Delivery Man Forces His Hot Girlfriend

Dante killed the engine and sat with both hands on the wheel, the brown delivery shirt tight across his chest and the matching cap pulled low. He was twenty-two, Veronica’s boyfriend, and he had not driven to her house as himself. Last night she had said it with her cheek on his shoulder and her eyes steady on his, twenty-four and completely sure. She wanted to try CNC. She wanted him to force sex on her—a stranger who would not take no for an answer, rough hands, his cock bare, his come left inside her. She had made him repeat the one rule until it sat in his bones. She could stop everything instantly by saying red. One word, and he would freeze, let go, and the scene would be over. They had also agreed on the shape of the after. He would finish the role, walk out without breaking it, and come back in ten minutes as himself to hold her. No surprises. No cameras. Just the fantasy she had asked him to give her, and the care that followed it.

He lifted the fake parcel, a plain box sealed with too much tape, and walked up to her door. Two hard knocks. His pulse kicked.

Veronica opened it in a tight dress the color of dark wine. The hem sat high on her toned legs. The neckline plunged, and the deep cleavage between her breasts shifted when she breathed. Barefoot, hair loose, she looked at the cap and the box and let the girlfriend slip out of her face. For half a second their eyes caught. He saw the eager yes under the performance, the delicious tension of pretend stranger danger laid over how badly they both wanted this. Then she blinked, careful, and did not say his name.

“Can I help you?”

“Delivery.” His voice came out lower than the one he used in her bed. He did not smile. He did not let recognition show. “You Veronica?”

She nodded. He stepped in with the parcel as if he had a right to the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind them.

He set the box on the entry table and turned. His gaze locked on her breasts and stayed there, open and rude, tracking the way the dress pulled across them.

“Jesus,” he said. “You’re fucking hot.”

Her chin lifted. Color rose in her throat. “Excuse me?”

“Anyone else home?” He took a step closer, boots loud on the hardwood, eyes still on her chest. “Husband? Roommate? Anybody gonna walk in while I’m looking at you like this?”

“You need to leave.” The shake in her voice was exactly the resistance she had told him she wanted to give. “Put the box down and get out. I didn’t ask you inside for that.”

“Didn’t have to.” He caught her wrist before she could back toward the kitchen. Her pulse jumped under his thumb. He yanked her in and kissed her, mouth demanding, tongue pushing past her lips while she made a startled sound against him. She tasted like mint tea. For one stolen second heat flashed and she kissed back, then she remembered the scene and shoved at his chest with her free hand, twisting her face away.

“Stop. Let go of me. I said leave.”

He did not let go. The power they had negotiated caught like a match. She pushed and he held, and the struggle was real in her muscles and false in its danger, because red sat unused on her tongue and her eyes, when they flicked up, were bright with want. He walked her backward across the rug. Her calves hit the sofa. He shoved her down onto the cushions, the dress riding up her thighs, and followed her before she could scramble free.

“No,” she gasped, twisting under his weight. “Get off. You can’t just—”

He buried his face between her tits, groaning into the heat of them, teeth catching the neckline and dragging it down until both breasts spilled free. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, rough and wet, while his hand shoved between her thighs. She was already soaked. The thin panties clung to her. He hooked them aside and drove two fingers into her pussy, curling hard, fucking her with his hand while she bucked and grabbed at his wrist.

“Stop—please—I’m not—you can’t finger me, I don’t even know you—”

“You’re dripping,” he growled into her chest, licking the sweat from the valley between her breasts. “Your cunt doesn’t want me to leave.”

He pumped his fingers deeper, thumb grinding her clit, face mashed against her tits while she writhed and said no again in the voice they had agreed was not the word that ended anything. Her hips jerked. A slick sound filled the quiet house every time his fingers drove in. She clawed at his shoulder and tried to close her thighs, and he forced them wider with his knee, still mouthing at her nipple, still working her open until her pussy fluttered around his knuckles.

“Get your hands off me,” she panted. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at her mouth, waiting for a word that did not come, then went back down, sucking hard enough to mark her, fingers thrusting until her thighs shook.

She kept saying no. She twisted under him, one heel skidding on the cushion, both hands shoving at his shoulders, and the struggle only made him pin her harder. Dante caught her wrists and slammed them above her head, one of his hands locking both of hers to the arm of the sofa. She arched, breasts bouncing, the dress bunched under them, and he used his free hand to yank the hem the rest of the way up. The wine-colored fabric wrinkled at her waist. He ripped the soaked panties down her thighs and off one ankle, leaving them dangling from the other, and stared at her bare pussy, swollen and shining.

“Look at that,” he said, voice thick. “Saying no with your mouth and dripping down the cushion. I’m taking it.”

“Don’t,” she gasped, pulling at his grip, hips trying to twist away. “Don’t you dare. I’m telling you no. Get off me—get off—”

He freed his cock from the uniform pants, already hard enough to ache, and dragged the bare head through her slick folds. No condom. Nothing between them. She had asked for raw, asked to be filled, and the heat of her against him made his vision narrow. He lined up and shoved in, one long brutal thrust that seated him to the hilt. Veronica cried out, back bowing, and the sound broke into a moan she tried to swallow.

“No—no, you’re too—pull out, I said no—”

“Too late.” He held her wrists and started to fuck her in hard missionary strokes, the sofa creaking under them, his hips snapping so the wet slap of his body against hers filled the room. Her pussy gripped him, hot and swollen, sucking him deeper every time she clenched. He watched her face while he took her, the flush on her cheeks, the way her mouth shaped another no that melted when he bottomed out. “This is what I came in for. Not the box. You. I’m going to use this cunt until I come in it.”

“Stop,” she whimpered, and her legs kicked, one heel striking his thigh. He caught that leg and hooked it over his shoulder, folding her open, and drove deeper. The new angle made her gasp. Her tits bounced with every thrust. He bent and bit the upper curve of one, then the other, leaving red marks that would darken later, never breaking skin, just claiming. “Please—someone could—you can’t fuck me, I don’t want your cock, I don’t—”

“You want it so bad you’re soaking my balls.” He growled it against her throat, pounding her, the uniform shirt rasping over her bare stomach. “Fight me. Go on. It doesn’t change a thing. I’m not stopping until I’ve dumped every drop in this pussy.”

She strained against his hand, wrists twisting, and the effort only ground her clit against him. A broken sound left her. Her eyes were wet and bright, fixed on his, and she did not say red. She said no again, louder, and he answered by fucking her harder, the couch sliding an inch on the rug. Sweat gathered at his hairline under the cap. He knocked the cap off and didn’t care. Her cunt fluttered, a helpless squeeze, and he felt how close she was riding under the protest.

“Don’t you come,” he said, filthy and low, though they both knew she would. “Don’t you dare get off on a stranger forcing his cock in you. That’s what this is. I’m taking what I want. Your no is just noise.”

“It’s not—I’m not—oh God, no, slower, I can’t—”

He didn’t slow. He fucked her through the shake in her thighs, through the way her nipples tightened, through the slick rush that made every thrust louder. She came with her teeth in her lip and her wrists still trapped, pussy clamping down so hard he had to grit his teeth to keep from finishing then. She shook under him, saying no even while her hips rolled up to meet the next stroke, the negotiated non-consent burning through both of them until the room felt too small for it.

He pulled out suddenly. She gasped at the emptiness, a string of her wetness connecting them, and he flipped her before she could close her legs. Face down into the cushion, ass up, the ruined dress bunched at her waist. He planted a hand between her shoulder blades and pinned her there, then drove back into her from behind in one savage thrust.

“No—not like this—Dante, I mean—no, stop, you can’t—”

The name almost broke him. Almost. She caught it and turned it back into the scene, face pressed to the sofa, voice muffled and fierce. “I said no. Get out of me. I don’t want you to come in me. Don’t you dare finish inside—”

“Too fucking bad.” He grabbed her hip with his free hand and pounded her, the angle meaner, deeper, his cock dragging along every clenched inch of her. From behind he could see the way her ass rippled with each impact, the way her pussy stretched around him, pink and used and gleaming. He slapped her ass once, sharp, and she jolted, a cry breaking into another no. “I’m going to fill you. You’re going to walk around with it leaking out of you and remember who took it.”

“Please,” she sobbed, and the word was wrecked, aroused, not red. She pushed back despite herself. He felt it, the greedy little grind, and laughed once, dark, fucking her through it. “Please don’t—don’t come in me—I’m telling you no—”

“Beg all you want.” His rhythm turned ruthless, short hard strokes that punched the air out of her. The sofa thumped the wall. Her fingers clawed the cushion. He leaned over her back, mouth at her ear, one hand still pinning her down, the other reaching under to rub her clit in rough circles while he rutted into her. “This cunt is mine until I’m done. You can say no until you lose your voice. I’m still going to bury it and pump you full.”

She came again like that, face-down and shaking, a raw cry muffled by the cushion, her pussy milking him in tight rhythmic pulls. The squeeze dragged him over. His hips stuttered. He slammed in to the root and held, groaning through his teeth, and came hard inside her. Pulse after pulse, thick and hot, flooding her while he ground deep so none of it escaped until he was finished. His whole body locked. He stayed buried, cock jerking, emptying himself in her pussy exactly the way she had asked to be taken, both of them wrecked and blazing from the scene they had built together.

For a few seconds there was only breathing. Her back rose and fell under his hand. His come was already trying to seep out around his cock. He felt her tremble, not with fear—he knew the difference—but with the aftershock of being used the way she had wanted.

He pulled out slow. A rush of his come followed, spilling over her swollen folds and down her thigh onto the cushion. He looked at it once, jaw tight, then stood. He tucked himself away, zipped the uniform pants, dragged the brown shirt straight, and picked the cap up off the rug. Veronica stayed where he had left her, dress ruined, wrists marked, chest heaving, and she did not say red. She did not call him back. That was the plan, and he kept it. He walked to the door without another word, stepped out, and shut it behind him.

He sat in the van with the engine off and counted the minutes on his phone, hands open on his knees, coming down. At ten he stripped the uniform shirt in the driver’s seat, pulled on the plain tee he had stashed under the seat, and left the cap on the dash. Then he walked back up the path as himself.

She had not moved far. She was curled on the sofa now, dress tugged halfway down, a throw blanket half over her legs, cheeks still flushed. When the door opened and she saw his face—his real face, no cap, no stranger’s stance—she smiled. Small at first, then wide and soft, the smile of a woman who had gotten exactly what she asked for.

Dante crossed the room and gathered her in. She came into his arms without hesitation, warm and a little shaky, tucking her face against his throat while he settled them both into the cushions. He wrapped the blanket around her, one hand stroking her hair, the other spread steady over her back. The house was quiet again. Her heartbeat slowed against his ribs. He kissed her temple and held her there, both of them basking in the spent glow of a fantasy they had built on purpose and carried all the way through.

“You smiled the second you saw it was me,” he murmured into her hair. “Want to tell me if any part of you even thought about saying red?”