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From: PleaseCain@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Delivery Piping Hot (MM) by PleaseCain 
Date: Sat, 30 Dec 2000 10:10:05 -0500
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SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY.
Copyright 2000 PleaseCain@aol.com -- Commercial use prohibited without 
author's consent. Removal of this notice in any case is prohibited.


Delivery Piping Hot
by PleaseCain@aol.com

Papa likes lots of meat on his pie.  Double pepperoni, sausage too.  I make 
sure I have something good for him.

Even the first time, on a dusky Sunday amid the television's blaring, his 
grin told how happy he was to see me.  Eyes and lips twinkled in a bushy red 
beard as he stepped aside and beckoned with a sweep of the hand.  Sundays are 
slow, so I brushed by with his order.

While my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I asked where to leave . . . but the 
question caught in my throat when I saw him eyeing me from the doorway.  With 
a beefy hand on my shoulder, he nudged gently forward.

 From the kitchen to the livingroom, we moved among stacks of books and papers 
and the obscene shouting of a football game on TV.  He hiked his trousers and 
sat in a worn plaid recliner, extracting a twenty from his pocket.  I shifted 
the pie to one hand to fish for change, but he shook me off and bade me open 
the box.

With nowhere to place the pizza, I knelt and pulled the carton from the 
insulator.  He took a piece, a steaming bite, and urged me to join him, so I 
took a corner piece to make him happy.

He grabbed another slice, but instead of eating, he held it for me to bite, 
right there in front of my face.  OK, I took a bite, a big, full-face bite.  
Delighted, he gobbled a mouthful of his own, then held the crust playfully to 
my lips until I obliged and sucked it from his fingers.  He chortled--I 
actually heard him over the TV--and selected another cheese-heavy piece, 
lowering the drooping tip to his tongue. 

We ate happily (hadn't I already pocketed a handsome tip?), me kneeling 
beside his chair, until he removed my delivery cap and pulled it over his 
shaggy red head.  Hey--I started to protest, but he lay a solid mitt on my 
head.  Broad fingers scruffled my hair and he beamed over his hat and his 
food and his delivery boy.  His eyes said, "Have more, please, beautiful 
boy," his eyes said he knew.

Yes, Papa, I'll do what you say.

He patted his thighs for me to sit and feed him, warmed by a treetrunk arm 
around my stomach and cognac breath on my neck.  The pie became smaller and 
his smile larger, with beardtickles on my cheeks and thrums upon my nipples.  
But once finished, he became a rumbling mountain, shifting beneath me, rising 
from his chair.  The cap tumbled to the floor and I scrambled for balance or 
anything solid, felt my pants and underwear bundled around my ankles, so 
exposed before him, his heat on my bare bottom, his hand on the small of my 
back.  I waited.  The cap was replaced on my head . . . that's when I felt 
him.

He was big, like a fist against my little button.  His fingers kneaded my 
hips, prompting me to catch my breath while his fat girth settled on my 
virgin hole.  He wouldn't let go, just pushed forward, deeper, until my thin 
body gripped him like latex.  He held me like that, on the end of his prod, 
his hands stroking my belly, relaxing me, preparing the ground.  Like a 
scared rabbit I hugged the glowing warmth of the television while it screamed 
carpeting commercials in my ear and the hard pylon bored me wider and 
ticklish tight with friction.  The whole room rocked with his pumping--oh, 
how he made me his!--and the titles stuffed helter-skelter in the bookcase 
awakened and danced before my eyes: Ericson, Kierkegaard, his grip tightening 
like a vise, Jung, Levinas, his spade head pitching heat against my pink 
rectum, Freud, Popper, hot milk cum splashing my raw deep-inside flesh, 
bleating "oh, Papa, Papa, stop," knowing he couldn't hear me, holding my 
asscheeks apart for him even when he was done with me.

Outside, in the hallway, while I tucked my shirt, I heard the yelling.  Muted 
though it was through the door, I discerned the shrill oaths of a woman, 
surfacing through lulls in the televised babble like an orange buoy in 
iron-gray stormwaves.  No voice answered her ranting.  I listened, wondering 
what he sounded like, but nothing.

On the ride back, my ears rang, my vision was sharp and clear, and the crisp 
leafy air tickled my freshly fucked ass, remnants of my extraordinary meeting 
with Papa.

Papa called late Sundays.  He was always my last stop.

The door would wheeze open enough for me to step past Papa into the shadows 
and the shouting of his television.  In my delivery cap and shirt, electric 
orange and blue, I'd stand above him in his recliner while he ate with one 
hand and stroked my prick in the other.  He petted it like a bird, its head 
peeking through the dangling hem of rayon.  When it grew its largest, Papa 
drew away and polished my ass with the flat of his hand, grunting with 
admiration as his red bird bobbed for his attentions.  Finally, his hand slid 
to the small of my back and he rose, guiding me through the rubble of books 
and papers to my place, that only available spot at the bookcase, where I 
grasped the shelves and that hand was replaced by something more ominous 
still.  It was fat, that monster, but Papa nudged it inside his boy.  Amidst 
the chaos I let go, whining deliciously as I wriggled and fit my entire body 
around a pecker as hard and wide as one of those books.  Once inside, he 
pounded me hard, my arms and legs flopping in that earthquake like a 
puppet's, and I would quite literally hold on to my hat: he insisted I wear 
it each time he fucked me.

When I had gathered my clothes about me, Papa would show me out, and I 
lingered at the door.  Through awkward gaps in an Olson twins rerun I would 
hear the woman's jagged yammering, before it was swallowed again within the 
racket spilling to the cold darkened hallway, echoing from the walls, and 
never did I hear my Papa.

So, now, you'll understand that it is not with a little trepidation that I am 
ringing at that familiar door now, early enough to watch dust motes 
descending on what I finally see is mauve carpeting.  I buzz again and the 
cacophony of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom evaporates to eerie silence.  I 
shift uneasily, ready to bolt, as footsteps approach.  The deadbolt clacks, 
the handle turns. 

Papa appears, glowing as ever.  I stand unmoving, until he pulls me in by the 
pizzabox, so to speak--takes it from me and guides me through the kitchen, 
our shoes squeaking on the acrylic floor.

The bedroom door is opened, and a gold chevron of daylight streams through 
Venetian blinds to the carpet.  And in the living room my eyes confirm what I 
can't believe from my ears alone: the conspicuous silence, the windows 
reflected on the darkened face of the television.  

He pats his lap and I hop aboard like the first time we met, now relaxed and 
feeding my Papa until he purrs with a big belly and my clothes lay beside his 
chair.  I am curling against his chest, inhaling his scent through the woolly 
sweater while his big arms smother me, patting my bottom.  He holds me 
motionless while one finger, two fingers, three fingers fuck into my butt.

Through veils of sleep, still catching my breath, a sonorous voice in my ear, 
lolling and deep as a hillock, "Sleep, Little, your work is done," and I sigh 
knowing I'll be donning my uniform many times more.



Cain's stories may be found at http://members.aol.com/pleasecain

deirdre's stories are archived at Transom: http://members.aol.com/deirarchiv

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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