Package Delivery

Hours later, sparks showered the concrete floor of Bridget's apartment as she used the 4 1/2" angle grinder to shave off the inner curve of the R.A.I.D pack's left chassis panel, the heavy tool steel clamped to her kitchen table with a rusty c-clamp. She clicked the button off, pausing to wipe her forehead as she measured the piece at six separate points to make sure she hadn't grinded off too much. Satisfied that she was within 1/32nd of an inch, which was well within tolerance for a piece like this; she sat the grinder down and wiped her sweaty forehead with her forearm.

She laid it over top the right side, marked it with soapstone, and used a heavy file to smooth out the rough spots with long, hard strokes. Outside, a thin stray dog ate the overcooked stew from her now blackened cooking pot as it used the stairwell to shield itself from a mildly acidic rain shower that had kicked up sometime in the last hour. She had used a chain and padlock to secure the cooking pot to the guard rail so that no Night Shifter or scrapper would be able to run off with it. Satisfied with her work, she turned her attention to the connecting brace and thruster mounts which she was able to fabricate from the remainder of the M2 tool steel plate.

She was halfway through welding them together when the final air horn sounded, which would normally be the signal that her shift was over; making it around 8pm. "Damn. Lost track of time." she thought. She finished her bead, unwilling to stop now; and looked at it with a feeling of pride and accomplishment. She'd done all that she could do here until Elliot got her the decommissioned R.A.I.D pack. Bridget sat the file down and used her foot to hook the chair and drag it away from the table. She wiped the metal shavings away with her gloved hand, sat, and lit a cigarette. No sooner had she done so when she heard the dog outside growl and the chain rattle.

"Thud! Thud! Thud!" resounded from her door. Bridget quickly abandoned the cigarette and drew her revolver from her fatigue pants and leveled it at the center of the knocking. "Thud Thud Thud!"

"Who is it?" she asked, thumbing the hammer back on the old Webley .45.

"Just lookin' to get out of this rain, ma'am! I'm red as a beet!" came a young sounding voice with an old Chicago accent from the other side. She slowly approached the door, grabbing her welding torch as she did so. Tucking her gun under her arm, she opened the gas and oxygen valves and used her lit cigarette to ignite the flame; her fingers ready to depress the trigger and bring a 3500 degree nearly invisible blue flame to life. She slowly made her way to the door and peered out through the peep hole to see the distorted image of a young man holding a package; his skin clearly irritated from the rain. The mangy dog was sitting now, licking his lips and wagging his tail. She took a breath, slid the heavy chain lock into place, and undid the deadbolt.

"What do you have there?" she asked. He leaned close, trying to look through the peep hole; and held it up to show her "For Bridget; From Doug" written on the side. She opened the door just enough so he could see half of her lovely face and the barrel of the gun. "Just set it down." she said, her heart fluttering a bit in anticipation. He smiled briefly before he saw she wasn't going to open the door.

"Ah. Yeah, right. I'll just set it down." He said, placing the package in front of her door. He looked back over his shoulder at the slightly steaming concrete as a rumble of thunder announced a fresh downpour was on its way. He put on his best fake smile, turned up his collar, and started to walk up the steps back into the acid rain. Bridget sighed, looking at the stray dog.

"I blame you for this." she said to the dog, eliciting a tilt of the head and a wag from the tail. "Wait! Come on before you start losing skin." she said, unlatching the chain after setting the still burning cutting torch upright on the floor. His eyes lit up as he grabbed the package and smiled as she let him in. She quickly retrieved the torch as he wasted no time entering her apartment; pulling his steaming coat off and tossing it to the concrete floor. "Sink is in the kitchen," she informed him while keeping the gun level. He nodded understandingly, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm.

He rapidly made his way over to the faucet, splashing water on his exposed face and neck. His fedora had shielded him from most, but not all, of the caustic fluid. "Gee, thanks Miss. Its gettin' pretty bad out there." he said as he splashed water on his hair. Bridget stood there in her thin, tiny gray tank top and tight work jeans that had similar access cuts for her pussy and ass as her shorts did, and decided to set some ground rules.

"Alright. You can stay till the rain let's up, but you are a guest in my house and I don't want to have to explain to the nice man in blue why I had to shoot a delivery boy, understand?" He nodded his head, holding up his hands again in a show of submission.

"No problem! Readin' ya loud and clear!" he promised before dabbing a small blister on the back of his hand with a wet handkerchief. He looked at the pink spot on it and winced. "What's so important thatta guy will pay extra to have a package delivered after hours, anyway; if you don't mind me askin'?"

"I do mind you asking, actually." she warned. He stopped dabbing his wound and turned to look at her.

"Listen, Little Miss Hard-Boiled, I'm just tryin' not to melt; okay? I ain't gonna try to use you or nothin'. Yeesh. No wonder why people don't trust each other no more." Bridget grimaced a bit. She didn't used to be this way; but after her encounter with an intruder she didn't feel like taking any chances. "And let yer dog in, for cryin' out loud." That did it. She sighed, and lowered the gun as she held the hammer with her thumb and pulled the trigger, slowly lowering it back to the decocked position.

"Sorry, its just dangerous being a girl in this part of town." she said. He let out a breath, and nodded. "Have a seat. I'll get you some tea." she offered in a ****, slightly embarrassed voice. He chuckled a bit, probably finding her accent and the offer of tea amusing. She opened the cabinet to fish out a packet of Lipton's.

"Iced, please." he said jokingly as he held up his red hands. She chuckled a bit at that. He had to know there was no way she'd have enough money to afford a refrigerator with a freezer. Instead, she pulled out a tube of Johnson & Johnson "Acidaway" cream from the kitchen cabinet; a fairly cheap but effective skin cream used by Diesel City residents to both protect the skin from the rain and sooth it should they get caught outdoors.

"Ahh, you're a saint!" he said, quickly squeezing out a dollop and rubbing his face and hands with it. She placed his tea in front of him and sat down across the table.

"You Catholic?" she asked, extinguishing her torch. He sipped his tea as he worked the teabag up and down while he nodded.

"Yeah. St. Mary's on 108th. You?" She looked at him, a slightly sad smile on her face. She shrugged.

"Kind of hard to make it to Mass on my schedule. God's got plenty of people who need their prayers answered a whole lot more than I do. Besides, the Pope's in Rome..."

"And Rome is in the Stadt. Yeah, yeah." he said, completing an oft repeated phrase among members of their faith that struggled to come to terms with a Pontiff that was effectively a prisoner and occasional puppet of the Stadti regime. "So can I ask again just why I was given a bonafide five dollar bill to run this package down here?" She shifted in her seat, her intimacy dampening at the thought of the harness now waiting to be used.

"Its personal." Bridget replied, a slight smile on her face as her anticipation to see what Doug had done grew. She wished the rain would stop so she could feel the piston inside of her.

"Alright, then. You tell me what your "personal" delivery is and I'll tell you something personal about me. Anything you want to know." he said, his skin beginning to return to its proper color as the cream corrected his pH levels. Bridget's mind was now on Cynthia, and what she planned on doing with her harness. She looked him up and down. He was about her age with slightly long, messy hair and a smoothly shaven face that made him easy to talk to. She grinned coyly.

"Very well, then. Who performed your second "confirmation"?" she asked, curious as to how it worked in America. In Ireland, it had become practice for the clergy to take one's virginity in their role as "servants of the Lord" to save your soul before figuratively throwing you to the wolves of the general populace. Not surprisingly, it was one of the more popular edicts from the new Pope.

"Sister Sally-Anne Lewis..." he said with a smile on his face. "She was very, very adamant that I learn the proper methods of bein' fruitful and multiplyin'." he said with a grin and a laugh. Bridget's eyes lit up as she laughed with him. "You?"

"Deacon Ian Fitzpatrick, though Father Reilly "anointed" me in the Confessional beforehand. Barely got it all out of my hair before the good Deacon got a hold of me." He held up his tea in a mock benediction. She crossed herself and laughed.

"So then, what's in the package?" he asked, nonchalantly. Bridget bit her lip, reasoning with herself.

"Doug probably didn't even fill it up yet. I'll have to test it, afterall." she thought; wondering how much cum she could get from him. It was a large contraption. She'd have to get him really worked up for her purposes...