The Package Pt 03

Part 1 -- Aftertaste

The wine bottle is still on the kitchen counter.

Half empty. Room temperature. I didn't mean to leave it out. But I didn't stop myself, either.

The glass beside it is already waiting, like it knows I'll need it.

I pour a small one.

Just to land. Just to sleep.

The first sip is bitter. The second, softer.

I undress slowly. Not like before. Not like for anyone. Just tired now. Loose.

I crawl under the blanket, the room still lit by one low lamp in the corner.

The towel stayed behind.

So did the silence. The breath. The weight.

But nothing followed me home.

My body feels... settled. But not untouched.

Like a book that's been read through too fast. Pages still creased.

I stare at the ceiling. Not searching for anything.

Just letting time pass through me.

Then, finally--I reach over and turn off the light.

The dark feels honest.

My fingers trail down my stomach, over my hipbones, slow. No goal. Just checking.

I let them move between my legs, down the inner curve, between folds still soft from use. I trace lower.

My fingertips pass gently over my pussy, then further--lightly circling the other opening.

I breathe in.

It aches.

Not pain. Not quite.

Just tenderness. A reminder.

I let my hand rest there a moment longer.

Then pull the covers higher. Close my eyes.

Sleep comes. Eventually.

---

Weeks pass. Then months.

I change the delivery address. A new place, closer to work. No tension. No memory. Just transactions. Just barcodes. I never go near the old one. Not even by accident.

Their faces start to blur.

Not completely. I still remember their builds, their gestures. But the edges fade. Scents. Voices. Heat.

It all becomes something atmospheric--background noise. Not gone, just no longer near.

I sleep better.

I don't wake up slick with sweat, or ache for something I can't name.

The shape of them lingers less.

I stop checking shadows.

I stop looking for signals that aren't there.

I don't call it healing.

But it's movement.

I don't write.

I don't plan a return.

But I do think about it. Sometimes. Still.

Some nights, when everything is too still, I try.

Not to remember.

To feel.

I lie back, one hand under the sheet, the other on my chest. My body moves out of habit, not hunger. My fingers slide. Test.

I avoid the memories. I force myself to imagine something cleaner. Softer.

Someone nice. A soft-spoken man. Not them.

Just a mouth at my neck. A bed. A lazy morning. No power games. Just warmth.

I rub slowly. My hips shift. There's heat. Some tension. Almost enough.

But it never lands.

Not in that way.

I stop before it frustrates me. Just lie there, wet but unfinished.

Not broken--just unconvinced.

I roll over, the blanket high between my legs, and wait for sleep.

Part 2 -- Soft Pink Trap

It starts as a night out.

Nothing more.

Just me and a friend. A bar we like. Music too loud. Bodies too close. I chose the dress for the color, not the effect--soft pink, tight, elastic. Thin enough to whisper but not to shout.

I wear it like it doesn't matter.

Which, of course, means it does.

Underneath: a small matching thong. High on the hips.

Lips slightly glossy.

Hair pinned, then teased loose again.

I know the mirror will approve.

At the club, the beat hits first.

Then the warmth of bodies.

Then the wine.

I laugh louder than usual.

I feel it in my shoulders, in the way my hips sway even at the bar.

Not for anyone.

Just because I can.

Then I see him.

Across the room, at the far end of the bar. Ordering drinks, laughing at something the bartender says.

Man #2.

The quiet one.

The watcher.

The one who groaned into my skin and left his cum on my back like a gift.

Tonight he's all motion.

Looser. Louder. A little drunk.

He scans the crowd--men, women, shapes. He's not subtle.

And that's when I feel it.

The shift.

Not nerves. Not fear. Just clarity.

This is my chance.

Tonight, he's simple.

Open.

Drunk enough to follow.

Drunk enough to believe it's his idea.

I finish my drink.

Leave my friend in a blur of color and noise.

Head to the bathroom.

The mirror is kind.

Lips still glossy.

Eyes steady.

I pull my thong higher, tight against my hips. Let it show--just a little--through the pink.

I add more lipstick.

Pull my cleavage forward.

Just a few degrees too far. Enough to rewrite the story.

Then I step out.

Straight toward him.

He doesn't see me at first.

Then my hand brushes past his hip.

Around.

Over the bulge in his jeans.

He jumps.

Turns fast.

Recognition flashes.

Then--confidence.

That's what surprises me.

How quickly he falls into it.

He smiles, lazy. Like he's been waiting.

We talk. Not much. He does most of it.

About his work. His ex. How easy things are at this club.

He thinks our last meeting gave him power.

He buys me another drink.

Then another.

I let him.

Smile.

Listen.

Let him think he's leading.

Then, in the middle of a sentence, his hand slides under my dress.

No hesitation.

He pulls the thong aside.

One finger inside me.

I gasp.

Not out of surprise.

Out of precision.

Because it's exactly what I wanted.

Exactly what I planned.

I lean in, his finger still buried in me.

My lips at his ear.

"Take me to the bathroom."

He doesn't hesitate. Just grabs my hand and leads me.

Through the crowd. Past the bar.

Down the narrow hallway at the back of the club, the one not everyone knows about.

The hidden bathrooms. Fewer people. Shorter lines. Still, a few waiting.

He doesn't care.

Neither do I.

We slip into a stall together. Lock clicks.

My pulse doesn't.

I face him.

Then--without a word--I drop to my knees.

Not to suck. Not yet.

But to reach for his belt.

I undo it slowly.

Then yank.

His pants drop to his ankles.

Before he can react, I push him down onto the toilet seat.

He lands with a grunt.

Hard already.

I stand.

Pull up my dress.

Slow. With purpose. Just high enough.

Then slip my thumbs into the waistband of my thong.

Slide it down. Step out.

Let him see it--gleaming. Shaved. Bare.

He stares.

Just as he opens his mouth to speak--

I ball up the thong and press it into his mouth.

His eyes widen.

He moans around the fabric.

I smile.

Then lower myself again.

Kneel.

And begin.

My mouth wraps around his cock, slow and slick.

I suck deep, let spit coat my chin.

He can't speak, can barely breathe.

His hands fist at his sides.

I go deeper. Slower.

Make it messy. Deliberate. A display.

Control surrendered--but only by him.

He bucks once. I hold him down.

When I've had enough, I rise.

Stand tall in front of him.

Bring one leg over.

And straddle him.

I'm wet enough to take him in one motion.

Face to face.

He groans hard through the cotton still in his mouth.

His hands shoot up, grab the neckline of my dress.

He yanks--sloppy--pulls my breasts out, full and swinging.

I let him.

Let him bury his face between them.

Then I rock.

Slow. Then faster.

I ride him with weight and rhythm.

He moans louder now.

Thrusting up into me.

His hands slide down my back, cup my ass.

One finger creeps lower--near my other opening.

I feel it. Shift. Stand. Turn.

Back to him now.

I grind back onto him--deeper.

I lean forward, hands on the stall door for balance.

Let my ass tilt up.

Let him see everything.

Smooth. Spread. Exposed.

I bounce.

Let him thrust.

Feel him twitch.

And then--

he comes.

Inside me.

I time it perfectly.

Almost pull out as he finishes.

Stay just a moment, then let him slide out completely.

I let it spill.

Thick. Warm.

Dripping over his boxers and jeans.

I stand.

Don't wipe.

Just reach down, yank my dress back into place in one motion.

Unlock the stall.

And walk out.

There's a small line outside.

A few people turn.

Catch a glimpse.

He's still on the toilet.

Shirt stained. Pants ruined.

My thong still in his mouth.

Someone laughs.

He fumbles to close the door.

Nearly trips trying to stand.

I never look back, just walk out.

I don't go straight home.

The club is still open behind me. Music bleeding through the brick. People spilling out onto the sidewalk--laughing, stumbling, smoking.

The whole street alive, like it doesn't want to let go.

I walk alone. My heels sharp against the pavement.

My thighs stick with every step--his cum still wet between them, warm, thick, smeared across my skin where I let it drip.

When I get home, I undress in silence.

No thong to peel off--it's still stuffed in his mouth.

I don't shower. I just slide under the covers.

Sticky between my legs. Full in my body.

And I sleep.

Part 3: The Note

Late afternoon, a couple of days later.

I move slow.

Coffee. No makeup. Bare under my coat. No plan.

But my feet drift without asking.

And soon--

I'm already walking toward the store.

I don't mean to go that way.

But my body knows the route before my mind decides.

They're both there.

I see them through the glass before they see me.

Man #1 is leaning on the counter, scrolling idly through his phone, jaw tight in that unreadable way of his.

Man #2 is slouched in a plastic chair, a bottle of something fizzy in his hand, his laugh mid-formed as his eyes flick up and meet mine through the glass.

He freezes.

Only for a second--but I catch it.

The subtle jolt. Like a chord snapping in a quiet song.

I step inside. The bell above the door gives its small, familiar chime.

Neither of them says anything right away.

I don't smile. Don't soften.

I walk straight up to the counter, place my hands flat on the surface, and say, calm and smooth:

"Can I get a pack of Marlboro Lights, please?"

My voice is neutral. Almost bored.

Like this is any other day. Like I'm any other woman.

Man #1 looks up. Nods.

He reaches behind him, grabs the pack, and rings it up.

I pay with cash. Counted. Folded.

As he hands over the change, I feel the silence behind me, where Man #2 still sits.

It presses gently between my shoulder blades.

I take the cigarettes. Turn.

And pause.

Then, without looking at Man #1, I glance sideways--straight at the one in the chair.

"Thanks for the other night," I say lightly. Like a passing joke. Something shared.

But I hold his gaze. Just long enough.

Long enough for the words to land.

For Man #1 to frown.

Not sharply. Just a tilt of the brow.

Curious. Weighing something.

Man #2 tries to return my gaze. Tries to match my poise. But the flush rising at his collar betrays him.

I know then.

He hasn't told.

The silence wraps around us all. Tight. Fragile.

Then I turn back toward the door, step out into the fading light, and walk away--slow, measured, like my heels know they're being watched.

I don't look back.

I don't need to.

---

That night, I don't undress.

I sit at the table, coat still on, thighs still sticky from memory.

I find a piece of paper.

And write:

> You seem to have misplaced my package again.

I'll stop by Friday. After closing.

One fold. No name. No signature.

Part 4: Their Cocks in My Hands

Friday arrives slow. The day stretches--elastic, deliberate--like it knows what waits on the other side. I work. I eat. I smile where I'm supposed to. Nod when needed. But everything feels heavier, like I'm moving underwater.

I can only think of one thing.

By late afternoon, I'm home. The envelope's been gone for days. No reply. No confirmation. Just silence. But silence doesn't scare me. It sharpens things. Clears the noise.

I light a candle. Fill a glass. The wine is dry, round, familiar. I sink into the chair by the window, legs bare, wearing nothing but a t-shirt--barely long enough to cover it. I smoke slowly. One cigarette. Then another. Time moves around me, not through me.

My mind drifts.

I imagine them reading the note. Their faces. Their glances. The tension passing between them.

Who opened it first? Who read it aloud? Did they speak, or just stare?

Does he know now--Man #1?

By eight-thirty I go to the bedroom. Open the closet. Slide past hangers until I find it: the yellow dress. Light. Airy. Almost too sweet.

I pair it with heels and stay-ups. It's cold out, but I don't wear anything underneath. I want them to see my intention before I say a word.

Makeup is slow. Foundation like breath. Mascara like memory. Lips painted a little warmer than usual--soft, but suggestive. Something between an invitation and a warning.

I check myself in the mirror. Not for approval. For alignment.

Yes. This is the version of me they deserve tonight.

At 9:45 I slip into my coat. Keys. Purse. Calm.

I walk without music. The street is colder now. Quieter. But I don't feel it.

At 9:58, I knock.

The door opens. Man #1. Just like before.

And just like last time, he steadies me with his left hand on my shoulder. Then the right glides down the line of my back. Slower. Searching.

There's nothing to find. Only skin.

His palm lingers at the base of my spine. Then pulls away.

"Back room," he says.

I walk past him. He follows.

Inside, Man #2 is already seated. Relaxed. Legs apart. Arms draped along the sides of his chair. Not posing. Not commanding. Just... ready.

There's a second chair beside him. I pass them both and walk to where I've been before--on my knees, on my elbows.

On the floor in front of me: a single tube of lube. A small box. Nothing else.

The setup feels ritual now. Rehearsed. They sit. I stand. All roles back in place.

But something's different. A shift I can't name yet.

--

I open the box. A blindfold. New. Cool silk. "Put it on," he says. "Then show yourself to us and kneel. Get yourself ready."

I obey. Slowly.

I lift the hem of the dress, then pull it over my head in one slow motion. Let it fall to the floor at my feet. I keep the heels and the stay-ups. The rest--I give away.

I turn, slow and deliberate. Show myself to them. I cup a breast. Let my hand trail down my side. Grip one cheek. Spread slightly as I rotate again. Not performing. Displaying. Declaring.

Then I slip the blindfold over my eyes. Darkness closes in--not empty, but full of breath, sound, presence. It sharpens everything.

I lower myself. Knees wide. Hands resting gently on my thighs.

And I begin. The way I like it. The way I get myself wet.

My hands move. Up over my stomach. Across my breasts. I squeeze them--hard--enough to make myself hiss. I drag my fingers down, over the curve of my waist, past my hips.

One hand circles back. Traces the sensitive skin behind. That first place that always wakes up. It brushes once, light. I moan.

I lean back just a little. A slap. Not hard--inner thigh. Then another. Closer. Then a third. Right over the center. One more. And another. Harder now. Until it's warm. Thrumming. Ready.

I let my hand settle there. Feel the heat rising beneath it. Then a finger. Just one. Sliding in. My body answers. I'm wet. Already. Fully. Not just from the act-- From the context.

Then--sounds. Familiar. But different. Zippers. Buttons. Fabric. Weight hitting the floor.

They're undressing. Both of them. That's new.

The rules begin to blur. I'm always the exposed one. That was the game. But now--they're joining me.

Before I can process it, I feel them. Hands. Two pairs. One soft. Curious. The other certain. Trained.

They roam me. Over shoulders. Down arms. Across my stomach. A palm cups my breast. Another slaps my ass--not to hurt. Just enough to claim. Then another one--this time to hurt.

They touch. They adjust. They test. They confuse me.

I don't speak. I don't need to see. I feel their rhythm and I try to read their intent.

Then--they stop. Close. Still. I sense their heat. Their scent. Their silence. Two bodies. Standing over me. Waiting.

I lift my hands. Let them explore.

I start at their feet. Ankles. Calves. My palms glide up slowly, deliberately, tracing muscle and skin. They shift their weight--nervous or eager, I can't tell. Doesn't matter. I keep going.

My hands move higher. Thighs. Inner thighs. I feel the tension there--tight, alert. My nails drag lightly along the inside, just enough to raise goosebumps. Just enough to make them breathe differently.

Then--heat. I cup them. Their balls, full and soft. Heavy in my hands. I weigh them, roll them, press my thumbs underneath. Their skin is smooth. Sensitive. My nails draw lazy, teasing lines across the seam, and one of them lets out a hiss through his teeth.

I shift lower, let my hands slide back, in between, until I reach it. I let my fingertip glide between the cheeks. Light. Testing.

Man #1 flinches. A sudden, rigid pull of his body--sharp, silent, guarded. Not panic. But not willing either. I don't push it. I let my hand drift past him. Grip his ass instead. A firm, full handful.

But Man #2--he reacts differently. His breath catches. A quiet sound, barely a sound at all. More sensation than voice. His knees shift. He sinks--not much, just a fraction. But I feel it.

He wants it.

I let my finger press. Slow. Focused. My fingertip slides between his cheeks, and enters him. Enough to make him tense, then melt. I feel him adjust for me.

Then I return to the front.

Their cocks are hard now. Heavy. Needy. I grab both. Wrap my hands around the shafts. Stroke once. Then again. My grip tightens. They twitch in response. I don't tease. I work them. Slow. Then faster. My wrists fall into rhythm, rougher now. Slick sounds. Deep breaths.

They groan--different notes of the same chord. And I don't let go.

Tonight--they're mine

----

Then one of them leans forward.

I feel a hand at the back of my head--steady, warm, guiding.

I open for him.

At first, it's measured. Soft pressure. A pace I can follow.

But the depth builds.

He presses deeper--intentional now, claiming space.

The rhythm tightens. Deeper. Harder. All the way in. Then all the way out, just to let me breathe.

He fucks my mouth slowly with a purpose. His cock slides across my tongue--wet, hot, thick. My lips stretch around him.

Saliva trails down my chin. Down over my breast. Warm. Wet. Purposeful.

I understand what he's doing.

Making me ready.

Preparing me.

After some time, he pulls out.

And doesn't return.

I breathe through parted lips. Jaw aching. Throat slick.

Then he slides lower.

He settles between my tits.

I don't need instruction.

I lift my hands. Press them together--squeeze his cock.

Trap him there. Let him fuck the soft valley of my chest.

Let my tongue slip out and flick across the tip when he rises toward me.

Taste him again.

But then--

Another set of hands.

Man #2.

His touch replaces mine--not forcefully, but fully.

His fingers press into my skin, cupping and shaping, holding me, holding him.

He steadies the other man's thrust with careful tension. Like a frame.

Like a guide.

I don't move.

The shift is small. But clear.

He's not just watching anymore.

He's helping.

He keeps me in place. Keeps the other man centered.

Letting his fingertips touch him while he's doing it.

Their movements syncing--his hands on my body, the other's cock between my breasts. I feel both of them at once.

And in that small exchange--something else happens.

Not dominance. Not surrender.

Coordination.

Trust.

A quiet choreography.

I don't know what it means yet.

But I know it matters.

---

He lets go of my breasts. The cock slips from between them. He takes a few steps back.