Two things: college is expensive as fuck. Not only do you have to pay for the privilege of sitting in a lecture hall with a hundred other people pretending they did the reading, but nothing is included. As if tuition didn’t already cost an arm and a leg, you also have to buy textbooks priced like they’re bound in human skin and signed by the Pope. Then there’s the dorm room—basically a glorified broom closet smaller than a holding cell at The Hague. You have to buy food, and if you don’t eat for whatever reason? Tough shit. Nobody cares.
You have to pay for parking. You have to pay for laundry. You have to pay random fees no one can explain. And don’t even get me started on the “technology fee.” What the fuck is a technology fee when the campus Wi‑Fi cuts out every time it rains harder than a light drizzle? Honestly, I’m surprised they don’t charge us by the breath. Give it another year and they’ll probably install oxygen meters in the dorms.
And the second thing: if you want any actual spending money, don’t bother looking for a work-study job. Those things get snatched up faster than the free condoms at the campus clinic. Half the listings are already promised to somebody’s cousin before they even hit the student portal.
So what do I do? I get an actual job—one that somehow works around the fifteen credit hours currently trying to kill me this semester.
The job? I’m a courier at The Pitt.
It used to be an honest-to-God courier company back before every asshole with a Honda Civic and a smartphone decided they were a delivery driver. But once apps took over, traditional courier work basically died. So now we do what’s called last-mile delivery. Which is corporate speak for: big companies dump their shit on us because it’s cheaper.
Basically, a semi-truck drops off a mountain of packages at our warehouse, and we spend the rest of the day trying to get everything delivered as fast as humanly possible. Amazon, pharmacies, law offices, flower shops, rich people who forgot to buy anniversary gifts until the last second—it all comes through us eventually.
And the faster we move, the more money we make.
We get paid per route, per drop, and sometimes based on turnaround time back to The Pitt. On top of that, we keep one hundred percent of our tips, which means every once in a while some guilt-ridden suburban mom hands me twenty bucks because I carried her oversized Chewy box up three flights of stairs.
It’s exhausting work. My car constantly smells like cardboard and drive-thru fries, my back hurts in places I didn’t know could hurt, and my phone battery dies at least twice a shift.
But compared to drowning in student debt with no spending money?
Yeah. I’ll take the packages.
Back at The Pitt, my boss Morgan had aspirations of becoming an air traffic controller. Unfortunately, she lost out on the gig because she has epilepsy. Which, honestly, feels like one of those rare hiring decisions that probably makes sense. I mean, how do you explain two planes colliding at thirty thousand feet because your brain decides to throw a surprise electrical storm at the worst possible moment?
Morgan took the rejection personally for about three months, according to everyone who works here, and then does what Morgan always does: redirects the obsession somewhere else.
So now she runs The Pitt like it’s air traffic control.
Except instead of directing planes, she’s standing in front of three computer monitors with Google Maps open, rerouting drivers through downtown traffic like lives depend on it. Which, financially speaking, they kind of do.
The warehouse itself is chaos in the most organized way possible. Rolling carts squeak across stained concrete. Tape guns snap shut like tiny gunshots. Somebody’s always yelling a tracking number across the room. The place smells like cardboard dust, burnt coffee, and hot tires.
Morgan thrives in it.
She wears a headset even though nobody else does. Claims it helps her “focus operations.” Really it just makes her look like she’s preparing us for takeoff.
When I get back from my last drop, sweaty, tired, and running entirely on caffeine and spite, she hands me another package before I can even drop off the signature slip.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“What does it look like?”
“That was supposed to be my last one,” I say, already exasperated.
“Well, you drew the short straw,” she shrugs, “besides, it’s at the Fremont.”
That changes things.
I snatch the package from her hands so fast she actually smirks.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, turning on her heel. “You can go home after. Just bring the signature slip back first thing tomorrow.”
“Deal!” I yell after her.
The Fremont is the most expensive hotel in town.
Think upscale, but more.
Marble floors. Gold-trimmed elevators. Valets who somehow look richer than I do. The kind of place where the lobby smells faintly like fresh flowers and generational wealth.
Any delivery at the Fremont is notorious for ending in a huge tip.
Especially late-night deliveries.
Rich people get generous after dark.
I tuck the package into my messenger bag and head to my car.
It’s late, and traffic finally stops acting like a blood sport. Since I’m in no hurry to get back to The Pitt, I can actually drive like a functioning member of society for once.
On the clock, though?
We drive like we’re playing Mario Kart.
Yellow lights become suggestions. Parallel parking becomes combat. And every courier in the city develops an almost supernatural hatred for rideshare drivers within the first month.
The Fremont has designated parking out front for delivery drivers, which tells you exactly how often rich people order things they forgot they needed.
With my placard in place, I shut off the engine and head toward the front entrance. It’s one of those giant revolving glass doors that always makes me think of a Final Destination movie. I swear those things are just giant human blenders waiting for the right moment.
I have this irrational fear that one day I’m going to trip, get stuck, and die in front of a family from Connecticut trying to check in for a wedding.
So I take the side door instead.
The lobby is quieter this late at night, but not empty. Soft piano music drifts through hidden speakers. Somebody in an expensive coat laughs near the bar. The marble floors shine so clean they practically reflect my exhaustion back at me.
“Package for Michael Drum,” I say, handing the receptionist the signature slip.
She glances down at the name, fingers moving quickly across her keyboard.
“P4-47,” she says. “Fourth penthouse level. Top floor. The bellhop will let you up.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the slip back.
The penthouse.
This is definite tip territory.
I head toward the elevator where an older bellhop in white gloves is already waiting. He pulls a small brass key from his pocket and inserts it into a panel beside the controls. Once he turns it, a hidden row of buttons lights up—P1 through P4.
Fancy.
“Will someone let me back down?” I ask.
“Nope. You only need the key to go up,” he says.
That feels mildly concerning.
The elevator ride itself is weirdly long. The music playing overhead sounds exactly like old-school Verizon hold music, except somebody tried to remix it with violins.
Lovely.
When the doors finally open, it’s not a hallway waiting on the other side.
It’s a foyer.
A whole-ass foyer. This dude's front door is a fucking elevator. Fire code be damned.
The lighting is low and warm, soft enough that it almost feels residential instead of hotel-like. There’s a long antique table sitting in the center beneath a chandelier that probably costs more than my tuition. And somewhere in the distance, I’m pretty sure I hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons drifting through hidden speakers.
Honestly? Better than whatever the elevator was trying to do.
I step farther inside, sneakers sinking into a rug thick enough to lose small pets in.
There’s nobody here.
Just the music. The lights. And the kind of silence expensive places seem to cultivate on purpose.
There’s a table in the middle of the foyer where I could technically leave the package, but he needs to sign for it. Plus, if I leave it unattended, there goes my tip.
Did the receptionist not call ahead?
“Uh, hello?” I ask—to no one and also everyone.
Then I hear a voice. Rough and solid at the same time.
"Back here, if you don't mind."
I don’t exactly know where the voice comes from, so I slowly pad across the carpet, scanning for clues like I’m in the world’s most expensive murder mystery.
I round a corner and almost stop dead.
The wall—well, there is no wall.
It’s a window.
One massive floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass stretching the entire length of the room. The city sprawls beneath it in glittering layers of light and distance, headlights threading through downtown streets like veins. From up here everything looks smaller. Cleaner. Less real.
It’s incredible.
And deeply unsettling.
Somewhere farther down, I spot a partially open door with soft amber light spilling into the hallway.
I make my way toward it slowly.
If I get murdered tonight, I’m haunting Morgan until the day she dies.
I don’t know what’s behind door number one, but I know enough true crime statistics to understand I shouldn’t just blindly walk into rich strangers’ rooms after midnight.
“I have a package,” I say tentatively.
A beat passes.
“You can leave it in here,” he says.
What I see next would probably scar a normal person for life.
But honestly, I already got scarred for life in second grade when AJ Wright told everyone I peed my pants on the playground. I still haven’t fully recovered socially.
But back to this crime scene.
There’s a man lying face down on a massage table while another man—who looks exactly like Mr. Clean if Mr. Clean did full-frontal nudity and Pilates—is giving him a massage.
Except commercial Mr. Clean wears white.
This Mr. Clean is butt-ass naked.
Like completely.
Not a sock. Not a towel. Not even a strategically placed fern.
He glances up at me briefly, a lazy smile creasing his face before he goes right back to work like naked professional massages are the most normal thing in the world.
Around his waist is what looks like a little leather holster carrying bottles of massage oil, which somehow makes the nudity feel more official instead of less weird. Every few seconds he grabs one-handed squirts of oil while using the full length of his forearm to work into the muscles of the man lying beneath him.
And unfortunately, because my college requires Gross Anatomy for kinesiology electives, I recognize exactly which muscles he’s working.
The guy on the table lets out a low groan as Mr. Clean drags an elbow down the thick muscles bordering his spine.
Wait.
I know this one.
I pause for a second, mentally flipping through anatomy flashcards.
Right.
Iliocostalis lumborum.
God, I hate that I know that.
The man on the table is also naked.
And big.
Like… really big.
Not bodybuilder huge. More like the kind of size that comes from expensive personal trainers, genetics, and probably eating salmon that costs more per pound than my weekly grocery budget. He’s broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest, with a full head of dark hair streaked lightly at the temples. Everything about him looks annoyingly proportional for a man his size.
Honestly, it feels unfair.
“So you got a package for Daddy?”
Did he really just say that?
I mean, I’m not mad about it, but who says that to complete strangers?
Oh right.
Rich people.
“Well, if Daddy’s name is Michael Drum,” I say.
A grin spreads across his face even though he’s still face down in the headrest.
“Ooh, he’s got some sass,” he replies.
Damn right I’ve got some sass.
“Eric.” It sounds like a question, but somehow also a command. “You mind?”
“Sure, Daddy,” says Mr. Clean, stepping back from the table.
Oh.
So that’s a thing.
Mr. Clean grabs a pile of neatly folded clothes from a nearby chair.
And listen.
I’m not trying to stare.
But there are only so many places your eyes can go when a naked man walks across a room.
Nice cock.
Some people are growers. Some people are showers.
Mr. Clean?
Definitely a shower.
He heads toward the hallway carrying the clothes and quietly disappears from the room, leaving me alone with Michael Drum and approximately six hundred dollars’ worth of unresolved tension.
Drum pushes himself upright from the massage table and finally turns fully toward me.
Jesus Christ.
The man is built.
His chest is broad, stomach solid, arms thick without looking cartoonish about it. He’s basically the total opposite of me physically. I’m wiry from stress and caffeine. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine called Wealthy Lumberjacks Monthly.
And unfortunately, my eyes immediately betray me.
Because his cock just hangs there.
I thought Mr. Clean was packing.
Drum puts him to shame.
Honestly, they both put me to shame.
He reaches for what I can only assume is the smallest towel available anywhere in the continental United States and wraps it low around his waist.
Too late.
I’m already blushing.
“Well, you’re cute,” he says casually, like this is a completely normal interaction to be having while mostly naked in a penthouse spa room.
Do I say thanks?
I mean, I want to.
Partially because he’s hot.
Partially because maybe it leads to a bigger tip.
And apparently my moral compass becomes extremely flexible around rich men with abs.
“Um… thanks,” I say.
“Don’t be shy,” he says, stepping closer. “Daddy likes what he sees.”
Usually I’d be annoyed by someone referring to themselves in the third person.
But for some reason, I’m significantly more turned on than annoyed.
Which feels like important information about myself that I absolutely did not need tonight.
""I'm not entirely sure I know what that means," I say coyly.
"What if I have a package I need taken care of?"
Oh damn—classic rich daddy type.
"Well you know, I work for tips," I say, testing the waters.
"Well it's a good thing I tip handsomely," he says, a wry smile creasing his face.
I step closer, unsure of how serious he is. The city lights spill across the floor behind him, everything warm gold and soft shadows. When I get close enough that I can smell the sandalwood from the oil Mr. Clean was using, he reaches down and lets the towel fall to the ground.
His smile tightens. He takes the package and sets it on the table.
I grab his waist, carefully tracing my hands along his love handles. Then his hips, and then I slowly drop to my knees, pulling the strap of the messenger bag over my neck in the process. His cock is right there in front of me.
He picks it up and rests it on my head.
I slowly stick out my tongue and trace small circles along the underside of his shaft.
"Mmhm," a low groan comes from somewhere deep inside him.
The sound echoes softly through the huge room.
His cock is bigger than my head, but I accept the challenge.
I draw back, grab hold of it with one hand, and place the tip of it in my mouth. Soft, tentative licks. Then more gradually, I take it further into my mouth.
"Fuck—I think you know what Daddy likes," he says.
I pull off, and in the sultriest voice I can muster, ask, "Does Daddy like this?"
"Daddy fucking loves it," he says, another groan escaping as I take his cock back into my mouth.
I suck harder and deeper now, my head bobbing and my mouth slurping up spit and precum. One of his hands settles against the back of my head, not forcing, just guiding.
"Mmhm—fuck!" he groans. "Just like that—Daddy loves that."
I oblige, sucking in earnest now, with one hand stroking as I suck while I reach up and grab a fistful of his ass.
"Ohh fuck!"
He's loud because he can.
I hum around his cock as I suck.
"Look up at Daddy," he says, but I try and focus on the task at hand, literally. "C'mon, be a good boy and look at Daddy."
I look up and see that he's pinching and twisting both of his nipples. They're bright red and swollen.
Damn.
Then he grabs my head with both hands and starts thrusting harder. I moan, trying to keep up with his rhythm.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, let Daddy fuck your face," he says, panting.
"Mmh hmm," I moan, taking his cock with everything my throat has to give.
"Ohhh fucckk! Daddy's so fucking close!"
His thrusting shudders and his cadence changes, so I take back over, sucking hard and deeper than before.
"Fuck! Fuck!—fuck!"
The muscles in his thighs tense beneath my hands.
He grabs my shoulder and pulls me off.
He hooks a thumb in my mouth and strokes his cock vigorously. His panting increases and his body starts to shake.
"Arrgh—fuck!" he yells. "Fuuuccckkkkk!!"
And then he's cumming.
All over me—like all over me.
He shoots out four, maybe five thick hot ropes of cum. Some of it lands in my mouth, some across my face, a little in my hair, across the front of my shirt, my ear—it's everywhere.
"Holy shit," I say. "That's a fucking load!"
"Fuck!" he groans again, almost animalistic.
"Hell," I say. "That was intense."
He's trying to catch his breath.
His chest rises and falls hard in the low amber light.
"Yeah—it was," he says between breaths.
"Let me clean off Daddy's dick," I say.
He smiles like I've finally caught up.
I grab his cock and lick it from base to tip, swallowing all the cum I can find. Then I take his hand and lick and suck up what cum dribbled across the front of his knuckles.
He helps me to my feet. I pick up my bag and sling it across my shoulder.
"You were such a good boy," he says.
And the he kisses me, deeply, his tongue doing things I never knew a tongue could do.
"Fuck," I say, absolutely mesmerized.
"You need to come back and see Daddy again," he says.
"Yessir."
"Eric," he says without breaking eye contact.
Mr. Clean walks back in with a pen and a white envelope.
He signs the signature slip and hands me the envelope.
The thing is thick.
Not paper thick.
Money thick.
After signing the slip, he hands it back to me.
"For the delivery," he says.
I glance down at the envelope and then back up at him.
"Jesus," I mutter.
His mouth curves into a satisfied little smile, like he already knows exactly what's in there and exactly what kind of effect it's having on me.
"Like I said, I tip handsomely."
The he hands me business card.
"Eric, let's finish my massage."
I take the cue and make my way to front door elevator listening to Bach along the way. I call for it and it opens almost immediately. I press the button for the lobby. As the elevator descends I open the envelope and count the money.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
I just made one thousand dollars. A million things race through my head, but now I have his business card. Do I call him? What's the procedure here? The thought dissipates as the doors open to the lobby. I put the envelope in my bag and carry my cum-soaked ass through the lobby and back to my car.
I start the engine and let down the window. I might have a thousand dollars but I still smell like sweat, sex, and cum.
Now I'm gonna go back to my dorm, shower for probably an hour, and thank my lucky stars that all those work-study jobs were taken.
Because apparently last-mile delivery pays really fucking well.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
