Home alone in a robe, $name1 tips the delivery driver with her mouth and her married cunt before the kettle even boils.
$name1’s husband worked late on Thursdays. Always had. Always would.
She had started ordering takeaway she did not need just to hear the knock. Tonight it was Thai — green curry, sticky rice, spring rolls she would not eat — and a silk robe with nothing underneath because she had showered and decided, somewhere between conditioner and the doorbell, that she was done pretending she was a patient, faithful wife who only masturbated to memories.
The driver was mid-thirties, stubble, company polo stretched over decent shoulders, rain beading on his cap. He held out the insulated bag and the card machine. $name1 signed with a flourish, tipped too much on the screen, and let the robe gap when she handed the device back. Cool air kissed the inner curve of her breast. His eyes dropped and stayed a fraction too long. Interest. Caution. Hunger.
“You want to come in?” she asked, voice steadier than her pulse. “I’ve got a cold beer. Rain’s getting worse.”
He hesitated on the wet doorstep like a man who knew better and had a manager and a GPS log. Then he stepped inside anyway. She closed the door. The bag of Thai hit the hall table and was forgotten before the latch clicked.
“$name1,” she said, offering her name like a key and a confession. “My husband’s at the office until ten. You have twenty minutes if you want them. No strings. No names required from you.”
He kissed her hard against the wall beside the coat hooks, hands shoving the robe open, finding her bare tits, her bare cunt already wet when his fingers slid between her legs and rubbed. “Fucking hell,” he muttered against her mouth. “You’re dripping. How long have you been waiting like this for a stranger?”
“Weeks,” she admitted, stroking the hard line in his trousers through the fabric. “Months, if I’m honest. Stop talking. Fuck me. Use my married cunt.”
She dropped to her knees on the hall runner and freed his cock — thick, veined, already leaking at the tip. $name1 sucked him greedily, wedding ring flashing on the hand wrapped around his shaft, looking up while she took him deep enough to water her eyes. He groaned, one palm flat on the wall, hips twitching into her mouth. Spit shone on her chin and dripped onto her tits. She pulled off with a wet pop and stroked him, smearing spit down the length.
“I want you to cum in my married cunt,” she said clearly. “Not my mouth. Not yet. Fill me so I drip while I eat the curry alone.”
He lifted her under the arms, carried her two steps to the stairs, and bent her over the third tread. The robe pooled at her elbows. He rubbed the fat head of his cock through her folds, teasing her clit, then shoved in to the hilt in one thrust. $name1 cried out, gripping the carpet, arse out, taking every inch while a neighbour’s dog barked somewhere down the street and the forgotten curry cooled in its bag.
He fucked her hard and fast — delivery-driver minutes, no romance, no pretence — hand fisted in her damp hair, other hand spanking her arse until it stung sweetly and she pushed back for more. “Cheating slut,” he grunted. “Taking cock in your hallway like a whore. Does he know what his wife does on Thursdays?”
“No,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare tell him — just fill me — harder — ruin me before he gets home—”
He reached under her belly and rubbed her clit in rough circles while he pounded her. $name1 came with a shout she muffled in her own forearm, cunt clenching and fluttering, knees weak on the stair edge. He followed seconds later, burying deep and pumping hot cum into her with a broken curse, holding her hips flush to his as he pulsed.
They stayed locked for a long breath. Then he pulled out slowly. Cum dripped down her inner thigh onto the stair carpet in a thick string. She turned on shaky legs, still bent, and cleaned his cock with her mouth — tasting herself and him, salty and filthy — until he hissed and softened against her tongue.
He fixed his trousers, looked at her like he might apologise or ask for a number, then did neither. Professional instinct winning. “Same order next Thursday?”
$name1 pulled the robe closed loosely, cum cooling between her legs, smile wicked and bright. “Extra spicy. And don’t rush the tip screen. I tip better when I’m about to get fucked.”
He left into the rain. She locked the door, carried the Thai to the kitchen on weak legs, and ate sticky rice at the counter with the driver’s cum still leaking into a wad of kitchen roll pressed between her thighs.
When her husband texted *Leaving now, traffic light*, she replied *Curry’s waiting x* and meant a different hunger entirely. She wiped the stair carpet before he got home and left the robe on the bathroom floor smelling of sex and rain.
She already knew next Thursday’s order by heart — and exactly how little she would be wearing when she opened the door.
