Takeaway Temptation

Four years delivering for every app going, and I'd seen it all. Students too stoned to find their own doors. Angry husbands who suspected their wives ordered salads. Old ladies who just wanted someone to talk to.

But I'd never seen anything like Mrs. Palmer.

The order was simple—Chinese for one, to a nice house on the edge of the estate. The kind of house where people owned their front door. I rang the bell at half seven, expecting the usual quick handoff.

The door opened, and suddenly I was very aware of my grease-stained delivery bag.

She was forty-something, blonde, wearing a silk robe that was barely tied. Full makeup, hair done, wine glass in hand. Looking at me like I was the main course.

"Finally," she said, stepping back. "Come in, would you? Cold out there."

We weren't supposed to go inside. But we also weren't supposed to leave customers standing at open doors in winter.

I went inside.

"Kitchen's through there," she said, gesturing with her wine. "Pop it on the counter."

The kitchen was massive—all granite and chrome, bigger than my entire flat. I set down the bag, turned to give her the receipt.

She was right behind me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Close enough that I could see where the robe was gaping.

"Thank you," she said softly. "What do I owe you?"

"It's paid on the app."

"I meant for the tip." Her eyes were doing something complicated. "You've come all this way, in the cold. Surely you deserve something extra."

"I—it's fine, honestly—"

"Let me be honest with you." She set down her wine, stepped closer. "My husband's away. Has been for two weeks. Gone for another two. And I've been ordering delivery every night, hoping someone interesting would show up."

"And I'm interesting?"

"You're the first one who came inside." She reached out, touched my chest through my uniform. "Literally and... hopefully figuratively."

Five minutes later, I had Mrs. Palmer—"Call me Sandra"—bent over her granite kitchen island, her silk robe on the floor, making sounds that the neighbors could probably hear.

She was in incredible shape for any age—toned, tanned, clearly someone who had time and money for the gym. But she had the hunger of someone who hadn't been touched in months.

"Yes—fuck—don't stop—"

I'd started on my knees, her request—"I want that delivery boy mouth on me." She'd come twice before demanding more.

"Inside. Now. Condom's in that drawer there." She pointed without looking. "Don't ask why I have them in the kitchen."

I didn't. I grabbed one, rolled it on, and slid into her with a groan that echoed off her expensive tiles.

"God yes—so young—so hard—"

She was tight, wet, and knew exactly what she wanted. Her hips pushed back to meet every thrust, her hands braced on the granite, her voice a constant stream of encouragement and obscenity.

"Harder—come on—fuck me like you mean it—"

I gave her harder. The island shook, bottles rattled, and somewhere in the house an alarm started beeping—probably motion sensors not expecting this much motion.

"Close—touch me—"

I reached around, found her clit, rubbed while I fucked her. She came with a scream that was pure release, her whole body shaking. The feeling of her clenching around me pushed me over.

"Inside—fill me up—"

I came hard, gripping her hips, feeling her milk every drop.

We stood there for a moment, connected, both panting.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's the best delivery I've had in years."

I laughed, pulling out carefully. "Five stars?"

"Six." She turned, kissed me properly—wine-sweet and grateful. "How do I request you specifically next time?"

"You can't, really. Random assignment."

"Then I'll just have to order every night until I get lucky again." She was already picking up her robe. "Or... you could give me your number. Cut out the middleman."

I shouldn't. Every rule said I shouldn't.

"Got a pen?"

She walked me to the door like a proper hostess, all poise and grace despite what we'd just done.

"Thank you," she said. "Really. I needed that."

"Happy to help."

"Wednesday. My husband calls at eight. Order comes at seven. That gives us an hour." She raised an eyebrow. "If you're interested."

"I'm interested."

"Good boy." She kissed my cheek, leaving lipstick. "Now go. Before the neighbors start talking."

I walked back to my car in a daze, the smell of her perfume still on my uniform.

Wednesday at seven, my phone buzzed: Door's open. Come straight to the bedroom. S x

I dropped the food in the kitchen and followed orders.

Best tip I ever got.