The Virgin Delivery Girl Teases

My very first job was at a bakery on the outskirts of the city, not a little artisan patisserie but a massive industrial edifice that was organised like a military operation. Three o'clock in the morning I had to wake up and catch a bus, along with a handful of other ghostly figures going to their own ghastly employments; the journey took a long, meandering tour through every minor suburb you've never heard of before delivering me to Harringtons (I know, I told them at the job interview that Harringtons ought to have an apostrophe but that still didn't put them off me). As I stepped off the bus at this god-forsaken time it was only me and the urban foxes who were going about our business.

Once inside the high fences crowned with razor-wire, I'd join the elite band of bleary-eyed zombies trudging reluctantly to one of a dozen squat, ugly buildings. My reluctant labour was to clean and then sort bread tins. Scrub them, rinse them, air-blast them, stack them and repeat. For eight hours. For fifty years. Then retire and die. One guy had been there for fifteen years, scrubbing, rinsing, drying and stacking and I'm convinced he'd been driven certifiably mad.

When the opportunity came to apply for a job in deliveries I jumped at it like a hungry lioness. For the interview I subdued my sarcasm to such a degree that they actually believed I enjoyed working at Harringtons, that delivering Harringtons' baked goods would be a young girl's dream come true, that I'd proudly serve up Harringtons' wonderful products to bring joy to the world. Oh thank you for this opportunity, sir, I won't let you down, sir. Shall I bow down and kiss your shoes now, sir?

Next monday I woke up at six (blissful six, magnificent six) and dragged my ass down to the bakery for a seven o'clock start. I was directed to the outgoing depot, had a chat with a condescending prick who was my new manager and was then directed to a van. I stood outside this empty van for ten minutes until a woman walked past, pushing a huge trolley loaded with loaves, and told me that 'Larry was over behind the shed'. I walked over to the small building she'd gestured to and found a bunch of lounging drivers, using old broken crates as make-shift chairs, smoking and drinking coffee.

"Um, Larry?" I asked the congregation of skivers.

I felt very self-conscious as ten pairs of eyes all looked up to scrutinise the idiot who'd dared interrupt their recreation. After the toned-down version of myself I had presented at my job interview I had now reasserted my full goth: knee-high black (New Rock) boots, black laddered pantyhose, layered black lace skirts and band patches sewn on my jacket. My face was powdered pale, my eyes were shadowed as dark as a skeleton's and my lips were painted in blueberry purple lipstick. I felt their eyes burning into me. I couldn't have looked more out of place if I'd had three heads and a tail.

A man stood up from a game of checkers and ambled over to me. He looked me over very blatantly and then smiled. He was tall, fit and wrinkled in a 'I climb Himalayan mountains at the weekend' kinda way. I was too young to accurately guess his age (everyone over thirty just slotted into the 'ancient' category) but, thinking back, I'd put him in his late-sixties. He had an open, friendly face and, despite my practised sour-faced gothness, I found myself returning his smile.

"I'm Jinny," I said and held out my hand.

"Loaded the van?" he asked, gently shaking my hand.

"Oh, I, er, no-one's shown me what to do."

"Course they haven't. Useless twats. C'mon."

He waved goodbye to his buddies, lead me across the courtyard that was filled with the hustle-bustle of trolleys whizzing about and began my first lesson in how to get away with doing as little as feasibly possible.

*******

I immediately took to Larry, his easy-going, work-shy attitude suited my own don't-give-a-shit-ness. We drove through the city, dropping off various orders, big and small. Once he'd shown me what to do, he stuck to the driving and let me do all the donkey-work. On a long drive out to a rural store, he questioned my gothic style, asking what I eat, drank, watched and listened to. He was cheeky and flirtatious.

"Those ladders in your hose," he said, out of the blue, "Are they real or an affectation to draw lecherous old men's eyes up your perfect legs?"

I blushed and tugged down my layered skirts over my thighs. I was blushing because he'd caught me out. All my nylon tears had been carefully designed with a surgeon's precision. He flashed me a cheeky smile and I returned it. He was an ageing Lothario and he was very charming. Boys my age were either dumb-ass arrogant or painfully shy, both ends of the spectrum completely inept at making me feel like the gloriously sexual woman I was becoming (or longing to become, given half a chance); they'd barely advanced beyond pulling my pig-tails in the playground and yet here was a confident, experienced, masculine figure complimenting my legs. It was alarmingly enjoyable to be under his libidinous gaze.

Mondays were always busy, he told me, but the rest of the week shouldn't be so hard. I was relieved to hear this, by the late afternoon I'd walked for miles seemingly and my poor feet were aching. I unbuckled my chogger goth-boots and leaned back in the passenger seat to put my burning feet up on the dash.

"You don't mind, do you?" I said, wiggling my nylon-clad sweaty tootsies.

"Not at all," he grinned and then sniffed audibly, "I thought for a minute there I'd left one of my cheese sandwiches out in the sun."

I chuckled and closed my eyes. After all those early mornings, I hadn't yet adjusted to my new schedule. I conked out. When a bump woke me I realised I still had one foot up on the dash but the other had dropped, leaving my legs spread wide open. I was flashing my pantyhose gusset at my new colleague. I sat up, adjusting my clothes in a semblance of decency, to notice that we were pulling into the Harringtons depot.

"Shit," I said, worried, "I must've dozed off for minute."

"More like an hour," Larry grinned, "Don't fret, I know it's hard coming off the graveyard shift back to daylight hours. Though you vampires probably prefer the night, don'tcha?"

"You won't tell the manager will you?"

Larry gave me a dirty look, as if I'd somehow insulted him.

"Of course not," he said, "We're partners ain't we? Anyhow it gave me an excuse to take a leisurely look up your skirt while you were asleep."

"Larry!"

"Only joking, only kidding."

"Oh. Good."

"There's no possible way I could know, for example, that goths don't wear panties under their hose."

"Larry!"

"And I'm pleased to note that young ladies are once again favouring the full bush."

"Larry!"

I punched his arm while he laughed at my reaction. He reversed into his allocated spot like an expert then showed me how to stack the empty crates up high and where to wheel the teetering tower. We swept out the van and were finally done for the day.

"Well, see ya tomorrow, kid, when we'll do it all again."

He went to walk off but I caught his sleeve.

"Larry? Um, you'll probably want to tell all your buddies about me embarrassing myself, falling asleep and showing you my... crotch and everything, but I'd rather you didn't."

I could see I was asking him to ditch a very entertaining story, the dilemma was writ across his features. In the end, he decided to be as lovely as his face.

"No, I won't. If you don't want me to."

"I don't wanna be laughed at."

"No, sure, it'll be our secret. My own private, treasured memory."

"Thank you, Larry."

I leaned in and kissed his cheek. I smiled at him through my awkward relief and went to catch my bus.

*******

That night I had some extremely erotic dreams about this man more than forty years my senior. When I woke I couldn't recall the details except one vivid image of me on my knees while he towered over me, I was using both my hands on his huge, angry, red cock and licking the textured head until I was showered by rope after rope of thick glutenous sperm. I was a little freaked out by my involuntary fantasies so the next morning I dressed down and ditched the lacy skirts in favour of a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans over my tights.

At work I loaded up the van with the day's deliveries then dragged Larry away from another unfinished game of checkers behind 'the shed'. He looked disappointed at my effort.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked, surveying the crates crammed with bread-type-stuff I had just stacked.

"Oh, no, you did a good job. It's all secure. Well done."

"What is it then?"

"Weeellll... I was looking forward to spending a large part of my day gawping at your fine legs in sexy nylons, but..."

He frowned down at my jeans. I nudged him playfully with my elbow.

"I'm still wearing nylons, see, they're underneath."

I pointed to a few punk-rock holes in the denim.

"I can hardly ogle you through those tiny holes, can I?"

"I am sorry to have let you down," I grinned.

"Just think more carefully tomorrow. Consider the happiness of your work-mate."

"Is that a Harringtons slogan?"

"Get in the fucking van," he ordered me with an equally playful shove.

By mid-morning we'd just finished the Greek district and were deep in Chinatown. We got out of the van and and Larry was squinting up at an exceedingly steep flight of narrow wooden stairs.

"Surely, we're not going up there?" I asked, gesturing to the top of the three storey building.

Nodding, he said, "I think I'm gonna sit this one out," and leaned back against the van.

"Why?"

"Being senior partner has its privileges. Plus your legs are younger than mine."

"Meaning you just want to watch my ass wiggle up those stairs."

"Well, there is that, yeah. Get going, then."

I shook my head at him, grabbed a crate of rolls and began my ascent. After five journeys up and down those stairs I was beat. I threw the final empty crate in the back of the van and laid down on my back with my legs dangling out. Larry appeared between the doors, looking down at me. My legs were open, he stepped forward and stood between my thighs.

"Fuck me," I moaned, not really considering what I'd just said.

I looked up to see him giving me a funny look.

"Whatcha thinking?" I asked.

"If I told you, you'd slap my face."

I propped myself up on my elbows, watching him, thinking thoughts I couldn't yet identify. Something was going on between us. Something was going on inside me. It was both enchanting and confusing. Was this just standard workplace flirting? Was I just too young to understand it meant nothing? Was it just playful sexy banter? Should I be offended on behalf of all sexually harassed women? He stood closer to me, gently nudging my thighs apart. If we'd been naked (the image just flashed into my mind) his cock would be resting on my pussylips, ready to enter me. I needed to break the spell.

"Can we have a break?" I croaked, "I don't have your stamina?"

He looked at his watch.

"Yeah, it's about time. Come on, I know a nice place for a picnic."

We sat on a hill that overlooked the city. I reclined on the daisy strewn grass and let the sun warm my face.

"It's nice here," Larry said, sipping his coffee from a thermos flask, "Peaceful."

"Poke me if I fall asleep," I said.

I had still not adjusted to my change in routine. I closed my eyes and took a nap. I woke up woozily and felt Larry's hand resting on my leg. I opened my eyes. He was laying next to me.

"Hello sleepyhead," he said softly.

"That's the second time I've slept with you."

He grinned and sailed his hand down my thigh. I didn't feel one iota of outrage at this over-friendly touching. His fingers dawdled at the holes in my jeans and he rubbed his fingertips on my nylons. I smiled at his toying with my tights. The sun was illuminating this handsome older man in a very fetching, almost cinematic, light.

"I'm just poking you, like you asked," he said.

"You like poking my little holes, don't you, Larry?"

He grinned and slid his fingers into one of my denim tears.

"Have I made us late for the next delivery?" I asked.

"Oh shit, yeah, you have."

He grumbled as he hauled his body up, I too grumbled at my own weary bones. Like a pair of old codgers, we stumbled down the lane to where the van was parked.

*******

Our next stop was a small cafe in the financial district. The delivery van was tall enough to stand up in but very narrow and you couldn't really help but get in each other's way. I bent over to inspect the order sheet and just behind me, Larry let out a complaining whine.

"What's the matter now?" I asked as I worked out what crates we needed.

"If you keep bending over like that, I'm going to have to molest you. Then you'll make a complaint and I'll be arrested and lose my job and my wife will leave me. And all because of your cute ass."

I stood up. A well of emotions that still lingered after my erotic dream last night coloured my cheeks and made my stomach flip. A daring, unchallenged appetite for risk seemed to run through my system, urging me on.

"I don't mind if you want to touch me," I said.

"What? I was only kidding."

"I'm calling your bluff."

I took his hands in mine and brought them around my waist. I looked into his eyes and guided his hands down to cup my buttcheeks. I could see he was wondering how far this latest joke would go. I kissed him.

"What's going on?" he asked, startled.

I'd never kissed a man before, only ever boys. I decided that I liked it so much that I'd try another. I pressed my lips to his and it took him a minute before he began to kiss me back. I felt his hands moving on my butt, groping my denim cheeks. When I broke off the brief but sensuous kiss we stood frozen, locked into each others' gaze.

"If this is your way of getting me to carry the next batch, think again," he said, making light of it.

I pouted, "Oh, I suppose I'd better get on with it then."

I bent over to pick up the crate and I felt his hand slide down between my buttocks, down lower, under me until his hand squidged the denim seam into my pussy. I stood up and faced him with the crate in my arms between us.

"I didn't say you could touch me there," I said.

"You didn't say I couldn't."

I pondered for second then said, "I can't argue with that."

I smirked at his logic and climbed out of the van.

Later, weaving along a winding country track, I asked Larry if I could smoke.

"We're not supposed to," he said as he steered with a single finger and his elbow resting on the door, "You'd better blow it out the window."

I lit up and leaned out with my cigarette.

"Hey, it's coming back in," he whined, "You'll get us in trouble, lean out further."

"Alright, alright," I needled him.

I swung around on the passenger seat and put my boots up on his seat to propel my head and shoulders further out of the window. When I'd finished, I swivelled around and sat normally.

"Those are some big fuck-off boots you wear," he said, "The tread was digging right into my thigh."

He was rubbing his leg melodramatically.

"I'd take 'em off but yesterday you complained about my cheesy feet."

"Aw, I wasn't complaining. Makes a change from the smell of fucking bread."

I unbuckled my boots and put my feet up on the dash, wiggling my freed toes with glee. Larry pulled a face.

"Wewf! Perhaps I spoke too soon, put 'em away will ya?"

I squirrelled down in my seat so I could lift up my legs and, gently, press my stinky soles on his face.

He laughed, "Get off! Get outta here!"

Giggling, I lowered my feet into his lap. He instinctively started to massage my feet, stretching the damp nylons as he caressed them. It felt gorgeously relaxing.

"Are these the same smelly tights as yesterday?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Dirty girl!" he grinned then sniffed my sweaty foot scent on the palm of his hand.

We drove in a happy, friendly silence. He continued my luscious foot-rub as he steered around the narrow bends with a casual ease. He knew this route like the back of his hands.

"You know?" he said after a while, "We're only a couple of fly buttons away from a foot-job."

You're not going to believe this but I hadn't followed what he'd said. I wasn't overly naive, just young.

"I already have a foot-job, Larry. I'm on my bloody feet all day. Who knew there'd be so much walking when working in a delivery van?"

Larry looked at me wondering if I was having him on.

"That's not what a foot-job is, kid."

"No? Okay, enlighten me."

He actually blushed and then frowned at how to explain to an inexperienced girl what he thinking.

"Weelll," he said, "You know what a hand-job is, right?"

A cog clunked into place in the wheels of my understanding. I suddenly realised that his strong hand was holding my feet against his crotch quite firmly. I whisked my feet out of his lap and sat up straight. I turned my head away and looked out of the window. I felt very foolish and a red face is not a good look for a goth. We didn't speak for some time, even when we organised the next delivery at a rural supermarket.

Driving back towards the city, Larry looked contrite.

"Did I take it too far?" he asked.

"No. I, er, just..."

"I forgot how young you are. I'm sorry if I was too pervy... too aggressive. I was just kidding around. I am sorry if I offended you. Truly."

I loved his genuine concern. I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder.

"I'm not offended, Larry. I was just shocked by, er, how much the idea intrigued me. I like working with you. We're only playing, aren't we?"

"Yeah! We get on like a house on fire, don't we?"

He rested his hand on my thigh, squeezing me affectionately.

"I would never do anything, ummm, nasty, you know?" he said.

"Never? Never ever?"

"Let's just say... nothing unwanted."

"I do trust you, Larry."

I kissed his chiselled, stubbly cheek before again resting my head on his shoulder.

"So, whatcha gonna wear for me tomorrow?" he asked as we pulled into Harringtons' depot, "Not these jeans again, I hope."

I smiled to myself and mentally searched through my meagre closet for a outfit that I'd would dare to wear for this solid, decent, trustworthy pervert.

*******

Was it only wednesday? It felt like I'd been working with Larry the lecherous loafer for much longer. That morning I'd dressed with a lively anticipation in a short black dress with red details and with criss-cross ribbon ties down the front which exhibited my less-than-ample cleavage. I had considered wearing hold-up stockings but decided this was probably a bit too brazen for a bread factory delivery girl so I opted for the next best thing, a pair of pantyhose which featured a pattern that imitated stockings and suspenders. I teased my raven black hair (next to Larry with his shock of white hair we looked like negatives of each other) into a spiky mess and then ruined my efforts with the hideous Harringstons green and white, thigh-length smock that we had to wear.

I loaded the van at the depot, dragged lounging Larry away from his checkers game and we headed out on our third adventure. We drove a few miles out of the city and parked in the basement of a huge mall and then set about the many different orders to all the cafes and kiosks. By eleven o'clock I was already grumbling.

"I much prefer the driving around than the walking and carrying," I moaned as we sat in the van drinking coffee.

"You need a foot rub?"

I smirked, "I need a smoke."

I stood outside the van and puffed away. Larry joined me and breathed in my white plume as I blew it out.

"Do you want one?" I asked.

"I gave it up. Dicky ticker. But I miss it. Maybe when I'm at death's door I'll take it up again."