I am Sabina – 38, curvy and composed, with a figure that speaks before I do: 40-36-44. Boobs that make heads turn. A waist that dips into full, round hips. And an ass that knows how to make an exit – slow, deliberate, unforgettable.
That afternoon, I wore a wine-red satin gown. Thin straps, deep neckline, no bra. The soft fabric framed the swell of my breasts and clung to my waist like a whispered promise. It floated down my hips and hugged the round curve of my ass like it was drawn just for me.
I hadn’t ordered groceries because I needed them. I ordered them because I knew what usually came with them.
I knew how the delivery boys looked at me.
Some tried to hide it. Others didn’t. But either way, their eyes always lingered – on my chest, on the sway of my hips, on the shape of my body as I walked away.
But this one… He was new. Early twenties. Fresh-faced. Still trying to figure out how not to stare.
He failed the moment I opened the door. His eyes dropped straight to my chest – shamelessly, instinctively. His lips parted, like he forgot what he came for.
“Ma’am,” he said, voice tight, hands gripping the bags. “Your… groceries.”
I smiled, slow and indulgent. “Come in.”
He stepped inside, still pretending not to look. But I felt it – his eyes tracing the line of my neckline, sliding down to the way the silk curved over my ass as I walked ahead.
He wasn’t just delivering groceries.
He was about to be delivered into something else entirely.
I guided him into the kitchen. He set the bags down, flustered, distracted, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching the sway of my breasts as I leaned in.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, slowly straightening.
“N-No, ma’am,” he said, eyes flicking away.
“Didn’t mean to stare?” I asked. “Or couldn’t help it?”
“I… I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You’re forgiven,” I said, brushing a hand down his arm. “But you haven’t earned your tip yet.”
I left the room, deliberately slow, and returned with some folded cash.
He held up a hand. “I don’t need a tip, ma’am…”
“Oh?” I tilted my head. “Then what do you want?”
He hesitated. Eyes flicked toward the bedroom. He saw it – my lace bra lying on the bed, forgotten.
“Go on,” I said. “Say it.”
“I’d… like your bra.”
I raised a brow. “Is that what you think a woman like me gives away so easily?”
“No, ma’am,” he whispered. “But I- I had keep it safe.”
I liked the honesty in that.
I let him have it.
And when he brought it to his face – inhaling softly, reverently – it wasn’t just about fabric. He wasn’t imagining the bra. He was imagining me. My skin. My scent. My warmth.
But he wasn’t leaving with just that. Not with the way he looked at me.
I stepped closer, letting the heat between us fill the space. “How badly do you want more?”
He swallowed. “Anything you ask, ma’am.”
“Then tell me. Do you want what touched my skin… or do you want to feel it for yourself?”
He hesitated… then nodded. “Both.”
That was all I needed.
“Good,” I whispered, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “Call me by my name.”
“Sabina… ma’am.”
I leaned in close, so close he could feel the warmth of my breath. “Do you want to taste what you’ve been staring at?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, breathless.
I took him by the hand and guided him to the chair. He sat, knees spread, trying to steady his breath. I stood between his thighs, my gown shifting just enough to let one strap slip, revealing the soft curve of a breast, flushed and full.
His hands reached for my boobs, slow at first, then urgent – cupping, kissing, lips closing around my nipple like he’d been starving. He moaned while licking my nipple, and I smiled, savoring the control.
His dick was hard already – and I hadn’t even touched him.
I knelt slowly, my eyes never leaving his crotch, my hands unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. When I freed him, he groaned, his body pulsing with need as I wrapped my fingers around his penis, slow and sure.
I lowered my head and let my lips brush against his penis skin, a featherlight tease.
His hands gripped the chair.
When my tongue traced the edge of his penis gently, slowly, he nearly lost it. I explored every inch, circling, tasting, with my tongue making him feel every bit of the hunger I’d been holding back. He whispered my name again, voice raw with sexual tension.
“Sabina… ma’am…”
I smiled and took his penis deeper, warm, slow, and deliberate. His hips jerked. His whole body tensed.
“I… I’m close…”
“You don’t need to hold back,” I whispered, then let him all the way into my throat.
And he did.
He surrendered completely.
The moment overwhelmed his penis and his sperm, full of heat and release, wave after wave of pulsing intensity. I held his penis deep, my mouth welcoming all of it. I swallowed his sperm, what I could, the rest slipping free, warm against my lips.
The drops lingered in my mouth, and I caught them with my fingers.
And tasted it slowly, deliberately, making my eyes locked on his.
His breath stuttered. His knees trembled.
When it was over, he collapsed against the chair, dazed and undone. I stood, smoothing my gown back into place, licking the corner of my mouth with a slow smile.
I leaned down until my lips brushed his ear.
“That,” I whispered, “was your tip.”
He looked up, eyes wide. “Thank you, Sabina ma’am…”
He blinked slowly, chest still rising and falling. “You’re… incredible.”
I laughed softly. “Tell your friends. But don’t get too hopeful – I only tip like that once.”
He left sometime later, still dazed, my bra tucked into his pocket like a secret treasure.
And me?
Then I turned and walked away – hips swaying, mouth still tingling – already knowing he’d be back.