The oil truck pulled up outside Miranda's building. Not everyone was home from work yet so Patrick was able to wedge the large vehicle between two cars. That meant he didn't have to worry about being double parked and blocking traffic if he lingered. This was his last stop for the evening, it always was, even if he had to go out of his way. He was filling two tanks tonight, apartment three and apartment nine.
He opened the truck door and leapt out onto the street with all the energy of an expectation he fully expected to be frustrated, but he was still looking forward to seeing her. She had to be home, if she wasn't, he would be tempted to leave and come back tomorrow, to hell with the mileage. But he wasn't too worried; she was usually there. It was hard to believe such a beautiful girl wasn't taken yet. The young men these days ought to have their heads examined letting a creature like that escape their grasp.
He ran up the steps and rang the buzzer for apartment three. He had been working this job for over twenty years. More than once he had found himself tempted to cheat on his wife, but it was always a passing, easily resisted, fantasy. It was very different with the girl in apartment nine. For nearly three years she had not been out of his mind, although at first he only thought about her on the days he saw her name and address on his manifest. Lately, however, he was increasingly obsessed with her, to the point where he always scheduled her delivery for last even if he had to go out of his way.
The tenant in number three quickly buzzed him into the building. It was December in Boston and Patrick literally helped keep everyone alive. Swiftly and lithely for a man in his late forties, his heavy boots tolling on the concrete basement steps, he went efficiently about his business wondering if she could hear the sound of his hose pumping the vital fluid into her tank. The engine made a loud noise, unless she was listening to music or in the shower she should be expecting his quiet knock on her door.
Patrick scarcely noticed the Oriental man who opened the door of number three and signed a good portion of his paycheck away to him. He was wondering what he could say to her that might win him the seemingly impossible prize of an invitation into her apartment. If this was another century she might ask him in for a cup of hot tea to warm him up, but in the comfortable new millennium people took care of themselves, and gorgeous young college girls didn't socialize with middle-aged blue collar workers. Or did they? He wasn't sure what young people did besides talk on cell phones all day. He didn't even know if she was in college, only that she was young and intelligent enough to be, he could tell by the intent manner in which she looked at him as she smiled. He had reminded himself over and over again that her expression had nothing to do with him, that she was simply being polite, but lately a part of him was less inclined to listen to reason and more tempted to hope.
Finally on the third floor, he paused in front of her door to smooth back his wind disheveled dark-blonde hair. Thank God he wasn't showing any signs whatsoever of going gray or bald, and he still had broad shoulders and strong arms even if all they had the pleasure of holding these days was a seven-year-old child. His other two kids had already left home, and once they were alone again his wife's interest in sex had resurrected just long enough for her to become pregnant again. They still slept in the same bed, but that was all either one of them had the energy or desire to do, at least with each other.
He was wearing a knee-length black leather coat over his black uniform. He knew he looked good. He was six-feet-two, and even though time and bitter weather had scored a few laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, he was still a handsome man, of that he had no doubt. He knocked firmly on the door three times.
"Just a minute!" her voice called from inside.
He waited, trying not to hold his breath and to look relaxed instead of excited to be there.
The door opened. "Hi, Patrick," she said, smiling but more hesitantly than normal.
"Hi, Miranda." He had never seen her in a black bathrobe. His already expectantly firm cock hardened a few more degrees realizing she had just hastily wrapped the thick cotton around her naked body. The faintly perfumed scent of her slightly damp and warm skin was such a contrast to the freezing night outside he almost felt intoxicated by it as he held the clipboard out towards her mutely. She was so incredibly beautiful he could think of nothing to say.
She reached for the pen resting securely beneath the clip just as he belatedly made to pull it out himself and save her the trouble. His large fingers landed over her slender ones and the feel of her skin sent an electric shock through him. He realized an instant later that she had felt it too when she gasped, and pulled her hand away.
"Wow..." Her smile dimmed and she made sure their fingers didn't touch again as she accepted the pen from him, signing her name with her usual confident flourish.
"Well, I guess that's it," he declared lamely, his eyes staring intently into hers as he desperately tried to think of some excuse to linger on her doorstep. "This is my last stop for the night."
"It really is very cold out," she remarked slowly, as if it meant something. Her gaze broke shyly away from his, taking in his strong, tall body. "I hope you don't have a terribly long drive home." She sounded absolutely sincere as she raised her eyes to his again.
"It's pretty long." He could just make out the gentle swell of her delicate cleavage between the folds of her robe.
"Where do you live?"
"Dorchester." Was it wishful thinking on his part or was she deliberately making conversation? Either way he was glad to still be there.
"That is pretty far," she agreed. "I hope the traffic's not too bad."
He shrugged. "I'm in no rush." He held her eyes, the clipboard forgotten at his side. She hadn't washed her hair and it looked lovelier than ever against her black robe.
"Would you like something hot to drink before you head back?" she said abruptly. "I mean, since you're not in a rush." She sounded uncertain, as if he might actually refuse her offer, or as if she couldn't quite believe she had made it.
"I would, thank you." He stepped into the apartment careful not to brush against her as he did so.
"All I have is tea." She closed the door behind him slowly, as if regretting her offer and trying to find a gracious way out of it. "I don't drink coffee."
He set his clipboard down on the table beside them. "I can do without the tea, Miranda," he confessed quietly.
She glanced down at his free hands as if in alarm. The clipboard had always been between them, but now it was gone and a man she really didn't know had crossed the threshold into her home where she stood naked beneath her robe.
He saw these thoughts flash in her eyes and understood that neither one of them could possibly pretend there was a respectable excuse for his presence. He was over twenty years older than she was and married. He knew nothing about her and she knew even less about him, yet she had invited him in and the excuse of a hot drink was a flimsy bandage over the desire flowing between them. It was there, he could feel it's vital heat as clearly as he could see her looking up at his face waiting for him to tell her what he preferred instead of tea.
He urged her back against the door by stepping towards her, using her body to block his way out so she knew there was no turning back now. Her eyes widened as her lips parted, but it was more surprise at his boldness he saw reflected back at him in her dark-green irises than fear. Grasping her upper arms, he bent and pressed his mouth hard against hers.
Holding her firmly, he thrust his tongue between her lips and kissed her like the starving man he was. He only released her long enough to reach down for the belt of her robe. He undid the simple knot with two impatient tugs, savoring the flavor of her moan as it rose up from deep in her body through her throat and into their joined mouths.
He could scarcely believe she was kissing him back, but the sounds she was making were definitely not ones of protest. He had never heard a more beautiful music in all his life than her helpless, submissive moans. He answered them with a gratefully gentle yet deeply determined groan of his own as he clutched her breasts hungrily in both hands. He couldn't remember anything ever feeling as good as her soft little tits did to him then. The way her nipples immediately hardened, digging into the coarse heart of his palms, acted like mysterious buttons triggering the certainty inside him that he could have her if he dared.
Keeping one of her breasts captive he caressed the tender flesh of her belly, moving cautiously, hopefully, down towards her pussy. He whispered, "God, you're beautiful!" just as he forcefully cradled her cunt in his hand. He couldn't believe it, not just that he had a very real piece of heaven warming up his fingers, but that she was smooth and pure and flawless to the touch like the sacred shrine she was to his painfully buried cock. He suffered the impression then that his whole life might have been different if his wife had ever cared enough to shave her sex for him.
"Oh, no!" she breathed, but she wasn't looking beseechingly up into his eyes appealing to his higher senses, she was gazing down at his hand, and something about her expression--slightly frightened yet so avidly expectant--transported him beyond the few cautious thoughts the growing size of his erection left room for. He was suddenly filled to bursting with faith, not in some senseless God but in himself, in every virile fiber of his being. He could feel--he was holding the evidence in his hand--that she wasn't merely tolerating his advances but that she wanted him, she wanted him, to fuck her.
He was so much bigger than she was that her entire tender vulva rested against his hard palm, her sex lips giving his life-line a moist kiss full of promise for the immediate, tangible future and to hell with everything else. He stroked her, digging the heel of his hand into the tender crown of her mons where her clitoris was. He couldn't feel it, but when she gasped and looked up into his eyes he could see that his caress was giving her pleasure.
"Do you like that?" he asked gruffly, suddenly angry as he wondered how many men she had looked up to that way.
"Yes..." Her arms remained passive at her sides, her hands pressed against the door as if she needed to brace herself to endure the intense sensations he was forcing on her.
Groaning again in something like pain at how long these moments had taken to become real, he brought his ravenous mouth down over her exposed breast. The tone of her cry enhanced the delightful taste of her nipple, at once so stiff and yielding, caught between his lips. Her pussy in one hand, one of her breasts squeezed possessively in the other, his mouth full of her other mound's luscious tenderness, he rubbed her clit with his working man's rough hand until she moaned, and moaned again and again more and more breathlessly, a whimpering, pleading note entering her voice. Her nipples were so hard they literally felt like seeds as he sensed pleasure blooming inexorably through her young body.
He let go of her abruptly, spun her around and pulled off her robe, letting it fall to the floor. For a wild moment he considered fucking her from behind right there and then. He visualized ramming his rampant cock into her tight little pussy from behind, but he had enough control left to realize that would upset her.
"Come on." He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Doing it on the bed was more normal, less impersonal, softer; she could pretend he had some tender feelings for her.
"Patrick, no, please, I can't..."
He cursed himself for giving her a fatally long minute to think about it. He didn't reply. If he indulged her doubts with even a single word now, all was lost. Instead he let his best worst instincts kick in and said, "Get on the bed." He flung off his coat and yanked his zipper down. "On your hands and knees," he added in a commanding tone, wresting his erection out of his pants through the slit in his underwear. His dick pulsed triumphantly in his hand as, unbelievably, she obeyed him, crawling cat-like onto the mattress.
Without even taking off his boots, he knelt on the bed behind her. She had glimpsed the size of his cock before she turned around, she knew what she had coming to her, and by God he was going to give it to her.
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