Special Delivery

I know the sound of her van before I see it pull up in my drive. That particular diesel rattle, the small squeak of the brakes, followed by the thump of the driver’s door. It’s the signal for me to stop restoring broken things to beauty. and move to the window.

“Hi there Nicola.”

She's in her late twenties, all easy confidence and dark curves packed into that regulation uniform, her hair pulled back under her cap. She's been the regular driver on my route for the last six months, collecting two or three parcels of restored pottery from me most weeks. Vases, bowls, figurines sent to me by a variety of dealers and auction houses for me to fix. She has never once failed to make me smile, and our flirting has been something I look forward to when she arrives.

I open the door before she reaches it.

"Morning, Nicola."

"Morning, Max." She grins. "What have you murdered and resurrected for me today?"

"Hand-painted vase. Took me all yesterday." She had asked what things I was sending, and I had even shown some of them to her in the workshop. I hold up the parcel, wrapped with the care of a man who knows exactly how fragile beautiful things can be.

She takes it with exaggerated reverence. "I'll treat it like my own."

"Better, I hope. Looks like you’re busy, no time to join me in the shower today then." I joke.

“Next time mister crack pots. Get your loofah ready for me.” She responds. She laughs, pops it into the van, and gives me a cheery wave as she backs out of my drive and heads off for her next collection.

The following Tuesday I have two small parcels ready, a porcelain figurine and a delicate earthenware bowl. Nicola takes the box with the figurine, stows it carefully, then comes back for the bowl.

That's when it happens.

Her foot catches the doorstep and before either of us can move the box flies out of her hand, and hits the step of her van, then lands with a crack on the path. Despite my careful packing, as she picks it up there is a definite tinkling of broken pieces.

"Max. I am so sorry."

"Let me have a look." I take the box and open the top. Thankfully there are just a couple of loose shards. “We’ve been lucky. I can fix that quickly and it will be invisible when I’ve finished.”

"That's not the point." She crouches, runs a finger along the edge, and looks up at me. "Is there anything I can do?"

I lean against the doorframe. The sun is behind her. Her uniform shirt is open at the collar.

"Can you think of anything?" I say.

The pause is a fraction too long to be accidental. Then, holding my gaze, she unbuttons the buttons of her shirt and draws the fabric aside. For a moment, long enough to be absolutely deliberate, I see the full, dark, perfect weight of her breasts in a simple black bra. Then she lifts the bra to show me her breasts before I realise what she is intending. Then she covers herself, buttons up, and gives me the most innocent smile I have ever seen.

"Better?" she says.

"Considerably," I manage.

She closes the doors, jumps in and drives away as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary. I don't do a stroke of useful work for the rest of the afternoon.

I have the piece fixed and the parcel ready for collection the next day. Collection was booked and it was by the door awaiting the arrival of Nicola,

When Nicola comes to the door I'm leaning against the frame, coffee in hand.

"I've been thinking," I say, "about the compensation. I think you can do better."

She tilts her head, fighting a smile. "Is that so?"

"I dare you," I say simply.

A beat. Two beats. She reaches into the cab, pulls out a small placard, Back in 10 mins, and props it on the dashboard.

"No need to put the kettle on," she says. “you’ve got work to do too.”

I set the parcel down, push the door wide, and step back. Nicola walks in as though she owns the place. She looks around the workshop, the tools, the ordered shelves, the half-restored pieces in their rows, and nods. Then she turns to face me and slowly removes her uniform cap, shakes her hair loose, and starts on the buttons.

She takes her time. Each button is an event. The shirt opens gradually, revealing dark smooth skin, the black bra beneath, the full curves I glimpsed last week now slowly and fully offered. She shrugs the shirt off and lets it fall.

"Still watching?" she says.

"I haven't blinked," I say honestly.

The bra clasp is at the back. She reaches behind herself and releases it with a flick, and I feel the breath leave my body. Her breasts are heavy and beautiful, dark nipples already stiffening in the cool air. She runs her own palms slowly over them, watching me watch her, and the quiet confidence of it nearly undoes me where I stand.

She hasn’t finished there.  She reaches down, releases the button on her trousers and slowly pulls down the zip, drops them to the floor, and steps out of them. The rest of her underwear quickly follows.

“Special Delivery” she says. “Want to inspect the goods before you sign?”

I cross the room and kiss her, and she kisses back with a heat that makes it clear we're both done being patient. She's warm and firm and responsive in a way that makes every nerve I own sit up straight. I walk her back to the clear end of my workbench, and she hops up without being asked. I kiss down her throat, her collarbone, take my time with her breasts, cupping their full weight in both hands, drawing each nipple between my lips until she moans gently. At the same time, I am removing my shirt, and she is unfastening my trousers which are soon added to the collection on the floor.

"Max," she says, her voice dropping half an octave. "Stop teasing."

I drop to my knees.

She is smooth and warm and when I part her with my tongue she gasps, hips jolting forward, one hand shooting back to grip the bench. I work slowly at first, cataloguing every sound, every twitch, finding the precise pressure and rhythm that makes her breathing fall apart. Her thighs close around my head. I slide two fingers inside her, curling upward, and she says my name like an accusation.

"Oh Max, right there. Don't you dare stop."

I work her steadily, fingers and mouth together, until her thighs are shaking and she's rocking against my face with frank, wonderful abandon. She comes with a long helpless cry, fingers twisted so hard in my hair it almost hurts. I keep going until she tugs me upright by the collar and pulls my mouth to hers, tasting herself on my lips without hesitation.

"I want you inside me," she says. "Now, please."

I am in absolutely no position to argue. I quickly drop my pants to the floor and my cock springs free pointing at her face.

She wraps her legs around my hips and pulls me in and the sound she makes is low, satisfied, triumphant and does something primeval to me. My cock pushes into her easily. She is extraordinary: warm and tight and meeting every thrust with a roll of her hips so perfectly timed it feels choreographed. One hand grips my shoulder hard enough to bruise; the other braces behind her. She watches my face the entire time with an attention that is almost unbearable.

"Harder," she says, and I oblige.

She comes a second time halfway through, I feel it before I hear it, a deep rhythmic clenching that makes me slow involuntarily just to feel it properly. She laughs, breathless and delighted, and somehow that laugh is the most erotic thing I have encountered for a very long time.

"Good?" I manage.

"Incredibly. Fuck me like it’s your last ever fuck."

We find a long, deep rhythm together until she puts a hand flat on my chest.

"Let’s change it up," she says.

She pushes me so I fall out of her pussy, then stands, turns around, and bends over the workbench with her arse wiggling at me, looking back at me over her shoulder.

"Everything?" I say.

"Everything," she confirms. Then, softer: "Every hole is yours. Go slowly. I want to feel all of it."

I use my fingers first, then my mouth to moisten her little puckered hole with my saliva, until she is pressing back against me and saying please in a voice stripped of all composure. Then I stand and I slowly press my cock into her sweet arsehole as she exhales in a long shuddering breath and drops her head. I pause, hands gentle on her hips.

"Alright?"

"More than." She looks back. "Move."

I move. Slowly at first, letting her set the pace, and the sounds she makes are my guide, a sharp intake of breath becoming a low moan becoming breathless encouragement that bounces off the workshop walls. I reach around and find her clit with my fingers at the same time, and that is what does it: she comes with a drawn-out cry, knuckles white on the edge of the bench, shaking hard, and the intensity of it pulls me right to the edge.

I pull back at the last moment, because I know exactly what I want, and she is already turning, already dropping to her knees on the workshop floor with an eagerness that undoes me completely. She looks up, wraps one hand around the base of me and takes me into her mouth, deep and sure. Her tongue moves with devastating precision. Her eyes stay on mine.

I last just seconds longer.

I come with my hand cupped gently at the side of her face, eyes closed, and after filling her mouth I spray even more of my seed across her breasts in long warm pulses as she draws back and tips her face up, one hand working me through every last shudder, entirely pleased with herself and what she has achieved.

She uses the bathroom to clean up while I quickly dress. She reappears in the doorway, immaculate, cap back on, hair tucked up, looking exactly as she did when she arrived. She picks up the parcel from beside the door.

"I'll get this scanned and sorted. And no dropping it this time"

At the van she pauses and looks back.

"You know," she says, "if you had something ready tomorrow, I could probably swing by."

"I think I can find something that needs sending."

"I thought you might." She starts the engine, winds the window down. "See you tomorrow, Max."

The diesel rattle fades down the road. I go back inside, pick up the ceramic figure I set down an hour ago. Then I reach for a box and some bubble wrap.

I'll need a parcel ready by tomorrow.