Sequel to the story Decadent, so read that one first.
Another night, another pizza. A new delivery driver this time, slightly older, a very attractive muscular frame. I decided not to let this one laugh at me, adopted a different approach.
“Is that my pizza? I ordered the stuffed crust; I like a nice hot stuffing.”
Sure, it was crude. That didn’t stop it working, a smirk telling me he’d understood. I looked down, then peeked back up at him through dark lashes. I’d intentionally overdone my eyes, my friends would’ve teased me, asked if I was trying to make some money. It works though, worked on him, got a gulp as I admitted to him, “Oh! I’m wet. I might need some help here.”
He smiled confidently, handed me my pizza, leaned nonchalantly against my door frame. “Just ask,” he told me, a man exerting his masculine control.
I looked at him, dropped all pretence. “We both know what’s happening,” I told him, “so I’m going to take this pizza through the kitchen. Up to you whether to follow.” Reaching out with my other hand I found out his body definitely knew what was happening, half smiled at him and continued, “Feels like you have a problem of your own. Maybe I can help, find it somewhere wet and warm to get comfortable.”
I turned and walked through my house, adding a little sway to my hips. Sure, I already had him, but you can’t go too far at times.
In the kitchen I put down the pizza box, turned and found him right behind me, reaching for my hips. That would’ve killed the moment so I grabbed both of his wrists, pulled his arms out to the side then leaned forward, a promised kiss, bringing us both close enough that I could draw his arms behind him.
The kiss was clumsy, his confidence not matched by experience or skill, but it worked well enough for me, distracting him enough that he was in handcuffs before he realised what was happening. He wasn’t sure how to take that, it could be a threat or a promise. His hopes I was merely kinky were dashed when I brought a kitchen knife up to his throat, let him feel the cold steel. He flinched and froze, eyes full of betrayal.
I led him backwards, into a new room, an exercise bench at knee height that he was soon lying on, arms clearly uncomfortable beneath him, ankles fastened in place before he could think to kick out. He was properly frightened now, a look that finally made me wet the way he’d imagined.
His fear increased when he saw the tailor’s shears. “No,” he delightfully begged, “Please no.”
I wasn’t sure what his imagination had summoned but shushed him anyway, a finger against his lips quietening him. Reaching down I used the shears to remove his jeans, remove his underwear, reveal that he was no longer enjoying his visit. “Ok, I need you to just lift your bottom for me,” I told him, reaching beneath the bench.
“What? No. What are you doing to me?” he spluttered, brain catching up and anger returning his confidence, “Let me go you miserable vicious…”
Fortunately for him he stopped there. I guess the sharp blade between his legs had helped him understand the benefits of being polite, or at least the potential consequences of upsetting me. Bringing the knife below I let him feel it against his buttocks, reminded him of my request, “Lift.”
“Ok, you can relax again,” I told him and brought the front of a diaper up between his legs. Fastening it in place I saw him looking down in confusion.
“I did promise you somewhere wet and warm,” I reminded him, “but it’s ok, in your own time. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”
He cursed at me, swore he wouldn’t soil himself, used the word ‘piss’ far too much. I sighed, finished securing his arms to the bench and sat straddling him, my own diaper squelching a little against his chest.
“You wont, hmm?” I asked sadly, “In that case, open wide.”
I don’t know the name of the liquid I squirted into his mouth. The friend that provided it to me had warned me that they tell proctology patients not to take it until they’re already sat on a toilet, and moments later I found out why. I didn’t know you could get such fast acting laxatives. The poor delivery boy certainly knew now.
I picked up my phone, called his employer. “Hi… about that pizza I ordered? Yes, it’s here, it’s lovely. Thank you. Unfortunately your delivery driver has… had an accident.” I looked across at him, his face wincing as his body purged once more. “No no, he’s fine. In some discomfort though. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.”
Putting the phone down, I went back into the kitchen and returned, smiled at him. “Would you like some pizza?”