I had worked the past eight years at what I thought was the perfect job.
I had come home to my native Ozarks after many years of chasing ambition and wealth – and was glad to settle down in the county of my ancestors. A national package delivery company had a route open in our area and, after several weeks of interviews and evaluations, my background of long hours and honest work paid off and I was hired. My job consisted of getting up early enough to get to the area distribution center 50 miles away by 7 a.m., looking through my itinerary for the day, making any calls I needed to if I thought someone might not be home, completing a little paperwork and then driving all day through the most beautiful part of the world meeting people who I had grown up with, and who I enjoyed interacting with.
Within weeks I had relearned the first names of most of the people in our remote county, and where to turn on the winding little country roads in order to make my way to their front doors.
What a job! I had enjoyed the past eight years immensely. That is why my actions on one special spring day were seemingly incomprehensible.
One of the major stops on my route – after hitting the few businesses in town – was a large sawmill about 15 miles out of town. For many years I had stopped there on my way back to the distribution center, but recently they had installed a lot of new equipment and needed the various small parts and tools which they received almost daily at a more appropriate time in the day. Therefore I tried to be there by 9 a.m. Our aim is to please.
This particular day I was bouncing down the rocky road to the mill, thinking about nothing in general, other than the fact I was quite horny. My wife had left me a year and a half before – too many hours, too tired at night and on my days off.
I had one package to deliver before I got to the mill. It was for Raymond and Barbara Shillington, a couple about my age who had bought a 240-acre farm – cattle ranch, actually – in the narrow valley near the mill a little more than three years ago. Shillington had been some type of civil engineer back east, and his attractive wife had been a consultant at some kind of an art museum. They had settled in quickly and developed a narrow network of friends and acquaintances: primarily people in the county with money, the movers and shakers. Shillington had been elected to the local school board and I saw him there regularly when I attended their meetings just to have something to do at nights. I ran into his wife once or twice a month at the only grocery store in town, and enjoyed making small talk just to see her adorable smile and get a closer look at her shapely, womanly figure.
Each of the last three years at Christmas time I had delivered numerous packages to their modest home, which was an old, two-story country home which they had spent a great deal of time and money remodeling. She had always come to the door at the sound of my horn, or at my knock, pleasantly passing small talk as I secured her signature on my computerized tablet.
I loved the way she dressed, with simple elegance, allowing her clothing to accentuate her beauty – and figure – rather than hide it, unlike many of the women past 40 in our community. Of course, I had always arrived at the Shillington home in the mid-afternoon. Today was to be different: very different.
As I turned into their 50-yard long driveway I saw the man of the house on his tractor in a field a quarter of a mile way, spreading nitrogen. When I drove into the front yard of the home I sounded my horn twice, loudly, and then scurried about the truck to get their package and my signature pad.
I mounted their front porch and walked past their large picture window to the door, but avoided the impulse to look into their home: invasion of privacy according to company policy.
I knocked loudly and waited a minute or two, before knocking again. The package demanded a signature, so I had picked it back up to return to the truck when the door opened a crack and I heard Mrs. Shillington's soft voice.
"Can you just leave the package there on the porch?" she asked politely.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but it requires a signature," I said, looking out into the field and seeing the husband make a turn and start a new row with his tractor.
"Okay, give me a second," she said, closing the door. A minute later she opened the door, stepping through it and the outer storm door, reaching for my signature pad. The package was long – I think it was a tree stand for deer hunting – and I had sat it on one end and laid the pad on the waist-high top.
She had clearly been in the shower, her shoulder-length, light-brown hair glistening and dark from the recent washing. She was wearing a white, terrycloth robe that ended about three inches above her knee. It was a wrap-around robe with no buttons, just a tie string at the waist which she had unknowingly tied rather loosely in her haste.
Just before leaning down to sign the computer pad, her wet hair evidently had turned cold on her neck and she, naturally, and evidently without consideration that I was a single man in need of a woman's attention, raised both arms, loosened the neckline of the robe, pulled her wet hair forward on her skull and then casually flipped it back outside the top of the robe. Her actions were instinctive, she had probably done it a million times, but I felt a longing deep in my loins when I saw her round breasts press against the material, revealing that part of her soft, feminine figure.
I had been watching her surreptitiously and found her eyes immediately as she looked up at my face.
"I just need your name in the little box there," I said, handing her the plastic stylus. She leaned forward to sign the waist-high pad and the front of her robe dropped open just a little – but enough to reveal about 75% of one of the most beautiful breasts I had ever had the pleasure to voyeur. It was round and full at the bottom, and a little flat at the top (she probably had breast-fed a child or two and was showing the effect of carrying around milk-filled breasts for a year or more). I could not see the nipple, but the gentle curves of one side and the bottom of the breast were doing amazing things to my balls; I could feel them moving in my pants, lightly churning in the restrictions of my boxer briefs.
As soon as I took the pad away, she squatted just a little to get a better grip on the package, hugging it to her chest and shutting my line of vision to her breast. The bottom of the robe, however, parted briefly as she stepped slightly forward to grab the box, revealing a beautifully formed leg all the way up to a small triangle at the bottom of her panties where her thighs met.
I smiled inwardly when I saw the yellow cotton panties, for my wife had worn the same kind of underwear all of our married life. The panties have a seam that goes across the top and bottom of the front panel. Because the seams irritated my wife she always wore her panties inside-out. Barbara Shillington did the same.
"Have you got it?" I asked, hoping she would answer to the negative and ask me to carry it inside for her.
"Yes, I think so," she said smiling up at me, her eyes warm and innocent, giving no indication that she knew I had been watching her.
I turned to leave, afraid she would catch me looking, spinning just once on my way back to the truck when she called out a "Thank you." I nodded and waved before jumping into the truck and turning around in their driveway. I waved at the engineer-turned-farmer as I drove back to the road. He waved back, automatically.
"Lucky bastard," I muttered. "I hope you know what you have and are willing to take care of it."
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Try as I might, I could not get out of my mind the image of the beautiful woman leaning over and unknowingly revealing her naked breast and pantied crotch. I must have masturbated 50 times in the next few weeks, no longer needing pornography or sexy stories – just the memorized image in my mind.
