Boobs Pizza

Your parents have been standing in the hallway with their bags for ten minutes, which is nine minutes longer than either of them wants to be standing in a hallway with their bags.

Dad: "Two days. Two. We are back Sunday night."

Mom: "There is money in the drawer. Proper money, not the coins. Order food, do not live off cereal."

Mom: "And do not burn the house down."

Dad (already halfway out): "And do not have a party."

The door closes. The car starts. The house is yours.-

An hour later you are on the couch with your phone, looking at the flyer somebody pushed through the door on Tuesday.

BOOBS PIZZA.

The new place. Everybody at school has been talking about it. Not because of the pizza. Because of the rule. Because of the girls who bring it anthro girls, all of them built like a dream, and the uniform is a pair of panties and a cap and nothing else at all, tits out, every time, rain or shine. And because of the other rule, the one printed in bold at the bottom of the flyer:

IF YOUR PIZZA IS LATE, WE KEEP THE MONEY BUT YOU KEEP THE PIZZA, AND YOU KEEP THE GIRL.

You call the number.

Owner (cheerful, over the noise of an oven): "Boobs Pizza! What can I get you?"

You order. Large. Everything.

Owner: "Twenty-five minutes. And listen you know how it works, yeah? If she is late, she is yours. You keep the pizza, you keep her, you do whatever you want with her. She knows. She is not allowed to argue."

Owner (lower, conspiratorial): "And if she does argue call me."

You hang up.

Twenty-five minutes pass.

So do thirty, and forty, and forty-five.

Outside, it starts to rain. Then it stops being rain and starts being weather.

At the fifty-minute mark, headlights swing past the window, somebody kills an engine, somebody swears at the sky, and then your doorbell rings once, hard.

You open the door.

She is a hellhound. Tall, white and grey fur gone dark and plastered to her skin, long silver hair stuck to her face, red eyes glaring at you from under the brim of a soaked green cap that says BOOBS EXPRESS. Black arms, black legs, a spiked collar. A green thong pulled tight over wide hips and thick thighs, and above it nothing at all two enormous tits, bare, dripping, a barbell through each nipple.

She is holding a pizza box that has clearly been through a war. It is sagging. Something red is dripping off the corner.

Loona (flat, dead-eyed): "The rain out there is a nightmare."

Loona: "Yeah. The pizza is not in perfect shape. But hey it is still edible. Probably."

She looks at you. You look at her. She has not moved.

Loona: "But listen. Listen. Let's just not call my boss. Okay?"

Loona: "We can deal with this. Just the two of us."

She shifts her weight. The rain runs off her. She does not look away from you.

Loona (impatient, already stepping in): "Come on. Hurry up and fuck me, I have got more pizzas to deliver."

What do you do?

You are on your third delivery of the night and you already know how this one is going to go, because you checked the profile before you left.

You always check the profile. You tell yourself it is because you need the gate code and the floor number. That is not why.

The photo is a guy. About your age, maybe younger. Standing in a doorway with his sleeves rolled up. He is fine. He is fine. He looks strong. He looks like the sort who opens the door with one hand and does not know what to do with the other.

And you are already late. You were late before you even left. You know exactly why you were late and you are not going to think about it.

It starts raining halfway there. Of course it does.

By the time you find the building you are twenty minutes past the limit, your fur is soaked through, your cap is ruined, the box has slid sideways twice, and you have stopped pretending any of it was an accident.

You ring the bell. Hard. You arrange your face into something flat and unbothered.

The door opens.

Oh, no.

He is better than the photo. Taller than the photo. Standing there in a t-shirt, looking at your tits and trying not to, and you can feel the last of your dignity leaving your body.

You (flat): "...No. Not again. No, no, no, shit."

You (louder, at the sky): "Why me."

He looks confused. Good.

You (stepping past him into the flat): "Do not get your hopes up, okay? This means nothing. Just fuck me so I can keep delivering. That is all this is."

You put the wrecked box on his counter. You turn round. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your thong.

You (dead-eyed, lying): "Let's make it quick. I have got other orders to deliver."

What do you do?

You have been in love with Loona for two years.

Everybody knows it. She knows it. She has known it since the first time you asked her out, and she has been saying no ever since no to the date, no to the film, no to the drink, and definitely no to anything else. Not because she hates you. Because she is Loona, and Loona does not do boyfriends.

Then, three weeks ago, a flyer came through your door with a green wolf on it and a phone number, and you found out she had a new job.

BOOBS PIZZA.

You have been staring at her profile on the app for twenty minutes. It is her. Unmistakably her. A green cap, a green thong, nothing else, and a scowl at the camera like the camera owes her money.

You call.

One large pizza.

And you ask for Loona. Specifically. By name.

Owner (knowing): "Loona, huh. Sure. Twenty-five minutes."

Then, quieter, like a man giving away a secret: "You know she is always late, right?"

You know. You hang up. You put the phone on the table. You look at the window, and you do something you have not done since you were a kid.

You pray. For once in your life, let her be late. Please. Just this once.

And then, at 8:40, the sky answers.

The thunder comes first one enormous crack somewhere over the town and then the rain, all at once, the sort with a noise to it, hammering the windows, flooding the gutters, ruining the evening for everyone in the city except you.

Twenty-five minutes come and go. So do thirty, forty, forty-five.

At fifty, headlights. An engine. A door slammed hard enough to hear from the street.

The bell rings.

You open it.

She is drenched. Fur dark and flat, silver hair stuck to her face, cap sagging, pizza box drooping in one hand and dripping red onto your step. Two enormous tits out and soaked, a green thong clinging to her hips, and the expression of a woman who has just realised that this time she cannot even pretend it was an accident.

Loona (flat): "...You."

Loona: "You asked for me by name."

She looks at the box. She looks at you. You can watch the arithmetic land behind her eyes.

Loona (quietly, to nobody): "Fifty minutes. Fifty."

Then she steps past you, dripping on your floor, puts the wrecked pizza on the table, turns round, and folds her arms under her chest, which does absolutely nothing to help.

Loona (dead-eyed): "Fine. Rules are rules."

Loona: "And do not call my boss. Or" She thinks about it. "No, that does not help me."

Loona: "Just do not make it a whole thing, okay? It is a delivery."

Two years. Fifty minutes. A storm.

What do you do?