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Delivering the Virgin

By:Cassandra Dee


To all the sexy ladies out there  …

Here's to naughty packages!



I heaved the box down on the floor of my new apartment, exhausted. My  back ached, my fingers were sore and I'd pulled a piece of skin off my  knee when I tripped on the stairs coming up.

Because my new place was a fifth floor walk-up, a tiny nest on the Lower  East Side of Manhattan, on the fringe of the city where the sidewalk  was still filled with drug dealers and junkies at night.

But I shrugged, taking a deep breath and plopped on the couch. It was  all I could afford right now and I was just happy to be out of the  apartment I shared with my ex, Gary. Blech, even his name made me vomit.  Gary. Sad to say, but we'd only been married two days before we  separated. Can you believe it? When they say starter marriage, I don't  think they meant something that lasted a blink of an eye, over before it  even began.

Because Gary had had a mistress the entire time we were dating, making  my stomach churn once again. For the two years before we got married,  two whole frickin' years, Gary had been keeping a sweet blonde thing on  the side, not a day over twenty-one with bolt-on boobs, a tiny waist and  even tinier ass. Yeah, she was Barbie doll skinny whereas I was real  girl, with a butt and hips that were wide and generous.

So I leaned back on the couch, a hand over my eyes. God, I was so  goddamned tired and exhausted, the last couple months had been an  emotional drain that rivaled only a nuclear disaster, my heart pulled  apart, torn to shreds and then flushed down the toilet. But at least I  was out now. I'd left our penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue and was  happy to have my own space now, humble as it might be.

Sighing, I looked around. Yeah, my new place wasn't much bigger than a  postage stamp, and that was including the bathroom. There was a  combination living/dining space with a utility kitchen spread out  against the wall, and then a narrow hall which led to a tiny bedroom in  back. The whole place had been coated in a terrible pastel blue paint  that was cracking and stale, but the broker had assured me it was  lead-free at least.

I stepped into my tiny bathroom, trying not to cower as my eyes were  seared by the overwhelming blueness of the place, the tiles, the tub,  and the sink all the same aquamarine. The color was a throwback to the  eighties when electric teal and hot pink had been popular, but now it  just made my head hurt, my irises imprinted with the flashy shade.

But I was disgusting, sweaty, tired and dirty, and I could keep my eyes  closed in the shower if it came to that. Sighing, I shook my head and  began to strip. The baggy plaid shirt I wore fell to the floor, crumpled  and used, and I popped the waistband of my jeans loose, stepping out of  the hot denim with relief. Taking a deep breath for the first time in  weeks, I stripped off my grimy bra and undies too, wearing nothing now  but my birthday suit and some flirty pink toenail polish.

The spray spurted on with a hiss, the boiler coming to life with a groan  but at least the water was blessedly hot. I stepped into the tiny  stall, so small that I could touch both sides without stretching my arms  and let the spray pound me, closing my eyes, steam filling the  enclosure in a matter of seconds, turning it into a sauna.

But when my hand groped blindly at the ledge, my mistake became  apparent. I'd forgotten to unpack my toiletries and there was no shampoo  or soap in the stall. In fact, there was nothing whatsoever, I'd  forgotten to get a towel, a razor, a loofah, and I was stuck, soaking  wet with nothing to get myself clean. I thought about going with it. I  could rinse myself and call it a day, but my inner self was grossed out.  I'd been moving for ten hours straight, heaving loads of junk, dirty,  dusty and sweaty, and mere water wasn't enough to do the trick. I needed  soap and a good scrub.

So resignedly, I shut off the water and opened the stall door, stepping  out while dripping, a big pool of water forming on the linoleum floor.  Fuck, what a way to start my new life. Reaching down, I grabbed my plaid  shirt and tried to use it as a towel, scrubbing the faded cotton up and  down my curves, trying to soak up as much as possible. But the problem  was my hair. I have curly brown locks and when they get wet, they retain  a ton of water, making me into a human sponge. So even though I tried  to squeeze out the curls, wring out as much excess as possible, it was  useless, the plaid shirt was soaked in seconds.         



Groaning, I turned to my jeans next. Gross, these things were so dirty,  the light blue torn at the knee where I'd fallen, dirt streaks and  random dust covering the denim. It was almost like I'd come from a  construction site, they were so filthy. But I had no choice. So wrapping  the material around me in a makeshift towel, I left the bathroom, my  boobs and cunny each covered by a different pant leg, my tummy bare, my  ass naked.

And my teeth chattered as I tiptoed into the living room. Eff me, it was  cold and I cursed myself as I began rummaging through this box and  that, frantically trying to locate my toiletries. Fuck! I scraped my  hand on the cardboard edge of one container, a red welt rising on my  palm even as I tried to tear open another box, futilely digging through  piles and piles of random items, dishes, books, kitchen utensils mixed  together haphazardly. Why oh why hadn't I labeled my stuff instead of  throwing it together in a jumble? But I knew why  –  I'd been in such a  rush to leave Gary, get out of our joint home asap that I'd tossed  everything together without any organization or planning.

And now I was paying the price, shivering and soaked through like a wet  rat with nothing to wear and no hope of finding anything useful anytime  soon. I almost cried, tears welling up in my eyes. It would be the  perfect beginning to my new life if I kicked it off with a wretched case  of pneumonia, my lungs clogged with fluid, a headache muffling my  hearing, my sinuses clogged. Plus I'd have to stay home sick when my job  was the only thing keeping me afloat, my only source of income.

So I sat back, about to give up, when inspiration struck. I scrabbled  for my cell among the junk and began scrolling furiously. There it was  –   an app called "NYC Concierge." I gasped, and my fingers trembled as I  logged in. A screen flashed to life and a Siri-like voice spoke, "How  may we help you today?"

I ignored the voice, instead choosing to type my request. First up was  shampoo, and upon further thought, conditioner and soap too. And screw  it, might as well order a bathrobe while I was at it. I typed in the  brand Coeur L'Amour, figuring that since I was splurging on a concierge  service, I might as well go all the way and get myself a fancy satin  robe, not just some terrycloth thing that was warm and homey.

And after I'd entered all my items, I pressed send, watching with bated  breath as the program hummed, spitting out the words, "Please wait, we  are thinking." And then the screen flashed. "Thank you. Your items will  be delivered in twenty minutes."

I let out a small yelp of relief, falling back on the couch with a gusty  sigh. Saved, I was saved. A messenger would be here shortly with the  things I'd ordered, I was going to be warm and toasty and clean, and I  couldn't wait.

So I paced a bit, trying to ward off the chill by jumping up and down,  my generous curves bouncing, hoping my neighbors downstairs couldn't  hear. I loved New York City and swore my allegiance to it once more. I  loved how I could get anything and everything delivered at any time of  the day or night, and all it cost was money. Gary wasn't going to ruin  my life, I was going to pull myself up by the bootstraps even if it  killed me, I wasn't going down without a fight.

But in the meantime, I was soaking wet with only my jeans to cover me,  my curves popping out everywhere, droplets spattering as I moved around  the apartment briskly to keep warm. It wasn't ideal, but now the ticker  read fifteen minutes, and my package would be arriving soon. I sighed,  shuddered and forced my mouth into a grim line. What was important was  that I work myself out of this mess and survive to fight another day  …   ex-husband be damned.



The order popped up on my terminal, the screen flashing to life. I  squinted at the monitor, scrutinizing the shopping cart. Hmm, it was  definitely a lady ordering this stuff or at least a dude who wanted to  buy his girl some nice things. Because the soap and shampoo were fancy  brands, French-milled soaps scented with lavender and the robe was a  flimsy thing from an upscale boutique nearby. Well, no worries, NYC  Concierge was on it.

Because I work for a start-up, a concierge service that's accessible  through an on-line app. It's just like an old-time concierge service but  instead of calling someone and placing an order, you type your request  on a phone for delivery. It's not so different from the old days except  the app streamlines things, makes the experience more efficient. Without  a human person on the telephone, there aren't any missed words, we can  read your order verbatim, and we have a handy countdown clock so you  know exactly when your package is arriving.