1. Beef with Broccoli


    Date: 2/12/2016, Categories: Fiction, Blowjob, Erotica, Written by women, Author: CandyXLove, Rating: 92.9, Source: sexstories.com

    "Swords into plowshares," he mutters to himself, then turns and fixes his crazy china blue eyes right on me and snarls. "Plowshares into swords." A mechanical buzz behind me makes me jump in my nest of pillows. I've seen this movie a dozen times, it rarely makes me so jumpy. Feeling foolish, I go to the intercom and answer the call. "Wong's Wok delivery for Nine F?" The voice sounds like the sexy, young baritone from when I ordered, if he were calling from the bottom of the Hudson on a tin can and a string. "Come on up," I hit the button that opens front door, then add, "I'm really sorry, but I think the elevator is broken." I hang up the intercom before I can hear if the string of curses that's likely to produce are in English, Mandarin, or something else. Nine flights of stairs. Even if he's in good shape, that should take about three minutes. In my fantasy, he's in very good shape. I have a little time to keep playing this dumb but highly entertaining game. I pull my hair out of its braid so it floats across my shoulders in exaggerated waves. I dig through my purse for the bright red lip gloss I haven't worn since a go-nowhere date a few months ago. No time for anything else. I smack my sticky lips together in the mirror and adjust my tank top to show a little more cleavage. Look out, Wong's Wok delivery guy, I'm looking good. I laugh. He's probably fifty and looks like a greasy accountant. He's probably seventeen. He's knocking on the door, so I open it. Oh, no. No, ...
    he's not old and he's not comically young. He's also not short and thick, the way he was in my fantasy. He's a full head taller than me and has an easy elegance to his limbs that makes me think of a soccer player. His hair is long enough that he's got it pulled back in a ponytail, black and silky like what you hope conditioner is going to do to your hair where you're staring at the bottle in the drugstore. Is...is that a Sleater-Kinney t-shirt he has on under his down jacket? I planned on leaning one arm against the door frame and tilting my head winsomely if the delivery guy was even a little attractive but I'm so shocked by the full, perfect curve of his lower lip against the hard line of his jaw that my sexy lean turns out to be more of an unsteady thump. He looks surprised, too, probably by the fact that I am an incredible dork. He checks the ticket stapled to the paper bag in his hands. "Number thirty-seven, beef with broccoli?" "Yes, that's me. Mine." "Okay, then, if you can just sign this for me..." he pulls a slip of paper off the bag and looks at it before he holds his hand out. "...Lindsay?" "Yes, pleased to meet you. And you are Mister...?" I smile and shake his hand, my social training taking over for my frozen brain so I'm talking to him like I would a new student's dad. I realize too late that he wasn't reaching for a handshake, he was handing me my credit card authorization slip. "Wong," he shakes, my hand, confused but rolling with it. "Jay Wong." I take the ...
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