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.

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