The app said arriving now and then a van door slammed like the street owed it money.
I was supposed to be in a stand-up. Camera off. Slack on mute. Twenty-eight, IT, the husband who works from the spare room in glasses and a plain T-shirt while Daniel closes deals downtown. Thin. Neat. Cables labeled. Tickets opened when the router dies. Front door opened when a man who looks like a problem is holding a box.
He was the problem.
Arab origins. Olive skin, super dark hair and beard. Camo cap on backwards. The dark hair under it, short, damp at the temples — l just buzzed at the sides so the beard did the talking. Full thick black beard shining with heat. Gold chains stuck to a throat that had been sweating since the first stop. Brown eyes that did not do small talk. The Amazon polo was a darker green where the pits had given up, fabric glued to a chest that did not belong on a porch at noon. Huge pecs. He smelled like a sweaty shift and skin and a woody cologne that had lost at 11 a.m.
“Package for—” He checked the label. Said my last name like a warehouse code.
“That’s me.”
August sat on the stoop with us. Forearm veins mapped. Chest hair at the buttons he’d already popped in the van. I signed the screen. Our fingers did not have to touch. They did. His were dry-salt. Mine were office-clean.
“You want a cold Coke?” I offered. “You look like you swallowed the weather.”
He looked past me into the hall. AC. The print Daniel picked in Lisbon. Me in socks.
“I got twelve more stops.”
“Two minutes. Come in.”
He came in. Boots on the mat Daniel cares about. Cap stayed on. I went to the fridge and when I turned with the cold can he had already dragged the polo over his head like my house was a locker he paid for. Chains slid on wet skin. Pecs heavy, shiny, a thick dark patch down the center into abs that still had this morning’s gym on them. Beefy body. Route hours. He cracked the Coke one-handed and drank with his throat working. A drop ran out of the can into the beard and he didn’t wipe it.
I watched him the way I was not supposed to watch the plumber.
“You’re staring, habibi.”
Not unkind. Amused. The can rolled across his pec for the cold and left a wet coin of condensation in the hair.
“I work from home.” I did know why I said that.
“I can see that.” He set the can on the console. Looked at the ring. Looked at my mouth. “Husband at the office?”
“Until six.”
He laughed once, low, and thumbed sweat off his own sternum like he was showing me the product.
“You gonna keep offering soda or you gonna say the thing you opened the door for. I don’t do long conversations in other men’s hallways.”
The box sat between us. Consent sat next to the box. I could have pointed at the stoop. I didn’t.
“I want to suck you off. If you want that. You can say no and take the Coke and go.”
He looked at me for a full second, checking the sentence for a trap. Then the belt came out of the loops like the sentence had been a clock-in.
“Lock the door.”
I locked it. Deadbolt. The click was loud in the AC.
Work pants shoved to mid-thigh. No underwear worth the name. Thick. Darker than the rest of him. Already heavy in his fist from the look alone. Heat came off him in a wave — van, asphalt, the polo on my floor, the sour-sweet of a man who had been climbing stairs since eight.
“Knees. Don’t be shy. I don’t have a lunch break. I have a route. You tap my thigh twice, I stop. You don’t tap, I use your mouth like I use hot pussy. Say you heard me.”
“I heard you.”
“Glasses on. I like the glasses on.”
I knelt on the runner Daniel bought in Marrakech. The smell hit before the skin. Sweat. Morning soap that had died. Musk trapped in the hair at the base. I licked a stripe up the underside and his hand closed in my hair, not asking, gathering a fistful so my head was a handle.
“Mouth open. Wider. Sissy boy. Yeah.”
He pushed in. Not a date. A drop. The head packed my tongue and then he used the grip and started fucking my throat in short, ugly strokes that made the chains tap my forehead. I gagged on the second thrust. He did not pause for the gag. He held me there until spit ran, pulled back an inch, and slapped me.
Open palm. Right cheek. Not movie-soft. A driver’s hand. Heat bloomed. My eyes watered and he watched the water like it was on the label.
“You said you wanted it. Don’t look surprised. Hands on my thighs. If I don’t feel two taps, I don’t stop, got it?”
I did my best to nod. To confirm I wanted it and understood the assignment.
I put my hands on his thighs. Damp hair. Muscle jumping. I did not tap.
He went back in deeper, my glasses crooked. He laughed through his nose, pushed the glasses up with one thick finger, and slapped the other cheek for the trouble. Harder. The sound cracked off the hall tile.
“There. That’s better. Red looks good on a clean boy’s face. Slut in a nice house. Husband having meetings somewhere. You gonna tell him an Arab driver drank his Coke and fucked your throat on the foreign rug?”
I made a sound around him that was not a word. He took it as no and smiled with his mouth only.
“Didn’t think so.”
The next stretch was mean on purpose. He planted his boots wider and used my face like the doorbell might ring and the doorbell could wait. My jaw ached. Spit soaked the collar of my T-shirt. He pulled out far enough to drag the wet head across my cheek, slapped me with his cock once, then with his palm again, catching the corner of my mouth.
“Look at me when I hit you. That’s the deal. You hide in the glasses, I take the glasses.”
I looked. Beard. Gold. Sweat in the hollow of his throat. Eyes half-lidded, pleased, a little cruel.
“Good. Draining my sweaty balls. That’s all this is. Twelve stops after you. Open.”
He drove back in until my nose was in the wet hair and the chains were cold on my brow. I gagged hard. He groaned like the gag was the product he’d come for, held me through it, slapped the side of my face with the hand that wasn’t in my hair — shorter, sharper, a reminder.
“Breathe when I let you. Not before. Fuck.“
He let me off. I dragged air. A line of spit hung off my lip onto the runner. He thumbed it up and pushed it back into my mouth and slapped me light, almost affectionate, which was worse.
“Again. Deeper. I want to feel your throat work. Don’t you go soft on me because your cheek hurts.”
I opened. He took it.
Rhythm like a route: stop, shove, hold, slap, go. My eyes streamed. The left cheek was hot enough to feel my own pulse. He talked through it because men like him talk through work.
“That’s it. Take it. Fucking take it. Home-office boy. Mute button. Nice art. You thought about this when you clicked leave at door. Don’t lie. You wanted a delivery guy to drop some cum in you. You wanted the smell. You wanted a man who doesn’t live here to wreck the rich mouth your husband kisses at six.”
I moaned. He slapped me for the moan and then shoved in for the moan and my hands tightened on his thighs and still did not tap.
“Close,” he said, sudden, hips losing the pretty version of the rhythm. “Don’t you pull off. Don’t you spill on his floor. You swallow like it’s your job. This is the deposit.”
He planted both hands — one in my hair, one on my face, fingers spread across the cheek he’d been hitting — and fucked the last of it into my throat in ugly little punches. Came hard. Thick pulses, a growl in Arabic I did not understood, then English through his teeth, take it, take it, swallow, don’t you waste. He held me on him through the kicks until my vision edged white, then pulled out and slapped my mouth once more, wet, possessive, a stamp.
“Show me.”
I opened. Empty. Swallowed.
He nodded like a box had been scanned.
The polo went back on over the wet chest and stuck. Belt. Cap straightened. He picked up the Coke, finished it, set the empty next to the package like a calling card.
“Name on the label,” he said. “I can forget it. Or I can run this block last. You text the number on the app if you want my visit.”
“Thanks.” I said. My voice was shot. Cheek throbbing. Glasses fogged.
He looked at that like he’d packed it correctly.
“Next time you offer a Coke, have water too. I run dry.”
Van door. App: delivered.
Slack: you muted — everything okay?
I typed all good with a mouth that still tasted like heat and gold and a man who did not live in this house.
Daniel at six.
Twelve stops.
Meeting in two minutes.
I did not wash my face. I turned the camera on and let the heat in my cheek be the only thing on the call that was honest. I would not be able to concentrate on the job. I was used by a hot and sweaty Arab man, that’s all I could think about.
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