Page 54 of The Fed Sex Man

Tyson

Box in hand,I walked the length of Miss Everly’s driveway. As I bent down to set the object on the porch, the door swung open and two fuzzy gray slippers greeted me.

“Good morning,” she said in an exaggerated whisper.

The sound of her voice sent a tingling sensation along my spine. I dragged my eyes up the length of her Barbie-esque frame. She was wearing a pair of wine-colored designer sweatpants and a skin-tight ribbed white tank top, sans bra. Her hardened nipples distorted the thin fabric, commanding the attention of anyone who dared to be in her presence. After a lengthy pause at her oversized assets, I met her downward gaze.

“I’ve been so anxious for this delivery.” She looked me up and down. “Do you have time for a glass of tea?”

I handed her the box. “I should really—”

“I’m going to stop asking if you don’t accept.” She gave the most provocative of innocent looks. “One glass won’t hurt.”

I’d screwed so many women during the workday that I’d been reprimanded for it on two separate occasions. My new route was assigned to me as a last-ditch effort to reform me into a less sexually active – and a far more devoted – FedEx employee. So far, the only changes I’d seen was a new selection of available tits and ass.

I had no desire to disrupt my busy schedule for nothing more than a glass of tea. My intentions were sexual, and she needed to know it. “If I come in, we’re going to be busy for a lot longer than ten minutes.”

“There’s something in this box that may excite you.” She gestured toward the winding stairway behind her. “Follow me, please.”

Curious about the contents of the box, I stepped inside the spacious home and followed her up the ornate staircase.

Tightly wound tendrils of platinum blond hair danced with each step. Her pronounced manner of sashaying caused her ass to shake from side to side in a hypnotic manner. Her intentions were clear. This wasn’t her first rodeo. Mouthing the words to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, I fixed my eyes on her velour-clad tush and followed her up the stairs.

Upon reaching the upper landing, she turned toward an open bedroom door. She was all business. I liked that quality in a woman.

She promenaded to a dresser at the far end of the room and placed the box on top of it. She turned around and parted her ruby red lips ever so slightly. Marilyn Monroe. She looked like a Marilyn fucking Monroe.

Only better.

She was sultrier.

“I want you to treat me like a whore,” she breathed in a raspy tone.

I’d spent my entire childhood convinced of two things: dreams didn’t come true and prayers were never answered. The curvaceous vixen facing me was clear proof that I was dead wrong.

If she was the filthy slut that I suspected she was, there was no need for small talk.

“Get on your knees,” I growled. “I’m going to choke you with a mile of cock.”

She fell to her knees. Without an ounce of expressed grace, she ripped off her shirt and tossed it aside. She began massaging her massive boobs. Light moans followed. The kneading of her flesh became more aggressive, as did the sounds that escaped her lips.

Desire shot through my veins like liquid fire.

With my eyes glued to the show, I fumbled to unbuckle my belt. Upon shoving my hand in my boxers, I realized I was as limp as a freshly cooked noodle.

What the fuck?

In my sexual travels I’d been with spontaneous sirens like the one before me. I’d coerced college coeds to copulate. I’d had hanky-panky with horny housewives. I’d tickled the twats of twins. One thing I’d never had to deal with, however, was the dreaded dangly dick.

I looked at it, and then at her.

With her chin up and her eyes fixed on mine, she parted her collagen enhanced lips. “I’m such a dirty whore,” she murmured. “Use me up. Cover me in your come. I want to bathe in it.”

At that moment, the only thing I could have used her for was getting me a tissue to wipe my tears. Since meeting Jo, I’d suffered a three-minute lackluster performance and one inability to perform entirely.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.