The Breakfast Delivery Guy Stayed All Morning

That morning I woke up with just enough time and nothing in the fridge. I didn’t feel like going down to the corner supermarket, buying bread, and half-asleep making myself something, so I did the most convenient thing: I ordered breakfast through one of those delivery apps. Coffee, something sweet, fruit. Three taps on the screen and wait.

I’d been living for more than a year in a country whose language I could barely chew through. I worked in English and handled daily life with gestures and a translator, but delivery guys almost never spoke English. Over time I learned the trick: message them in their language, with copied phrases, and send them a photo of the entrance and the apartment number. Otherwise they’d ring from the street, try to explain themselves, and neither of us would understand a thing.

Usually I’d get a curt “ok” and, a while later, see them turn up. That morning I sent the address and photos to a certain Idris, according to the app, and he replied as always. Within minutes the map icon was already on my street. I waited for him to knock and opened the door.

I’d just gotten out of the shower. I was wearing an old T-shirt and shorts, my hair still damp, my feet bare on the parquet floor. On the other side was a man of about twenty-eight, dark skin, a very white smile, and a lean, muscular body the company polo couldn’t begin to hide.

“Hi,” I said, in his language, one of the few words I could say without making a mistake.

He greeted me back and, instead of handing over the bag and leaving, kept staring over my shoulder into the apartment. He said something I didn’t fully understand, but I caught the gist: he was asking whether I lived alone, commenting that the building looked nice, that he was curious about what the flats looked like inside.

He looked nervous and, at the same time, determined. It was a strange combination, wanting something and not quite knowing how to ask for it. I stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

He came in. He set the breakfast bag on the hall table, took off his shoes without being asked, and began to scan the living room as if he were visiting a flat he was thinking of renting. I pointed to the sofa and offered him water or juice. He shook his head. He didn’t want any of that.

“Sit down,” I told him, patting the cushion beside me.

He did as I said. And I, having already understood where things were going, sat as close as I could, letting my leg brush his. We talked nonsense, half in broken English, half in gestures: where I was from, how long I’d been in the city, whether I liked it. He answered with short phrases and long looks, and every time he spoke his eyes drifted to my crotch, where my shorts no longer hid the fact that I was already getting hard.

I knew he wasn’t going to make the first real move. He’d had the nerve to come inside, but that was where his courage ran out. So I pressed my leg a little more firmly against his. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t reach for anything either. He stayed still, waiting, his breathing just a little faster than normal.

I decided to risk it and laid my hand on his thigh. I slid it up slowly, feeling the hard muscle under the fabric of his pants, until I brushed the bulge in his groin. It was huge, heavy, and halfway to hard. I let out a low groan just from feeling it under my palm.

That changed everything. His reaction wasn’t the one I feared: instead of pulling away, he caught my hand with his and pressed it against his cock, making me feel it grow. For a second I thought he’d politely give it back and invent some excuse to leave. He didn’t. With one hand he held mine in place, and with the other he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me toward him.

I didn’t hesitate. I kissed him.

We kissed on the sofa for a good while, unhurried, as if we already knew each other. His mouth was warm, his tongue broad and hungry, and he smelled clean, of cheap soap and the street. I slid my hand under his polo and stroked his firm chest; he opened my legs with his knee and slipped his between my thighs, crushing my erection against his leg. I started rubbing myself against him without even noticing, biting his lower lip, gasping for air. When I felt the sofa was starting to get too small for what we wanted, I stood up, took him by the hand, and led him to the bedroom. Over his pants, I could make out a long, curved cock already pulling at the waistband.

***

I tore his polo off. He had the torso of a man who works with his body, not a gym body: defined pectorals without exaggeration, strong arms, a line of hair running down his abdomen and disappearing into his pants. I ran my hands over him slowly while he looked at me without saying a word. I bent down and licked his dark nipple, bit it carefully, and he let out a deep gasp that made my thighs clench with desire.

He pointed at his pants and asked something. I understood “Can I?” or rather “Do you want me to?” I didn’t wait for an answer: I unbuttoned them and pulled them down myself, along with his briefs, in one motion to his knees.

And then I saw it.

His cock flopped against his thigh in a crack of movement, half hard, and it was already obscene. Thick at the base, very dark, the lighter head peeking out from a retracted foreskin, with a fat vein running along the top. Even though it wasn’t fully hard yet, you didn’t need much imagination to figure out where this was going. My mouth went dry. I wrapped my hand around it and couldn’t quite close my fingers all the way; I weighed it in my palm, moved it up and down a couple of times, and felt it swell, felt it go rigid and heavy in my hand. The balls, hanging low and heavy beneath, pressed against his body. He saw my face, smiled crookedly, and with a couple of words and a gesture toward me, asked if he could undress me.

I nodded.

He moved behind me. I felt the weight of his body against my back, his cock pressing fully against the small of my back, hard, burning, the head wetting my skin with precum, as he lifted my T-shirt with both hands. He ran over my shoulders, my arms, my nipples — pinching them until I gasped — my abdomen, and pulled my shorts down in one smooth motion. His cock slid between my thighs, hot, long, the head peeking out in front, brushing my balls and the root of mine, and he hugged me from behind, pressing his whole torso to my skin. He started rocking against my ass, rubbing his cock in the crease, up and down, and I clamped my thighs to catch him better. His lips found my neck; he bit me slowly while one hand slid down to grip my cock and work it with a slowness that had me moaning.

“Fuck me,” I begged him in a whisper, even though I knew he couldn’t understand me.

He guided me to the bed almost in his arms.

He started with my back. An awkward but generous massage, big palms kneading my shoulders, moving down my spine, spreading out toward my ass. He parted my cheeks with his thumbs and lowered his face; I felt his hot breath there, and then his tongue, broad and wet, licking my hole from top to bottom. I shuddered all over. He licked me hungrily, pushing his tongue inside, and I buried my face in the pillow and shoved my ass against his mouth. Then he lay back, relaxed, his cock pointing at the ceiling, hard, rigid, with a thick bead rocking on the tip and that smile of someone who knows what’s about to happen. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I stretched out my hand and grabbed him by the base; he gently pushed me back toward his mouth to kiss me again.

I traced his torso with my fingers, down to his stomach, tried to go lower. He stopped me.

“Wait,” he said, or something like it, and finished the sentence with gestures: he hadn’t fucked anyone in a long time. If I touched his cock too soon, he’d cum right away.

I straddled his legs without touching him where he feared I would, and focused on everything else. I stroked his biceps, his pecs, his taut abdomen; I slid down his hard thighs. His cock bounced against his own belly, impatient, leaving a sticky trail on his skin, and I was dying to suck it.

I slid lower. I kissed the inner part of his thighs, licked his balls slowly — one first, then the other, taking them whole into my mouth — letting my breath reach him before my tongue did. I ran my tongue under them, from the balls to the base of his cock, and moved up the underside, following the vein, until I reached the glans. He breathed deeper and deeper, with his hands spread on the sheets and his knuckles white. I brushed my lips against the head, teasing, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please,” he asked, voice breaking.

I couldn’t hold back either. I opened my mouth as far as I could and took the head inside. I started slowly, carefully, because there was no way to take him all at once: my mouth filled just with the head. I licked around the corona, sucking hard, letting the salty taste of precum flood my tongue. He moaned low, restrained, barely moving his hips. Inch by inch I got used to him, relaxing my throat, taking more and more, until I managed to swallow him deep, feeling the tip hit the back and the hairs at the base tickle my nose. My eyes filled with tears. He moved his pelvis softly, without forcing it, letting me work, both hands in my hair, not pushing but setting the rhythm. I pulled off, breathed, and went back down to the root, coating him in spit, spitting, letting the saliva run down his cock and wet his balls.

I sucked his cock for long minutes, alternating: sometimes my throat, taking him all the way down; other times just the head, sucking it with tight lips while I jacked the base with my hand. I licked his balls in between, kissed them, went back up. After a while he gently moved my head away and whispered that he was close, that he was about to cum. I ignored him. I went back to his cock with even more hunger, determined not to let go, pressing my lips to the crown and flicking my tongue against the frenulum. He tried to pull me away once more, tugging my hair, but I shook my head no and kept going, sucking faster, deeper. I felt his balls tighten, felt his cock thicken in my mouth, and suddenly he came. Thick spurts of hot semen hit my palate, one after another; I swallowed the first ones in time, but there were so many that some escaped at the corners of my mouth and ran down my chin. He gave up against the bed, drained, and I stayed there a little longer with his cock in my mouth, sucking it slowly, milking it with my lips, making sure not a drop was left inside.

***

He made room for me beside him. I lay down with my back to him and he hugged me from behind, his cock still heavy, soft and wet, resting between my buttocks, his breathing slow on my nape.

“Are you in a hurry?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

We stayed like that, still, letting our bodies calm down. But little by little I felt it: what rested against me was getting hard again, pressing more firmly against my skin, finding its place between my cheeks. I wasn’t ready to let it go yet, and apparently neither was he.

I turned around, found his mouth, kissed him — I still had his taste in mine and he didn’t mind, he sucked my tongue like he liked it — and went back down again. He asked me to go slowly this time, because he wanted it to last. I obeyed. I licked his cock calmly, without any rush, tracing each vein with the tip of my tongue while he stroked the back of my neck and let out deeper and deeper sounds. I sucked his balls one by one, with his cock already hard again pressed against my cheek, letting him smack my face with it. He would prop himself up to try to reach me, stretching; the more he stretched, the deeper I felt him in my throat.

I got up to fetch the lube. That cock wasn’t going to fit in my ass on spit and good intentions alone. I came back with the bottle, coated his cock well until it gleamed, and handed it to him. He took it from my hand and laid me on my back, my legs open and my knees against my chest. He started prepping me patiently, one finger first, long and thick, entering slowly to the knuckle, turning inside me. Then two, opening me, spreading the lube, unhurried, looking at my face the whole time so he wouldn’t miss a single expression. When he slid in the third, a long gasp escaped me; he scissored them, widening me, and I pushed my ass against his hand asking for more.

When I was ready he made me stand and I positioned myself over him, straddling him. I grabbed his cock with one hand, aimed it at my hole, and lowered myself little by little. The head pressed in, thick, insistent. I felt it forcing its way through, a fierce burn that cut off my breath; when the glans gave way and slid in all at once, I let out a cry. I needed him all the way inside. I stopped, breathed, let my ass adjust to his shape, and kept going, millimeter by millimeter, feeling every vein, every inch of that cock opening me from within. Slowly, very slowly, until I was sitting all the way down with him deep inside, touching places I didn’t know existed. I stayed still, mouth open, cock pressed to my belly and dripping precum onto his navel.

I started moving. He held my hands, anchoring me, while I picked up the pace little by little, lifting myself until only the head stayed inside and then lowering myself again to swallow it whole. He asked for gentleness, asked me to go slow, said he wanted to feel every centimeter. I did as he asked. I rocked on top of him for a long while, circling my hips, feeling him stir inside me, rubbing slowly against the exact spot that made me see stars. He stayed still, letting himself be ridden, unhurried, both of us lost in the same thing. My moans got higher and higher; my cock, hard and neglected, slapped against my stomach with every drop.

He sat up, hugged me, and without pulling out he laid me on my back without breaking rhythm, staying on top of me with my legs hooked around his waist. Now he was the one in charge. He started fucking me slowly, pushing all the way in and staying there, grinding my ass against the bed while I dug my nails into his back. Then he picked up the pace, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with a hard thrust that sent me lifting off the mattress. Every stroke tore a moan from me; I asked for more force, and he gave it to me.

After a while he warned me he was close. I asked if he could change the rhythm and he nodded. He pulled out, turned me face down, lifted my ass, and drove back in with one thrust. He started fucking me on all fours, gripping my hips, hitting me hard, his balls slapping mine with every shove, the bed creaking, the sound of flesh colliding filling the whole room. He reached under me and grabbed my cock, stroking it in the same rhythm he was using to take me.

“Can I…?” he asked, not finishing the sentence, between gasps.

I didn’t answer with words. I pushed my ass back to meet him halfway, three, four, five times, hard, dry thrusts that stole my breath. He stretched his legs, clenched his fists on my hips, and let out a hoarse shout. He emptied into me in hot spurts, one after another; I felt his cock throbbing deep inside, felt him filling me completely. I came almost at the same time, barely touching myself, just with the last thrust and his hand on my cock, splashing the sheet in long jets. I slowed down but he didn’t stop; he kept moving slowly inside me, dragging out the orgasm, while I, eyes closed and ass full, felt his semen start to trickle down over his balls. He held me pressed to his body until the last tremor.

When he finally pulled out, I could feel his semen slipping out from inside me and running down between my legs. He watched it, smiled, and ran his fingers through it, gathering it up and pushing it back inside me, as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop.

***

We lay there a while, sweaty and out of breath. Then he asked, almost shyly, if he could shower with me.

We went to the bathroom together. He soaped my back with his open hands and went down to my ass, rinsing me out thoroughly inside with his fingers and the hot water; I returned the favor, kneeling in front of him to make sure I left his cock perfectly clean, giving the tip one last lick that made him laugh. The hot water and the friction woke it up again, swelling against my cheek, but we were both exhausted. We laughed, not fully understanding each other, and left it there.

He dressed in silence. Before leaving, he thanked me and, pointing at the forgotten bag on the table, let out a phrase with an apologetic look on his face: he was sorry my coffee had gone cold. I waved it off. He gave me one last kiss at the door and left.

Twenty minutes later he rang again. I opened the door, dressed now, and it was him again, with a freshly made coffee in his hand and that same white smile.

“So you can drink it hot,” he said.

He handed it to me, kissed me, and left.

From that morning on, Idris wrote to me almost every day to ask whether I had time for breakfast. And on the days when I didn’t have to go to work early, the delivery I ordered didn’t appear in any app.