Pulling up to that blue suburban country home, I thought it would be just another delivery. It was my favorite part of the day: the last couple hours or so of that golden evening sunlight, when the midwestern country felt most vibrant and alive. It was a long day, filled with near-accidents in overcrowded parking lots and shopping in lifeless supermarkets that were somehow even more crowded. My tired brain tried its best to wash itself of the vivid memories of the day as I drove: the yelling children, the sanity-grinding supermarket pop tunes, the mobility scooter-riding bison that probably downed their jumbo jar of mayonnaise through a straw on the way home. The suburban neighborhood I was delivering to, despite its own white-picketed flaws, acted as somewhat of a palate cleanser, like cleaning the taste of turd out of one’s mouth with a hearty feast from the dollar menu.

As I cruised into the long concrete driveway I could smell the summer in all its essence; a warm radiance of flowers, freshly cut grass, and a muddy riverbank filled my nostrils as I lifted the 40-pack of water out of the trunk. I walked up to the porch and straggled up the stairs, letting out a long sigh of relief as I put the heavy pack down. I rang the doorbell, and after a few long seconds of rummaging the door opened.

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“Hey, how’s it going?” I said, bending down to lift the heavy pack without looking up.

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“I’m doing wonderful, thank you so much for your help!”

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That voice–it sounded so familiar. It had some mystic warmth to it; it floated into my ears with a softness, a genuine air of compassion I hadn’t felt for so long, especially in this line of work. I grasped the pack at my waist and looked up at this sudden source of warmth.

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Looking at me with gentle brown eyes was one of the most subtly beautiful women I’d ever seen. She was barefoot wearing a colorful patterned sundress that radiated off her pale skin like a bright, radiant garden in a blinding snowstorm. Her flowy brunette hair was tucked back in a braid, and she had just clearly washed off all her makeup. She had that graceful motherly beauty: the teacher, the nurse, the soccer mom a few doors down every sexually frustrated, hairy-palmed boy grew up wildly fantasizing about.

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After a few seconds of looking into her gaze, her gentle smile began to turn into a worried grin. I suddenly realized I had been so transfixed by this woman that I hadn’t even responded to her.

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“I’m so sorry, it’s been a long day–you kinda startled me. Want me to bring these in for ya?”

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“That would be so, so amazing,” she said emphatically with a welcoming grin. “You can leave it right over there on the counter.”

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Her house smelt wonderful. It reminded me of the aromatic atmosphere that swallows one in when entering an authentic Indian restaurant: spices, herbs, an otherworldly portal into something so beautifully alien. Though her two-story home seemed like a modest one from the outside, the interior was a dazzling spectacle. Beautiful impressionist paintings dotted her walls, and I had only seen kitchens like hers in movies.

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“Here okay?” I asked as I approached the sleek granite countertop. Books and magazines of all kinds were strewn across it, resembling those poor, overworked tables of a pediatrician’s waiting room; left with the daunting task of distracting children before their check-ups and entertaining adults after their check-ins. But now is not the time for these unnecessary comparisons–the waters are getting heavy.

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“Absolutely. Sorry, kitchen’s kind of a mess right now. Let me move those for you.” She quickly made a spot for the waters, knocking a couple of the magazines on the ground. She bent down to gather them as I set the pack down, and stood up just as I backed away from the counter.

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“Ope,” I muttered, trying to shuffle around her, and as we passed each other her hand accidentally brushed the zipper of my jeans. A painful silence enveloped the dead air and I could see that her cheeks were clouding with a bright red hue of embarrassment. She turned slightly, standing against the counter, and began fidgeting with the case of water. It seemed like she was searching for something to say, something to fill the air. For the first time, I realized how nice her ass was, slightly jiggling with every small movement.

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I had to say something. It would be way too awkward to just walk out after that.

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“I love your paintings, that’s a Cézanne, right? You have great taste.”

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She looked at me across the kitchen with a surprised smile. “Yeah, wow!” She crossed her arms and looked at me with intrigue. “That’s impressive, you seem a little young to know anything about Cézanne.”I guess that pitiful art history degree did come in handy after all.

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“I’m 25, so not that young anymore. I actually studied art history back in college, and my dad used to bring me to museums all the time growing up–I always had a great appreciation for the impressionists. Cézanne was always one of my favorites. All those bather scenes are hung up around my mom’s house back home.”

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“Well, you look young for your age. That honestly makes me really happy, I didn’t think your generation was all that enthused about that kind of stuff.” She put her hands softly over her heart and smiled with a genuine, heartfelt smile while she said it. That smile–it melted me. I had to think of something else to say, I couldn't just leave it there.

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“And it looks like you’re quite the bookworm too?”

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She looked down at the messy countertop. “Yeah, I have a lot of free time,” she said blushing. Her face, while still smiling, became slightly more somber. We kept talking about a number of things, mostly about art and books, and we–just started flowing. The conversation began feeling so natural, so relaxed, like we were two lifelong friends that hadn’t talked in a while. She was just like me: a little guarded, but passionate and expressive once I got going. She was funny as hell too. I wanted to talk to her all night. Oh mysterious water woman, show me your world.

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“You’re really a delight to talk to. I just turned 47 last month and it’s gotten harder and harder to meet people as I’ve gotten older. Especially young fellas that have interest in this wacky art stuff.”

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“You’ve been the highlight of my week, trust me,” I said, as I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. ”I feel like I could talk to you all night.” She responded with a nodding grin of agreeance.

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Silence once again filled the air, but this time there wasn’t a vapor of awkwardness in the air. It was serene, it was happy, it was perfect–the silence was right this time. She was staring at the ground smiling, and met my eyes as she looked back up at me.

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“Could I fix ya some wine? Just a glass, I know you have to drive. You seem like you’ve had a long day, and well, I really don’t like drinking alone.”

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My heart fluttered. Do not blow this. Do not fucking blow this.

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“Absolutely,” I said, smiling widely. “I’ll take whatever ya got.”

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She poured us each a glass of some fancy white wine I’d never heard of and we split a baguette with butter at her kitchen table. It felt like I was falling in love–a distant, alien feeling I hadn’t felt in so, so long. She was a damn good storyteller, giving me beautifully descriptive accounts of going to art school in Paris when she was younger, switching her enthusiastic tone into one with a slight tinge of regret about coming back to the States and switching her studies to literature, falling in headlong love with the Greek classics, and finally settling on her current gig as a part-time French tutor at a nearby all-girls school; though she just did it to get out the house, and didn’t really need the money.

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She was an even better listener; I could tell her interest in what I was saying was so heartfelt, so pure. She was eating up my every word, every emotion I was expressing as if she was starving for it. She got more beautiful, more enchanting by the second. During a pause in the conversation, she recommended we move to the living room. “I have some art books I think you’d really like on my coffee table, we could totally look through them if you want.” She took a long sip of wine, staring at me tentatively, waiting for my response.

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“I’d absolutely love that.”

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She had something to say about every page. She knew so intricately about the artists and their pieces–it blew me away. I would have been perfectly content silently listening to her and nodding as she spoke until the sun went down and came up again. After we finished the last page of one of the books, she carefully closed it, put it back on the table, and took a long sip from her glass. That silence again.

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She gently put her hand on my leg. My dick, now clearly visible through my jeans, softly pulsated.

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“I really like you. You seem so interesting. I feel guilty that I tipped you so little.” She looked into my eyes sweetly as she said it. I couldn’t resist, I put my arm around her and kissed her deeply. After a few seconds, I pulled away from her soft lips slowly.

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“This is the best tip I’ve ever gotten–trust me.” I kissed her again, this time longer. “You seem so gentle and kind, and pure–that feels like a rarity nowadays,” I said as I moved her silky hair to the side. “And you’re fucking beautiful, truly. I was honestly taken aback when you opened the door.”

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“Taken aback?” she inquired, as she nestled into my stomach, looking up at me.

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“I almost dropped the water,” I said smiling. She giggled and kissed my cheek.

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I just held her in silence, running my hand playfully through her soft brown hair while she rustled my shirt with her hands. She waved her fingers in circular motions through my clothes, making her way down to my jeans. I felt slightly embarrassed, as my semi-hard cock was clearly showing itself running down my inner left thigh. I was turned on, but I didn’t want to kill the moment. In that strange living room with that strangely welcoming artsy woman, I wanted that silent moment to be eternal. It felt like it could have lasted forever–like it should have lasted forever. This time her soft fingers grazed my zipper with purpose, and I let out a quiet moan as she brushed my cock.

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“I’m gonna get us seconds,” she said as she quickly lifted her hand up and stood up off the couch.

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“Sounds good,” I whimpered.

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As I watched her walk back to the kitchen, I felt an unbelievable warmth in my chest. The sun was glimmering its last few minutes of light through the window, and the birds were singing their final songs of the day. I could see a lavishly decorated yard through the glass door that led to the back porch. It looked like a lavish European royal garden, with a large pond, full of bright lily pads and a large stone statue of some muscular, meticulously sculpted figure. A cherry-red painted wooden swing hung in a peaceful stillness between two sprawling purple crabapple trees, nearly obscured from my view by a wild herd of yellow sunflowers and blue lupine. When I moved my head back, sank into the couch, and let my tired eyes settle, the diminishing light of the late-summer dusk gave the illusion that the pond was some great bay that went on forever, surrounded by towering vegetation that seemingly turned the vista into a sprawling Mediterranean cliff. As I shifted my gaze back inside I began to notice the flickering of her many candles, casting dancing shadows across her living room. I could hear her sweetly humming to herself as she was rummaging through her cupboards.

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What a change from my inner-city efficiency studio apartment. What a change from delivering to rude, rich suburbanites that saw me, my struggle, as a name, an avatar in an app or website. People who saw me as merely a convenient link in the chain of their cozy daily lives. Who is this woman? She seemed so genuine, so pure. The warmness in my chest deepened, and in that moment, as the shadows danced, as light quietly turned to dark, as a bird let out its final note, and as day finally spun into night, I felt incredibly blessed.

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I gently closed my eyes, feeling her undoubtedly expensive couch cushions with my hands. I heard quiet bare-footed footsteps behind me, and I gently opened my eyes and–what a sight. The soft light of a nearby lamp was glistening off her bare chest. I couldn’t help but gasp a surprised “woah” aloud.

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There she was, this mysterious welcoming woman, gently approaching me with a fresh bottle in hand only wearing a tight white-laced thong. Her pale freckled skin, her slightly chubby stomach, her perky tits–she had the perfect body. A woman, a truly natural woman in all her bodily glory, in her purest feminine form. My cock was now at serious risk of bursting out of my jeans.

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“Like what you see?” she said smiling, as she plopped down next to me.

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“I mean, yeah . . . holy shit. Your body–” I had no words. As I was mumbling like a fool, she opened up the fresh bottle. Instead of pouring it into our glasses she put it into her mouth nearly vertically and began taking long chugs; a move that would surely put any party-school sorority girl to shame. I could only watch her with my mouth agape. I was falling for her harder and harder with every move she made. After a few seconds, she swallowed and wiped her mouth with her hand.

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“Take your fucking pants off,” she said almost aggressively, immediately putting the bottle back in her mouth vertically.

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“Yeah?” I said hesitantly. She nodded as she chugged without looking at me. In one fluid motion, I ripped my jeans off, and with one hand she began rubbing my bare thigh. I slid my striped boxers off just as she loudly burped from the near-full bottle of pinot grigio she had just consumed. I closed my eyes again. This was something out of a movie. Here I was with my cock out on this beautiful woman’s couch after what was supposed to be a simple grocery delivery. I would be sitting on a tattered mattress, eating a lonesome frozen pizza, and listening to the deafening traffic of a busy nearby road had I delivered to anybody else.

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When I opened my eyes she was already on her knees in front of me, wrapping one hand around my cock and softly rubbing my balls with the other. She let spit fall out of her mouth onto the tip and began softly swirling her tongue around it. She was hypnotized, and so was I. With her eyes closed she began sliding her tongue up and down along the sides of my shaft, working downwards until she was giving the same treatment to my sack. Watching her was like watching a master painter paint. It was like watching the ocean, like watching some beautiful natural phenomenon. Fuck, it was beautiful; she was beautiful.

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Licking in one wet motion from the bottom of my sack to the tip of my cock, she finally opened up her cock-drunk fluttering blue eyes. Her pupils were heavily dilated, her mouth was drooling with saliva, and snot was beginning to drip from her nose.

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“I haven’t seen a cock like this since college,” she was stroking me with both hands now.

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“Oh yeah?” I said playfully, softly putting the tip of my thumb in her mouth and rubbing her saliva-soaked cheek.

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“You’re–coming–over–every–night,” she said, kissing my cock after each word. “I’m not fucking joking,” she said aggressively, looking into my eyes with a possessed look of sloppy, saliva-soaked passion. “I’ll buy every fucking water in that store.”

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And with that declaration, it started: This gorgeous filthy woman, this face of womanly grace and innocence, this spectacle of beauty that politely welcomed me into her home began sucking my cock in ways I didn’t know were possible. I had certainly received my fair share of gluckings by that point, but I had never experienced anything like this.

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With her tongue still hanging out, she began sliding her mouth up and down the entire length of my cock, the wet gagging sounds drowning out my moans of pleasure. Saliva was pouring out of her mouth downwards to the base as she sucked, which turned my cock into a frictionless slip-and-slide; her mouth traveling down in its length with a velocity and depth that increased by the second.

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“Slow down baby, I’m gonna cum,” I said, my words interrupted by involuntary moaning; my inner ability to hold back my rising, bubbling chamber of white magma losing its grip by the second.

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“I know,” she said muffled, with my cock still in her mouth. She sped up faster, deeper, and she used one hand to stroke the base of my cock as I involuntarily closed my eyes and began to moan louder.

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“I’m cumming baby.” She ripped my cock out of her wet mouth and looked up at me with an animalistic, impassioned gaze of focus as she held her tongue out and stroked me. “Ughhh,” my eyes rolled into the back of my head and my body shook as I shot my load all over her mouth.

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“That was incredible,” I said, panting, running my hand through her hair. She looked back up at me smiling, licking the tip of my cock softly. I told her I had an early morning scheduled the next day, and she walked me to her door. As I grasped the handle I turned around to her.“I’m free tomorrow night if you want me to come back,” I said, smiling and looking down at her cum-covered face.

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“I’d love that.” She grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me to her. Our lips met, and our tongues swirled my cum around each other’s mouths passionately. With our eyes closed, our faces drifted away from each other and I looked back down at her as she held her arms around my shoulders.

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“Will you stay the night tomorrow?” she said, smiling up at me.

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“I’ll come over every night this week if you want me to.” I kissed her one last time passionately, wrapping my hands around her naked back. “I’ll see ya, Amy.”

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I walked out of that house into the darkness of night feeling like a new man. What an extraordinary woman. Her beauty, her passion, her kindness, her grace, her mouth–my heart felt full as I opened the door to my car. I looked back one more time at the suburban home. A dark feminine silhouette was standing nude at the window, staring at me, running her fingers through the puddle on her face. She licked her fingers as our eyes met, smiled, and walked out of sight.

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