight.
She draws me up and kisses me, a different kind of kiss than before, slower, more deliberate, savouring the taste of herself on my lips, and then turns beneath me with smooth efficiency.
"From behind," she says. "I want to feel your hands on me, and I want you very deep."
I oblige. She braces herself on her forearms, presents herself to me with her spine curved downward, and looks back over her shoulder with an expression of focused anticipation. I press my cock into her slowly and she drops her head with a sound that is so sensual, a deep, satisfied oh, as though confirming a pleasant suspicion.
I press as deep as I can into her and then begin to slowly thrust in and out with slow, steady precision. She moves with me, setting a rhythm that is rolling and deep, and her sounds build gradually, a slow climb rather than a sprint. I run my hands up her back, over the curve of her hips, feel her toned muscles shifting beneath warm skin. She is beautiful to watch, the curve of her waist, the pale skin flushing pink across her shoulders as her breathing quickens.
"Harder now," she says. "I am ready."
I give her harder. She braces against the top of the bed, and her hands grip the pillow gathering handfuls of the covers. She matches every thrust I make as I spear her deep, and her composed demeanour comes beautifully apart, a rising string of breathless Polish I don't understand a word of but find absolutely compelling. I reach around and find her nipples with my thumb at the same time, and she cries out, sharply, surprised by the intensity of it, and comes with a full-body shudder that I feel everywhere.
"Stop, stop, wait, " She moans breathily. I ignore that and keep going. She laughs, pressing back against me, contradicting herself completely. "Don't stop."
I knew that I could work her through the heightened sensitivity.
She comes a second time minutes later, quieter, deeper, her head dropping between her arms and her whole body trembling with the effort of holding herself up. When she turns over and pulls me down to her, her eyes are bright and her composure is entirely gone, and I find I prefer her this way.
"Come here," she says. "I want you on your back."
I roll onto my back, and she straddles me with the unhurried confidence of a woman in her element, takes me in one hand, positions herself, and sinks down with a long breath. Then she looks at me with a smile that contains everything, satisfaction, warmth, mischief.
"Now," she says, "I will show you why Nicola recommended you have a break with me."
She is extraordinary. She rides with a rolling, fluid motion that finds the exact angle she needs and stays there, building slow and relentless, her hands braced on my chest, her eyes open and fixed on mine. I grip her hips, then place my hands on her breasts and let her work while I try to remain a functioning human being, which becomes increasingly difficult. She speeds up gradually, reading my face, pushing us both toward the edge with absolute deliberateness.
She comes a third time, in a long continuous peak of emotion, a long cresting wave, her back arching and her fingers curling against my chest, and the feel of her pulling tight around me is what finishes me off. I come with both hands gripping her breasts and nipples and my head pressed back into the pillow, and she rides me through every last pulse of it, her eyes still open, watching as I fill her with pulse after pulse of cum, until I am totally drained and completely satisfied.
She sits for a moment in the quiet, breathing. Then she pats my chest once, neatly.
“I knew you would like that Max.” I nod, about all I can manage, and she climbs off and heads into the ensuite bathroom, picking her clothes of the chair as she passes. She is in the shower for just a couple of minutes, a model of eastern European efficiency in all she does, and I dress while she showers. She reappears dressed, hair damp but tidy, shirt and trousers back on, looking totally professional.
"So," she says. "The service. You would rate us how?"
"Five stars," I say, without hesitation. "Exceptional. Would use again."
She laughs, a real laugh, full and warm, the composure completely gone for one unguarded moment, and we head downstairs together. She picks her scanner up from the workbench.
"That was a wonderful experience. I hope I can count on you for some repeat business when I deliver again. I like a loyal customer." She moves to the door. "I have parcels for this area often. It is possible I will be coming this way regularly."
"I'll make sure I'm in," I say.
"You do that." She opens the door, steps into the pale morning light, and looks back once. "Tell Nicola I said hello. Tell her she was right."
She walks to her van without hurrying and gets into the cab. The engine turns over, quiet and smooth, and she pulls out of my drive with the efficiency of a woman who likes organisation and control in all she does.
I go back to the workbench, pick up my tools and glue, and look at the half-finished Delft tile for a long moment.
Then I reach for my phone and check what customers have promised they are sending things to me this week, and to see whether Agi’s company is there on the tracking.
I have a feeling I'm going to be very well served.
