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THE LATE-NIGHT DELIVERY
A Short Story
by
Yungie Boi
2026
Copyright
The Late-Night Delivery
Copyright © 2026 by Yungie Boi
All rights reserved.
Disclaimer
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for mature readers aged 18 and older only. By purchasing and reading this story, you acknowledge that you are a consenting adult of legal age, fully aware of the graphic depictions of consensual power exchange, dominance and submission, older/younger dynamics, and intense erotic acts contained herein. All characters are fictional and above 18 years old. This is adult erotic fiction.
THE LATE-NIGHT DELIVERY
The GPS is lying. The blue dot is on the wrong side of the building, and the address—417 Greer Street—is somewhere on the other side of this block, and the block is a wall of brick and boarded-up windows and a chain-link fence with a hole cut in it. The alley is the shortcut. I know it because I've driven this route four times this month, and every time the GPS sends me past the turn and circles me back, and every time I end up at the mouth of this alley, and every time I think about cutting through and don't.
Tonight I do.
The pizza bag is on the passenger seat. Large pepperoni, extra cheese, side of garlic knots. Twenty-seven fifty, plus whatever tip. The delivery is already late—seven minutes, the app counting down in red—and the customer called twice. His voice was low. Rough. The kind of voice that doesn't ask, tells. "Where's my food." Not a question. A statement.
I grab the bag. Get out of the car. The alley mouth is narrow—two buildings pressed together, the gap barely wide enough for a dumpster—and the light from the street doesn't reach past the first ten feet. Beyond that, dark. The kind of dark that swallows.
I walk in. My sneakers are quiet on the concrete—wet, slick, the puddles catching the faint orange glow from the street behind me—and the pizza bag is warm against my side, and my phone is in my back pocket, and the alley smells like piss and mold and old smoke.