Delivering Christa Pt. 01

"Soup's on the stove, hon," Christa sang as I emerged from the garage to a busy kitchen. "Help yourself."

Just the thing for a cool October morning, not quite lunch.

"I made some grilled cheese sandwiches," Christa said, and she drifted by, laundry in one hand, Tonka truck in the other. "I'd stop to eat with you, but as you can see...," and she was gone.

I washed up in the kitchen sink while Chris wasn't looking. What she didn't know, and all. Five layers of grease from the car, plus some metal shavings and rash from the bench grinder. The price of home projects. I was careful not to bleed on her hand towels and settled at the table for a snack.

Chris blew by, opposite direction, empty laundry basket and a pair of my shoes. I had no idea where those were headed. "Soup good?" she asked, but wasn't there to hear the reply. She reminded me of a freight train with just a few cars and a lot of speed. No stepping in her path.

There was a time. Just before we married until about a year after, there was a time when I'd have stepped in her path, swept her off her feet, dragged her to bed without a hint of complaint on her part. We were in love. New. Fresh. Not like now.

Chris passed again and I caught her wrist, pulled her close by the waist, kissed her belly because sitting, I only came up past her waist, and she was gone. Not even the lips. That's where we'd ended up: the comfort of a married graveyard, where passion didn't so much go to die as it sunk into a comfortable quicksand and didn't ever move again.

"How's the car coming?" She called over her shoulder.

"Okay," I replied. "New battery, changed the starter motor and brakes. Got the oil draining, and I'm throwing an alternator on it, while I'm there, along with belts." I always did belts if I had to pull anything attached to them. Water pump, compressor, alternator, power steering. Belts were cheap insurance. Never had one break.

"Thanks honey," Christa stopped on the next pass for a real kiss. She didn't offer a tongue.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Stuff," she replied. "Always short two hands and an hour. Or is it two hours and a hand? I can't ever remember."

"What time do the kids get home?" I asked.

"Three," she said, as though I should know. I should, if I didn't work late every night.

That left two hours. "Wanna fool around?" I asked.

Chris rolled her eyes. "Oh, how would it be, to have the time?"

"Let's find out," I suggested. "Let's make some time."

"Time I take now is stuff I make up when the kids get home. That's stress, hon," she said. "What did you have in mind."

"Something that won't take a lot of time?" I suggested.

"That's easy," she replied. "You should be done in five minutes, right?"

I reddened a bit at her dig, but what do the sailors say? Any port in a storm? "Tops," I replied.

"Gotta make it worth my time, sailor. Five minutes isn't romance, or much of a warm-up."

"Ten?" I suggested.

"Hmmm. I wanna see you at full mast," she grinned. "You float my boat, and maybe I'll blow your sails."

"Hard rudder amidships, hon. I'll go down bubble three degrees, then put a torpedo in the water."

"Oh, you know how to talk to a girl," Chris said. "You know all the right things. Fine. Sink my battleship."

We didn't often do innuendo or sex banter. We'd gotten far too comfortable, far too soon in our marriage. I thought so, anyway. If we went to counseling, Chris would have been all about me not listening enough, and I'd have been the stereotypical not-enough-sex guy. We had it, infrequently, but I never seemed to blow up her skirt, and she never seemed a tempest. Not anymore. We needed some spark.

"Maybe we can play a game," I said. I didn't have a game plan in mind.

"Like what?" Christa called my bluff.

Think fast, Mark. "Ah, well, how about you be the bored housewife, and I'll be the delivery guy with a big package."

"Do you have a big package for me?" Chris asked.

I sighed. Was it too late to throw in a reference to motion of the ocean and downplay the size of the boat? "Gotta sign for it, to see," I shot back.

"If we're gonna do this," Chris said, "we better get on with it. I need to shower."

"Please don't," I said.

"Hmmm. Then you need to shower. You're not coming in from the garage and getting on me," she said. "I need to change.

"Tell you what," I offered. "Just answer the doorbell in fifteen minutes."

Christa studied me for a moment, a crinkle at the corner of her eye beneath an arched brow, and the slightest hint of a smile at the corners of her upturned lips. "Deal," she said. "Now go, degrease."

Christa disappeared upstairs and I hit the guest bath below. No sense spoiling the game by sharing the same space while we readied. Truth be, we didn't do role playing, but I couldn't think of anything else, so I made a hail-mary, and Christa caught it. I managed to pull off a shower and shave in record time and find a summer coverall in the hall closet to slip on, commando beneath. I shuffled out the front door, thankful our quiet street bore no peering eyes. I waited a few minutes, and rang the bell. I nearly rang again, when Chris latched the chain, and opened the door a crack.

"Yes?" she said.

"Ma'am? I have a delivery for Mrs. Christina Sebastian. Is she home?" I tried to sound professional.

"Do you have some ID?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, I don't, but if you can let me inside, perhaps I can convince you who I am," I replied.

"I suppose it won't hurt, but don't take long. My husband will be home soon."

"Don't worry," I said, "I'll be fast."

"Not too fast," Christa replied. "If I wanted fast, I'd wait for my husband."

I reddened again as Chris opened the door and I slipped inside. While I'd improvised a costume, Christ wore a pink teddy with lace and a snap-crotch, one I bought her two anniversaries ago. It fit well, albeit perhaps a tad small. French-cut, it was far more lace than solid, designed to tease. It worked.

"What did you bring me today?" my wife asked.

"I brought a package for you," I said. I wished I'd grabbed a clipboard, and perhaps a box.

"Is it a big one?" She glanced at my waist. Without anything to restrain me, my eagerness showed.

"I can't say, ma'am. I have to apologize, though. I spilled something on my uniform," I said, not entirely untrue. The jumpsuit was thin, and I feared I might leak through.

"Maybe you should take it off, then," Chris said. "I'll have my husband clean it up for you." I wasn't sure I heard her right. That sounded like a shot across my bow.

"Can you sign for it?" I asked.

"Maybe," Chris replied. "I'll have to see if it's damaged, first. It better be worth my while." She unzipped my coverall and my cock flopped out, as majestic as it was going to get. Her face flashed with anticlimax. "It's definitely bigger than my husband's," she said, dimples betraying her smile as a droplet appeared at my dickhead. "You like hearing that, I see."

Chris slapped me gently, and I quivered, then slapped it harder. "Maybe intact after all," she said. "I don't have a pen. You'll have to come upstairs with me to find one."

I peeled away the jumpsuit, jaybird-naked, unable to rip my gaze from her tits.

"As you wish, ma'am," I said. We drifted upstairs, she in the lead, and I a pace behind. More like led, I suppose, as she held fast my testicles and tugged gently as we ascended the beige carpeted stairs. I watched her ass sway as she sashayed. It was hypnotic.

"My husband won't be home for hours," Chris said. "Do you have a lot of deliveries left?"

"You're actually the last one on my list today," I said. "I have no other plans."

Chris slipped into the master bathroom. "I can't find a pen," she said. "Perhaps I can find another way to convince you that I'm the right place to deliver that package?"

I glanced at our bed, freshly made, throw-pillows arranged neatly, as though that's how our bed normally was. Far from it. I left our bedroom door open, a luxury in a house with kids, when the best we often managed was a quite quickie muffled by the TV turned up too loud.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked.

"It just sucks that I don't have a pen," Christa said. "But I can."

"You can, what?" I asked.

"Suck," Chris replied as she sunk to her knees. "May I?"

"Yes, ma'am, you certainly may," I said. Character or not, who was I to say no to that? I jumped when Christa took my balls in her hand, a shot of electricity through the tip of my cock as her lips touched. A gossamer string of wet arched between her lips and my leaking shaft as she smiled at me.

"Nice dick," she said. "I wish my husband had one."

I reddened, and stiffened, embarrassed.

"Hmmm," Christa purred. "Music to someone's ears." She slipped her lips over my cock so smoothly and sensuously that I held the bedframe, with a gasp. "Music to my ears, too."

Christa and I didn't talk sex much, certainly not a lot during, when we had it, which was seldom. We didn't role-play, either, but she seemed into it, which was fine. More than fine, really. She squeezed my balls. She'd never done that before. A wave crashed upward like a warm, dirty tide, titillating, but nauseating, too, and my knees gave, snatching my cock out of her lips.

"Oh, I have to try that again," she laughed.

"Maybe some other time, I groaned.

"No, I think now," she said. "Stand up, you pussy."

I glared at her, but she didn't blink, and much of a struggle as encouraging our sex life was, no way would I impede her flow. Small price to pay for some action with my wife. I stood, awkwardly, as she took my dick in her hand and in her lips once more. I shut my eyes and sighed, then yelped and groaned again. Christa squeezed my balls, this time tighter, dropping me to my knees.

"Ope!" she cackled. "Was that too much? Sorry, honey, but," she laughed, "that's funny. You want it again?"

"No," I croaked. "Let's just keep going."

"Maybe you should lay down, Mr. deliveryman," Christa whispered as she led me to the edge of the bed. I don't think I can let you drive like this. Let me see if I can find a way to make you feel all better."

That sounded good to me "Do you have any condoms, ma'am?"

"Oh, I don't think we'll need them," Chris said. "I have some in the drawer there, but those are for my husband."

What the hell? Wasn't there a fine line between cute and offense? Still, I loved hearing Christa talk dirty. "I'm sure there will be a big mess," I said.

"My husband won't notice," Chris grinned. "He never does."

I perched on my elbows and stared at her in the dim bedroom light. A little too far, maybe? Still, dirty talk. "In that case, I'm gonna fill you up," I said.

"Drown me," Christa replied, "but first, fuck me senseless." She didn't need to ask twice. I couldn't hold out any longer.

"Do you need some lube?"

"Uh-uh," she said. "I'm soaked."

Yes. Progress. I did that. I made my wife wet. "Well," I mused, "are you ready to feel things in ways your husband couldn't possibly make you feel?"

"I'm so ready for that," Chris moaned. "I'm tired of faking it."

"What?" I asked.

Christa blanched, her eyes wide. "Huh? Uh, roll playing, honey. You know, you can take me there though, right?"

"Right," I said. "Let's go 'there,' where ever 'there' is."

"Come on, Mr. delivery man, fuck my married pussy while my husband is away."

I wasn't sure why Christa had to go there. Wasn't the mid-day chance encounter with the delivery guy enough? Why did it have to be about doing it behind my back?

Whatever. Christa wanted sex, and that was good enough. More than good enough, really. "I'm gonna have my way with you, ma'am,"

"Ma'am is my grandmother," Christa said. "Maybe something else?"

"Like what?"

"Something naughty," she said. "Something dirty. Something I wouldn't let you call me."

"I'm gonna have my way with you, bitch," I said. She didn't bother to hide her infectious grin.

"Very good," she said. "Ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Who's your bitch, of course," Chris hissed. "Ask."

"Ah, ma'am, who is my bitch." It came out awkward, like a script.

"I am, Mr. deliverman. I'm your bitch."

"That's right," I growled. "Whose bitch are you?"

"I'm Mr. deliverman's bitch," Christa repeated. "Fuck your bitch, sir."

I'd never heard Christa talk like that. Not since we dated, certainly not since we married. It was edgy, erotic. A little disturbing, too, and yet, her words egged me on.

"Bend over," I said.

"Please, sir," Christa begged, "lay there, and let me impale myself on your big cock. Can I do that?"

Of course she could do that. Every day. Twice a day. Maybe three times. "Yes, bitch," I replied, uncomfortable as hell getting the words out. Christa hated that term. She never swore, talked in generics and plain-jane words. For Chris, 'pussy' was trash talk. Cock? The words would never pass her lips. I was surprised mine had gone there. But 'bitch' seemed to charge her batteries. Seemed to charge mine, too.

Christa mounted me, one knee each side of my stomach as I unsnapped her teddy. She wasn't lying: her soaked pussy left my fingers shiny in the the open bathroom door light. I held my dick in my right hand and traced the folds of her pussy to wet it, as she lowered herself onto me. I slipped inside her with such ease that I thought I'd missed, until her grin split ear to ear and she sighed. "Oh," she moaned, "You're so much harder and thicker than my hubby."

I nearly came when she said it.

Chris began riding my cock, rising up on her knees until I nearly fell out of her, then impaling herself again, slowly at first, then slamming into me as her breath quickened. She kneaded her breasts in each fist and rolled her head, her hair an eruption about her, and she moaned. "That's it, daddy."

Daddy? What?

I couldn't get much angle, no thrust, though I badly needed to drive into my wife and fuck her back. Still, her warm wet encasing me right to my balls made my toes curl and I let her go, her breasts bouncing with each stroke. I'd never seen her behave like that.

"You're gonna flood my cunt aren't you, sir? Fill me up all the way, Mr. deliveryman. Go balls deep. Drive that cock in your little bitch."

Aghast, I watched her go, part in the moment and part remote spectator, observing my wife fuck someone else. I'd never experienced her like this.

"Take it all," I said. "Are you on the pill?"

Christa opened her eyes and cocked her head, a lopsided grin that tugged at the laugh lines by her lips. "No," she whispered. "Is that a problem?"

"What if I put a baby in you?" I growled.

"Fuck a baby in me," she cried out, on the edge. I knew that tone. Christa was coming. She bounced once, twice, and screamed, "fuuuuuuckkk mmmmeeee," before she doubled her pace then stopped at once. She gripped me hard with her knees and buried herself on me, pressing her pussy against my balls. She shook, her head nodded and bucked, and her legs trembled. I couldn't remember her orgasm like this. Christa's breath caught, she gasped, and fell forward against my chest, shaking. I hadn't yet come.

"How was that?" I whispered in her ear.

"Oh, my God," she whispered back.

"I'm not done with you, bitch," I said. "My turn now."

Christa gazed at me, face to face and feigned wide-eyed innocence. "What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm gonna fuck you doggie style." I said.

"Up the ass?" Chris gasped.

"Uh, no, I mean, from behind," I said. "You know, put a pillow or two under you, lay on top, hump, like that."

"Oh, okay," she sighed. "I guess that's okay. Do you want me on my belly?"

I rolled my wife over, taking an appreciative moment to admire her bare figure, slick and wet at her inner thigh. I slipped a thick decorative throw pillow beneath her hips, and slapped her ass.

"Don't mess up my pillow," Chris warned.

"Quiet bitch," I snapped.

"Watch it."

"Yes, honey, sorry." I slipped between her knees and lay, my cock along her ass. I rolled my hips as seductively as I dared.

"Not in there," Chris said. "You can fuck me, though."

I kissed the back of her neck, rocked, and slipped into her with a single thrust. She balled the blanket in her fists and spoke past her shoulder through clenched teeth.

"Don't be nice and don't go slow."

I didn't need more inspiration than that, and began pounding my wife like I did on our wedding night, but hungrier, no inhibition.

"Load me up, Mr. delieryman. Fuck a baby into my married cunt before my husband gets home. "

Whatever. I didn't care. I would fuck her, hard, and for her part, Christa pushed back as much she could beneath me, panting to my grunts, as I edged closer, and she came again. Sweat trickled down my forehead and her shoulder tasted of salt and sex. When I came after her, I lost control and thrust so hard that I nearly knocked her off the pillow. She cried out and clawed at the duvet, fueling my final, second wind. I thrust again and again until I was too spent and too soft to stay inside. I struggled to catch my breath.

"Oh, honey, I mean daddy delivery dude, you were wonderful," Chris sang. We have to do this again, but my husband will be here any minute."

I rolled off her and lay face up as the room slowed to a steady spin. Do it again? Some other day? Absolutely.

"Go now," Chris hissed, shoving. Seriously? "Go."

I got it. Out the door, come back in as me. Finish the role-play. No problemo. "Thanks for the ride, bitch," I said.

"That's enough," Christa said. "Don't call me that."

The honeymoon was over. I slipped out the door and waited a thirty count before calling, "Honey, I'm home." I sidled through the bedroom door as though nothing had happened and stopped at the sight of my freshly-fucked wife laying disheveled on our untidy bed. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, honey, welcome home,," Christa purred. "I'm been thinking about you all afternoon, and I need you now. Come make love to me."

Sorry, once was my limit. "I don't know if I can," I began, but Christa cut me off.

"I need your fabulous tongue, baby," she said. "Come lick me now."

I wasn't sure about that, but I drew near the bed, still naked, our make-believe on a thin string. "I don't know if I can do that," I said.

"You can, and you will," Christa said. "You owe me."

"I owe you?" I rubbed my eyes. "How?"

"I made your fantasy come true, now come do me," she said.

"What fantasy was that?" I asked. I thought it was just sex.

"The one where your beautiful wife cheats on you with the delivery guy," Christa said.

"You thought that was my fantasy?" I asked. That explained a lot. "Where did you get an idea like that?"

Christa shook her head, the weary look of a woman exercising patience with a child. I knew that look. It was the 'I-know-something-that-you-don't' look. "From you, stupid. You can lie about it, but your dick doesn't."

At once, I became painfully aware of my nudity. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're telling me that it wouldn't turn you on to see me reeling in the throws of sexual bliss, as some guy fucks me? You don't want to watch your wife orgasm and writhe and cry out with passion?"

"I like watching you come, honey," I said, "but I have no interest in seeing you with someone."

"You can watch me come all day," Christa gushed, "and I may see to it that you do, but you have something else going on under the sheets, don't you?"

I studied Christa. The buzz and the romance and the zip went flat. What was her number here? Why? Where was she going? "I have no idea what you mean," I said.

"So, you're saying if I told you some guy just fucked me and I was still shaking and I wanted to tell you about it, you'd say no?" Chris paused, but I said nothing. "If I said my pussy was full of white spunk, running down my leg, and I want you to fuck me, you'd say no?" Definitely a trap. "You don't have to say anything," she laughed. 'Look!"