The Package Pt 02 2

Part 1: Waking Wet

I wake with the sheets clinging to my thighs, damp and tangled. Between my legs, a heat lingers--slick, swollen, unmistakable. It's the body remembering something it shouldn't be able to, Something that hasn't happened.. yet.

I lie still. Eyes closed. As if stillness might rewind time, press me back into the dream before it dissolves. But it's already inside me--tight in my hips, low in my belly, sharp in my already aching nipples, humming at the base of my spine and burning deep in my pussy.

It was them again.

The two men from the little store down the street. I've only been in three times over the past month, and twice it was some woman behind the counter--chatty, indifferent. But once, he was there. The first one. Slender. Still. He barely acknowledged me. If anything, he seemed completely unfazed that I was there. Detached. Cool. Like he didn't need to look to know I was watching him.

I've never seen them both together. Not since that night.

But in my dreams, they seem to never leave.

The dreams begin in parts--flashes. One of them tearing my dress open, buttons scattering to the floor, the other parting my lips with his fingers and pushing his cock into my mouth. My back arched over the counter. My cheeks spread wide as the first cock slams into me, hard and deep, making me cry out around the cock that's still there. I choke. Swallow. Open wider. Their hands everywhere--Parting, gripping, slapping. A hand on my throat, just enough to dizzy me. One lifts my leg. The other slides behind.

Then they drag me to the floor--him beneath me, pulling me down onto him, pushing back inside. My pussy stretches around him again, greedy and soaked. And then I feel it--the second one kneeling behind me, positioning, taking aim.

One thick and relentless in my pussy, the other pressing into my ass, slow, stretching me until my whole body pulses around them. My hands claw at the floor, hips rocking, no longer mine. They move in rhythm--one thrusting forward, the other withdrawing, then again, and again. The kind of precision only fantasy can choreograph.

Their voices low, almost inaudible. Breath and grunt and growl. I moan without restraint, wild and split open.

And just before it ends--they pull out. I'm on my knees.

They come on me. All over me. Just like they did, that night.

Hot cum painting my skin--my breasts, my stomach, my mouth open, my cheeks flushed. It covers me. Soaks me. I look up at them, still panting, and they watch me like a thing they own. Then they make lick them clean knowing where they've been, it makes me feel dirty, slutty, it turns me on.

This isn't just a dream. It doesn't drift or fade like the others. It lives in my body. Not a fantasy, but a felt experience--burned into me by want.

I turn beneath the covers, ass up and face down into a pillow. The wetness spreads across my inner thighs, warm and raw. My breath shudders. My hands move before I can think--sliding down, first to my clit, slick and swollen, then further. I tease both openings, slowly circling, opening myself.

I let two fingers slip in.

My pussy clenches, greedy. My other hand traces the back, toward my ass, pressing gently.

My thighs tremble. I start to fuck myself. Deep strokes. Long. Purposeful. No playing now.

My breath grows faster, hips lifting to meet the rhythm. The dream still burns behind my eyes. I see them. I feel them. I let my mouth fall open and imagine them watching as I make myself come.

And then I do.

My whole body curls, locks, floods. A sob escapes. My back arches and I bite down.

Part 2: Desire danced away

The city thrums. Pavement slick with light. Friday night. My skin wants contact. My mind wants noise. My body--it doesn't want affection. It wants to be taken. Used. Marked. Anything to pull me out of the loop I've been circling all month.

The days since that morning--the last dream--have been slow and swollen with want. I've tried to distract myself--working late, walking aimlessly, reading books I never finish. But my fingers keep finding their way between my legs. On the couch. In the shower. Under the desk at work. A dull ache lives there now, and no orgasm can empty it.

And every time I close my eyes, they're there again. The two of them. Not speaking. Just watching. Just taking. My body jerks awake, wet and clenching around nothing. I need someone real. Someone I can taste. Someone who sees me.

My friends talk me into going out tonight--a dark club, crowded, vibrating with bass and I realize, perfect for finding someone to take me. I've dressed like an answer--short black skirt, sheer top with no bra, a red thong I want someone to see. Each breeze is a touch. Every step is a dare.

I want to be noticed.

Not admired. Not complimented. Seen. Watched. Consumed.

We order cocktail after cocktail after cocktail. Something bitter, something sweet, something too strong. We laugh about nothing--about exes, awkward texts. We talk about sex, about wanting more. They joke. I don't. I pretend to listen. But I'm already in motion.

The music pulls me to the floor.

I move slowly at first, hips rolling with the beat, arms raised. My eyes close. My body loosens. The rhythm doesn't matter--it's not about music. It's about release.

Someone steps up behind me. A man. His breath touches my neck before his fingers do. I wait. He hesitates. Then places his hands on my hips, loose, almost as if he didn't even touch me.

I press back.

He responds, but softly. Not bold. Not dangerous. He follows more than he leads.

I guide his hands higher, over my ribs, up to my breasts. He cups them as if they might break. His caution frustrates me.

We talk briefly. Names. Drinks. Where are you from?

He buys another round. His eyes are warm. Safe. He smiles like a nice guy. A man who asks first, who doesn't push. And that's the problem.

Still--it's closing time and he's all I've got. I let him take me home.

We barely speak on the way. I try to feel something--anticipation, hunger, danger. But nothing.

He watches as I pull up my skirt, panties down, like he's witnessing something sacred. There's reverence in his stare. But I don't want to be worshipped. I want to be devoured.

I start by kneeling, taking him out and putting him in my mouth. Sucking wild in order to wake him up, out of this boring nice guy. Take him deep--too deep--and choke myself. Maybe then he'll realize I want him to take control. But nothing.

I climb onto him. Move slowly, then faster. Try different angles. Try to summon something raw in him. Again--nothing.

His hands are soft. His thrusts, shallow. His moans are apologetic.

After a while I'm starting to get bored. I pull out my ace--reverse cowgirl--to end it. He likes it, I can tell, I can feel him staring at my ass. His hand starts to wander over my butt, light spanking, I even feel his thumb starting to explore my backdoor. Just as I start to feel it--it ends. It becomes too much for him. He's coming.

Deep--and a lot.

I don't.

I climb off him, feeling unsatisfied. Not close to where I wanted to be tonight.

I put on my panties, pull the skirt down, give him a sweet kiss and leave, giving him no time to object.

Outside, the air is cold. It cuts straight through me.

It's late. The city sleeps and I'm walking. The streetlights hum like insects. My shoes click on the wet pavement.

I feel his cum starting to slip out of me.

Warm. Leaking.

No one is around.

I step into the shadows. Pull the panties aside. Squat.

Let the rest of him leak out of me right there on the street.

It drips between my thighs. Onto the concrete. Like the nothing it was.

Part 3: The Quiet Fuck

Home.

The silence here is different. It doesn't settle--it wraps. Slips between my thoughts. It presses close.

I pour a glass of wine. Then another. They go down easy at this point.

The apartment feels heavier than usual. Not empty, just full of things that don't move. I don't turn on all the lights. Just one, low, in the corner. It's enough to cast shadows. I prefer the suggestion of form over clarity right now.

I walk slowly to the mirror. I'm still dressed. The skirt clings. My top is translucent in the low light. My mascara has smudged under one eye. Lipstick faded, mouth slightly parted. Hair tousled, like someone's fingers passed through it but forgot to finish.

There's something desperate in my reflection. Not unattractive. Just raw. Like a candle almost at the end--still beautiful, still burning, just not for much longer.

I undress. Watching myself.

First, the top. I lift it carefully, arms slow. Breasts bare. I cup them briefly, rough, just the way he wouldn't.

Then the skirt. My thighs bare. I turn around, bend forward with eyes still on the mirror, slowly pull down the thong. Showing myself the way I wanted to be seen.

I keep the heels. I like the sound they make when I shift.

I need to feel. Not just touch--but depth. Sensation that unfolds. Something that splits me open from the inside and leaves me more than just satisfied.

I open the drawer.

There it is--small, red, dull-looking. I'd forgotten it existed.

I pick it up. Light. Too light. The surface matte, a little too smooth. The shape narrow. Meant for a different kind of night.

Still, I try it. I kneel. Slide it inside. It goes in too easily. No resistance. No stretch.

I rock my hips once. Twice. Nothing. No pull. No bite. No pushback.

I groan--frustrated more than turned on.

This isn't it. Not tonight.

I look around the room. Eyes scanning--low shelf, side table, bathroom.

Kitchen.

I rise.

I walk into the kitchen, more annoyed than aroused now. I open drawers, check under towels, even glance toward a wine bottle--but no. Not that desperate.

Then the fridge.

It hums low, indifferent. Cold air spills over my skin as I bend to look.

And there--

A cucumber. Thick. Firm. Cold. Its surface glistening slightly in the light.

I take it in my hand. Test its weight. Smoothness. Length. The blunt, promising curve.

It'll do. For tonight.

I return to the mirror. Lay out the blanket. Methodical. Almost reverent. A towel. The toys. A pillow, just in case.

I kneel again. Center myself. The dildo first--I suck on it. Slowly. Let it rest on my tongue. Coat it with spit. Go deep, just the way I remember they liked.

My breathing changes.

I imagine him--one of them--watching at first. Not helping. Just watching. His eyes heavy on my mouth as the other man's cock enters.

Then he enters--the cucumber. Cold against my skin. I press it between my cheeks, let the chill wake me up. My body flinches, then yields. Run it against my holes. It slips inside. Slow. Stretching me. Filling my pussy.

My hips roll. Not fast. Just enough to feel it press deeper.

The cold fades as my heat claims it.

In my mind, they're with me now.

One kneeling in front of me. The other behind me, breathing hard, squeezing me between them as they fuck me--silent, present, hard.

Their silence is the script. It tells me exactly what they want.

I move faster. Grind. My breath becomes audible. I moan--not for performance, but for pressure.

My thighs tremble. The cucumber inside me presses against places I'd forgotten. I ride harder. Elbows on the floor, the toy in my mouth. Then one hand moves down to my clit. Rubbing.

And shortly after--release.

It rips through me.

Not soft. Not graceful.

My body spasms. Hips jerk. My breath punches out of me in broken sounds. My mouth opens but says nothing. Only air and heat.

I collapse.

I fold forward, cheek against the rug. I lie there. Breathing. Chest heaving. Limbs slack. The cucumber still inside me, pulsing faintly with the echo of it.

I pull it out, slowly.

The whole experience--two objects, one memory-fantasy hybrid--was amazing.

I wipe myself, barely. My hand moves automatically. I look at the mess. It turns me on.

Still alone. Still aching. But softer now.

I leave the toys where they are and slip into bed. Naked. Warm. Drunk.

My thighs still sticky. My core still open. My body quietly satisfied, my mind already elsewhere.

I reach for my phone. The screen lights my face in pale blue. Fingers move without thinking. A sex toy site.

I search--two dildos, skin-toned, suction base. One slightly longer, one thicker. About the size I remember the men from the store to be.

And lube. One bottle.

Add to cart. Checkout. Done.

I place the phone on the nightstand, curl into the blanket, and exhale.

Sleep takes me--before doubt has time to arrive.

Part 4: Mishandled Goods

Morning light stabs at my eyes. I blink. My throat is dry. I shuffle into the hallway naked.

On the floor: the cucumber, the dildo, the rumpled blanket.

The memory hits me like a slap. I laugh once, sharp. Then press a hand to my mouth. It's not shame. Not exactly. It's the shock of recognizing your own need written out so plainly across a room. The rawness of it still lingers--on my skin, in my thighs, in my throat, in my pussy.

The package! I almost shout.

It'll be delivered to the same store!

I'd almost forgotten, in the haze of sweat and climax and red wine. I forgot that I would have to pick them up there--my dildos, resembling the men who work there.

A week passes. I don't dwell. I live. I work. But something inside me simmers. It coils tighter with each day.

I catch myself lingering in mirrors too long. Watching for something beneath the surface: a shift in posture, a bite in my lip, the way my gaze flickers and holds. I dream of them again. Less as shadows, more as presence. I wake soaked, aching. I do nothing about it. I wait. For Friday. For my package.

It arrives like a dare. I'm restless. Aching again. A hunger in the muscles. A breath that never fully releases.

At noon, the message buzzes: "Your package has arrived."

Four simple words, but I feel them. In my pulse. Between my legs. My mouth goes dry, my chest tightens.

All afternoon I plan it.

A bath. Red wine. A night in. I'll unwrap the toys slowly. I'll use the mirror. I'll take my time. I'll devour myself like they would.

I picture it frame by frame. The candles. The way I'll tie my hair back. One toy against the wall, the other on the floor, me in between. My body open, mouth parted, their names still unknown.

After work, I stop for a glass of wine on my way to the store, needing to calm my nerves before picking it up.

I'm close to the store now. My pulse stutters.

Something in me tightens, sharpens, prepares. I smooth my coat, step inside. The bell chimes overhead like a secret being announced.

But it's not them--it's the woman working today.

She smiles. I smile back. Relief softens everything. Not disappointment, just a pause in tension. I ask for the package. She finds it quickly, hands it over with a nod. I carry it out like something fragile.

At home, I pour a glass of red for myself, then gently open the box.

Empty.

Just bubble wrap. Stones added for weight. And a note, folded, neat.

"Looks like your package was mishandled again.

You may want to come look for it yourself.

Stop by after closing."

I sit still for a long moment. The note open in my lap. My mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out. Just breath.

The handwriting is neat. Male. Not practiced, but precise.

My thighs press together--not a decision, just reaction.

I re-read the note. Again, and again.

Part 5: After Closing

I spend an hour debating.

I circle the apartment like a restless animal, glass in hand, body bare under my robe. I pour a second glass without thinking. The wine doesn't calm me--it sharpens something. Smooths hesitation into intention.

I dress slowly.

A tight black dress that shows off the good stuff--a deep neckline, cut high on the thighs. No bra, but this time a thin black thong.

A coat, more for form than warmth. My hands are steady, but my breath gives me away.

At 10 PM, I walk.

The streets are quiet. Not silent--just holding something back. Like the city knows not to interrupt. My heels echo faintly against the pavement. I pass lit windows. Closed cafés. Empty benches. I walk like I already belong to the night.

The store is dark, with a soft glow inside. Someone didn't go home.

I knock.

He opens the door. Smiles without teeth. Steps back.

"Come in."

I pass him. His left hand lands on my shoulder and stops me. The right then trails down my back. His fingers pause just above the curve of my ass, as if waiting for my reaction. Then, light pressure--continuing down over my ass.

"Well, you know your way around the back."

I nod.

No small talk. No questions. Just certainty, passed between bodies. I walk past the counter. Every step echoes on the linoleum floor. It sounds too bright, too clean--like I don't belong here.

But I do. I know I do.

In the back I see it, right where I've been on my knees before: two boxes, lids cracked open. Beside them, the lube. And a third package. Smaller. Wrapped in silk tissue.

One I didn't order?

I recognize the smell, the temperature, the feeling--of being about to be used inside this backroom, by these two men.

I walk past it, turn, and stand in front of them with the packages in between us, waiting to see what happens next.

They're both there now. Not close. Not touching. Just seated, spaced apart, like bookends of an unspoken agreement. One leans back, arms relaxed. The other forward, elbows on knees. Seated like judges. Or spectators. Or gods.

"Open them," one says.

I kneel. No hesitation. My dress rides up around my hips. I don't fix it, knowing it exposes me, giving them a glimpse of what's underneath. I want them to see. I want to be seen.

I open the boxes slowly, and take them out.

The first one: skin-toned. Thicker. Heavy in my hand. I run a finger along the shaft, trace the ridge of the head.

The second: smoother. A bit longer. Sleek.

They feel cool, inert--but not for long. In my hands, they already begin to become something else.

Then the small package.

A blindfold. Silk. Cool between my fingers.

I look up.

"Put it on," the quiet one says. His voice low, steady. "Show us what you had planned for tonight."

I stand.

No words. Just breath. The room is heavy with silence, but it isn't empty--it's filled with watching. With want. With restraint about to break.

I obey.

Part 6 -- Blind Offer

The silk blindfold is cool in my hands, almost innocent. I tie it over my eyes slowly, feeling the darkness settle into place--not as absence, but as invitation. I hear them breathing. Not speaking. Just watching.

I undress. No rush. No shame. I want them to see everything. I want them to know I'm not performing--I'm offering.

My dress pools at my feet. My panties follow. I leave my heels on. Something about the angle they give my hips feels... exposed. Precise.

I squat.

My fingers touch the floor. Rough as I remember. I inhale deeply and reach out. They find one dildo--thick and cold--and I let it rest in my lap for a bit. My body is already humming.

I begin slowly. Stroking it. Letting my hands memorize its shape. I imagine it as one of them--hot and pulsing, watching me close enough for me to touch them-if I was allowed. I press it against my mouth. Kiss the tip. My tongue traces the curve of it, then I open, take it deeper.

They're still silent, but the air feels charged now. I can hear their breathing. Subtle. Controlled. Barely.

I reach for the second dildo, pull it close. Stroke them both, side by side. My hands move with rhythm. With need. I imagine their thighs under my palms. Their cocks hard and twitching. I slide one between my breasts, push them together, and rock gently. I stick out my tongue, licking the tip each time it rises toward my lips.