Blakes Takes A Delivery

It was a cold October night in Davenport, Iowa, the baseball season was well and truly over and I was making ends meet delivering pizza for a buddy. I did the night shift because I was still working out every day at the gym, sometimes twice.

With all that work my slim six-foot frame was looking in great shape. I've got particularly good pectorals, great buns and washboard abs, as they say.

I've also got a healthy love muscle, seven and a half inches, uncut, but despite the fact that I was a horny, single, 20-year-old male, it wasn't getting as near a good work-out as the rest of my body. Something to do with Davenport, I guess.

It was closing in on midnight when my boss and my buddy gave me the last order. It was for a standard capriciosa to be delivered to a motel by the Mississippi.

"You'll find a bright red Dodge Viper parked outside the customer's apartment," I was told, "name of Blake Mitchell."

Blake Mitchell! In the words of romance writers, my heart leapt! OK, so Blake was one of those either-sex names, but the Blake Mitchell I knew of was one helluva foxy lady.

I'd drooled over her magnificent tits, stunning arse, lovely brunette hair and beautiful face on countless websites. I didn't know if she was still in the porn industry - she's got to be in her early 40s now - but she was one of those mature women who make some younger men drool! A fox, a mature fox!

On the way, I kept telling myself to calm down. This Blake Mitchell would turn out to be a 50-year-old, out-of-town underwear salesman with a bald head and nicotine-stained teeth.

And all the way there I was praying "Make it the big bazooka Blake, please!"

Clocks around town were chiming midnight when I parked alongside the Viper, at the extreme end unit and walked to the door.

It was answered by a woman with luscious brunette hair, deep brown eyes you could drown in, full cock-sucking red lips and a little red satin wrap, which just came below her pussy level. Her thighs were full, her calves stunning and she was barefoot. I guessed her height at five feet four inches, her bust at around 36 inches and her age at about 43.

Yup, it was Blake Mitchell!

She gave me a wonderful smile and opened the door wide. "Come on in, Pizza Boy," she said, "can you open a bottle of wine?"

"Sure," I said, trying to suck back the drool I felt rising in my mouth.

"Put the pizza on the table, while I fetch a plate, rip the top off that bottle of French red and then help yourself to a beer. There's some local crap and some Heineken. You do drink, don't you, Pizza Boy?"

I nodded, my senses reeling. "Certainly, ma'am," I told her.

"Cut the 'ma'am' crap," she laughed, "my name's Blake."

I removed the cork from her French red - a Chateau Lafite, no less - and poured a glass of wine, then went to the fridge and removed a Heineken. I ignored the Davenport beer - if you've ever drunk any you'll know why.

Blake was tucking into the capriciosa when I rejoined her in the main room. She looked totally relaxed, so I blurted out: "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am - I've often enjoyed looking at pictures of you on the net!"

"Oh, so you've heard of me?" she asked, sipping on the Chateau Lafite. "And cut out the 'ma'am' stuff, I won't tell you again,"

"You're one of my favourite women," I answered, totally honestly. "You've got the greatest body."

"You're not so bad looking yourself, Pizza Boy," she laughed. "What do you do to keep in shape?"

I sucked again on the cold Heineken. "I work out every day and during the season I'm the second-string shortstop for the local ball club, the Quad Cities River Bandits," I told her.

I thought she was going to choke on her pizza. "The Quad City River Bandits? Whatta fuckin' stupid name for a ball club," she snorted. Then she grinned at me: "So you're the Derek Jeter of Davenport, eh?"

"I'm not fit to hand him his glove," I confessed, again totally honestly. Then, to change the subject, I asked: "And what brings you to Davenport?"

Blake sipped again at her glass, then re-filled it. "I was here for a couple of days on a PSE," she explained.

"What's a PSE?" I asked, sliding into an easy chair and trying not to ogle her lovely legs too much.

"Stands for 'Porn Star Experience'," she explained. "People with a lot of money pay well to enjoy a kiss and cuddle session with a pornstar. It's an easy way to make a bit extra."

Then she stretched and I realised she must be tired. "Do you want me to go?" I asked, dreading an answer in the affirmative.

"Hell no," she grinned, "you're the first man under 50 I've seen in two days - stick around." Then she eyed me coolly. "In fact, model for me, show me that fine cut body you work on at the gym every day, Mr Shortstop!"

I thought I was going to faint, but I put the Heineken on the table, beside the rather more expensive bottle, and pulled off my T-shirt.

"Nice pecs, Mr Shortstop," she smiled. "Now drop the jeans - and get out of those ridiculous boat shoes, never wear boat shoes, they're hopeless for your posture."

She sounded like my mother! Sorry, mom, but she's rather sexier. I kicked off my Top Siders, and slid the tight jeans off.

Blake looked at me critically. "Nice abs, nice thighs, now turn around, let's see the back view, Mr Shortstop."

I wavered. I was only wearing a black satin thong by Fredericks, of Hollywood, and I was aware that my cock was starting to stir in its satin cage. And now she wanted to see my bare arse!

"Er, I'm only wearing a thong," I muttered, still facing her.

"I don't care if you're wearing sackcloth and fuckin' ashes, Mr Shortstop," she said, sternly. "Turn around!"

I did so, and the next thing I felt was a hand stroking my right buttock cheek. "Lovely buns, Mr Shortstop," I heard a whisper from behind me. Then the hand stroked across my other cheek. I turned round to face her and nearly passed out!

The robe had gone and Blake Mitchell's lush, 36-inch plus breasts were there, nipples pointing straight at me, invitingly, at her crotch a small patch of brown pubic hair nestled just above her oh-so-lickable sex lips.

My heart was pounding, I didn't know what to say, but she held out a hand, took mine in hers and turned towards the bedroom. Her arse was stunning, high mounded, so kissable.

"Come along, Mr Shortstop," she announced, "it's time you went into the batting cage for a few licks!"

I followed her, shoving the door shut behind me with a bare foot. Blake lay down on the bed, piling two pillows up behind her upper back and spread her thighs.

"Thong off!" she snapped. I obeyed, my penis springing up to a swaying stiffy, its tip drooling pre-cum.

"OK, Mr Shortstop, into the batter's box," she laughed.

I climbed onto the bed and placed my mouth high on the inside of one thigh, becoming aware as I did that her pussy was giving off the arousing musky, aromatic smell of woman on heat!

Carefully I placed my mouth against her sex lips and kissed her gently. "You're in the batter's box, now Mr Shortstop," I heard her say, "time to take your licks!"

I began to lick her moist cunt, running my tongue just into the orifice, then I withdrew and went lower to her gloriously brown anus, also musky and tangy. Then up to her cunt again, around her piss flaps, then onto her clit before rising to her mons and planting a fervent kiss there.

Soon, to my utter delight, she started to gasp, then sob, then moan. I was giving a pornstar an orgasm!

I stayed down there, kissing her softly as her climax receded, and then she placed a hand on my head and finally spoke: "Now let's see how you handle that big bat you've got down there, Mr Shortstop. See if you can hit a home run!"

Swiftly I was face-to-face with her, and my cock was tickling her cunt, then driving into it. I kissed her warmly as I felt my prick thrust into her vagina, the walls of which were grabbing on my foreskin and pulling the flesh there down to the ring.

We bumped pubic bones, then I ran my hands over her glorious breasts and lowered my lips from hers to her nipple-hard left boob and sucked it into my mouth. "Oh, that is so fuckin' fantastic," I burbled, tasting her hard little cherry, licking around the large brown areola.

Then I was pumping and humping her, driving back and forth in her superb cunt, until she paused me with a finger on my mouth.

"Wanna tit fuck, Mr Shortstop?" she asked.

"Does Barry Bonds hit home runs?" I smiled, and pulled from her pussy and placed my cock between her mighty mounds, which she cupped with her hands, pressing the lovely globes together.

I resumed heaving away, this time my cock slithering between her breasts for some minutes before I felt a surging rush in my balls. "I'm gonna cum," I panted.

"Bring him up here, Mr Shortstop," said the pornstar and I raised myself to bring my seven-and-a-half inches to her mouth. Suddenly my load shot but she had already opened her mouth and enclosed my driving cock to take my ejaculation.

This was porn paradise! I had given a pornstar an orgasm, and now here she was, sucking me off!

When she had sucked my cock dry, she asked me to bring in the Chateau Lafite and help myself to another beer. Then we lay and chatted, she fielded my questions about the porn industry, I told her which baseball stars I wanted to emulate.

Later, we engaged in a wonderful bout of soixante-neuf - yup, she swallowed me down again - before the night ended in a third encounter doggy-style, with me splashing a by now much smaller load of spunk onto her back.

Finally, after showering together, she made me dress, warned me once more about "those awful boat shoes", then escorted me to the door.

After a long, lingering good-night kiss, she ushered me out into the cold Iowa night. Just as I stepped into the cold, she called out: "Hey, Mr Shortstop - I don't even know your name!"

I laughed. "Doesn't matter, Blake. I'm never gonna make the Hall of Fame!"