tagErotic CouplingsFinding Ms. Write

Finding Ms. Write

byMariposa©

He worked at a postal service store, a little shop in a little shopping center, a strip mall, really, where people could rent PO boxes, buy packing supplies and boxes, mail things and pick things up. He kept pretty busy--the shop was more convenient than the post office for a lot of people, and the box rental was cheap. Lots of folks used it for their small businesses, and those were the regulars, men and women who came in once or twice a week and picked mail up, dropped mail off. They chatted with him. They all knew him--Jeff, the mailroom guy. He was the only full-time worker. The owner of the franchise never came in, and there were two part-timers who worked after hours, sorting and carrying stuff, but mostly it was just Jeff. And one day right around the beginning of the cooler weather, he got a letter, addressed to Jeff, The Mailroom Guy, Postal Plus Mailroom, Anytown, Anystate. It wasn't stamped; it had been dropped by hand into the incoming mail slot, to be put into someone's PO box.

He picked the letter up and looked at it. It was hand-addressed, in black ink--not ballpoint, but nice ink, the kind that came in nice pens. He dropped it back onto the counter and looked at it, leaning down, but not too close, thinking about anthrax. Who would send anthrax to the mailroom guy, though? A US Senator, sure--the guy at the Postal Plus? Nah. Jeff picked it back up and opened it.

I am always picturing you naked, he read.

He put the letter down again and looked at it for a moment, then picked it up again. The handwriting was calm, easily legible, and attractive--rounded and graceful and even. There was no one else in the store--it was 10:15 a.m. on a Tuesday. He read on.

I am always picturing you naked. I am standing beside you in the store and then you lift me up and set me on the counter. You are leaning between my legs and kissing my neck. I feel your thighs between mine and I am wet, suddenly, a soft rush of wetness down there, in that warm, secret place. You are unbuttoning my shirt and kissing my breasts--my nipples harden beneath your tongue and I moan a little, my hands in your hair. You are impatient, moving too fast--pushing my skirt up and fumbling your fly down, letting your tool spring free and then roughly pushing your hard, hard cock into my wet pussy, clutching me tight against your body, thrusting forward and sliding your hands down to my ass to bring me forward on the table, sliding yourself further into me, tight and hot and oh, yes, very wet. I feel your hot breath on my neck as you groan, shoving your dick into my cunt faster and harder. My hands are on your ass, as yours are on mine, and I can feel your muscles tighten and release as you thrust again and again until you cum, fucking my pussy with your wet, creamy explosion, growling into my ear as you buck against me, your fingers digging painfully into my ass as you shoot your cream deep into me.

It was signed, one word: Valentine.

He put the letter down as though it had burned him and looked around quickly. There was no one in sight. No one walking by on the sidewalk in front of the shop, no one parking a car or driving away. The letter could have come anytime in the last two hours, or last night--it was the first time he'd sorted through the mail that morning. All he knew was that he had a raging hard-on, tight and uncomfortable against the seam of his jeans. He quickly strode around and locked the front door with a quick flick of the latch, then flipped over a sign that said "Back in Five" and went behind the counter again, through the little door that separated the freight area from the counter area. Into the bathroom, where he quickly jerked off, unable to think of much but that letter, some choice phrases burned into his memory and echoing there as his hand slapped up and down his aching rod until--in record time--he came, with the usual jack-off sensation of mixed relief and frustration--he felt better, but wished he had a real pussy to cum into.... There was no girlfriend--hadn't been for a few months--and the last woman he had made love to was a very nice one-night stand, with both of them understanding that it was a one-night stand from the start.

Back in the shop, he looked at the letter more carefully. There was no postmark, of course, and teh signature didn't look like a signature--it looked like just another word, written by itself at the bottom of the page. He folded the letter up and slid it back into its envelope, then folded that in two and put it into his back pocket. This would bear some thought. And maybe further examination, he mused, grinning at himself.

* * * * *

Letters continued to arrive, not on any real schedule. He never got more than one every week, but a couple of times it was two weeks or more between them. (At Christmas he went for almost three weeks with nothing.) When it happened he was convinced his author had stopped, and he was irritated with himself for being so frustrated by that. It's just porn, he told himself--but it wasn't just porn, it was personalized, homemade porn, and he had to admit he loved the idea that he made some woman (god, he hoped it was a woman!) feel so sexy and horny. Some letters were longer than others, but in general they were fairly short. Always handwritten, always in plain envelopes on plain paper. Always with that one word at the end: Valentine.

Sometimes the letters strayed from pure fantasy into the real world, the world of the observer and the observed.

When I come into the shop we always chat. You chat with everyone, though. You are always friendly, smiling your sexy smile and making a joke or two, or just saying hi and asking how my day is going. You don't know that I am imagining your cock, tasting it, feeling it between my lips and in my mouth, my teeth running along your rock-hard shaft; tongue circling your head, tasting the salty drops of pre-cum as they rise to my mouth...

He watched every woman who came in. He wanted to know who Valentine was, but he knew that it might come as a shock, or a disappointment--although by letter five, in early November--+I ride you like a circus pony, slamming down again and again on your cock and cumming until my juices run down your balls+--he was desperate to know, and half-convinced that the author could not be hideously disfigured, or a man, or any of the other worst-case scenarios he tormented himself with after reading and re-reading the letters, after jacking off in the bathroom at work or in his bedroom or living room at home. He wanted some way to communicate with the author, some way to just know who she was.

He tried watching the store at night a couple of times, to see who dropped letters off, but he felt like an idiot, sitting alone in his car in the dark parking lot, and he could only stay for so long before self-disgust caught up with him. Not only would his author see his car sitting there, but he had no idea which nights would bring her and which would not--the letters were erratic, always dropped off at night, but on every day of the week. When this occurred to him for the hundredth time, he started the car and roared away, cursing and laughing at himself.

You have started looking for me, she wrote at the beginning of December. You ask all the women questions about writing, and reading--what authors do they like? You say things like, "I used to date this girl in college who could write--she had the best imagination..." And you have that sexy little grin, so we know what you mean. But somehow you don't make it sound sleazy. You make it sound charming. That's interesting. I like it that you are looking for me. Maybe you want me as badly as I want you. I do want you. While you talk to me about writing I am biting your shoulder, in my thoughts. Not hard. Well, maybe a little hard. Enough to leave a mark, a little half-moon of tooth-marks in your skin. Just a sharp, gentle bite, while my hands run down your body and slide into your jeans...

He thought maybe he was going insane. Who was this person? Was she married? Was she single? He didn't care. For the first time in his life he would not have flinched at fucking a married woman--or a paraplegic, for that matter. If only she was his author, his Valentine, he would do her, he would do everything she had ever written him doing, everything at once or one teasing fuck at a time.

She began giving him hints.

I am no one special. I come in and you are nice to me, just like you are nice to all the other people who come in. I am not spectacularly beautiful or hideously ugly. Just somewhere in the middle. No one would look at me and think "Oh, that is one sexy woman." But I am. The fact is, I am. I am greedy and horny and hot when I think about you. When I think about you I am ready to be fucked up against the wall, I am ready to cum with your fingers or your cock deep in me, with your tongue and mouth against my pussy. I am ready to cum and make you cum, into my mouth, into my hair, onto my breasts, and deep inside my cunt. I am so ready. When I walk into the shop I imagine you pushing me back against the wall of little post office boxes. I can feel their little knobs digging into my back, feel your warm mouth on my belly, your fingers sliding into my pussy--I think about all this while I smile and chat with you, while I collect my mail and hand you packages to send.

Would that make you happy? Do you want to fuck me there, against the wall? On the counter? On the hard, slick floor? Oh, I think you do. I think you want to dig your tongue into my cunt and lick me until I scream, until my cum gushes into your mouth and down your chin. You want to get your cock into me, too, don't you? Oh yes. Deep into me, into the tightest, wettest, hottest, darkest place your cock has ever been.


He was definitely going insane. He looked with intensity at every "in the middle" woman who came in. And he could see beauty and sexiness in them all, he could awaken desire in himself for all of them. This one had buck teeth, but her lips were as full and red as strawberries, and she had a beautiful shape. That one was pretty chubby--but oh, weren't her curves lovely? Weren't her breasts full and heavy, and didn't she have a cheerful smile and shining hair? Oh, and that one had such a nose, a nose a Roman emperor might have envied, but she had stunning eyes, and well-turned ankles, and a voice like melted butter.

He was falling in love--or lust--or maybe just obsession--with every woman between 20 and 60 who walked though the door. He had always liked women--always wanted them around him, enjoyed their company, and just generally liked them. But now he wanted them, too, and they seemed to sense it. The woman with the strawberry lips smiled more often, and hid her teeth with her hand less often. The rich-voiced Roman emperor's daughter laughed with him, the rippling quality of her laughter like warm waves on sand. And the pretty, plump girl positively blossomed when he smiled at her, and stood straighter, and tossed her shiny hair over her shoulder.

Ah, you were in fine form today, my dear, he read at the beginning of January, when he had almost given up hope, after the long dry holiday season. You do seem to love us all. You look with such appreciation on my not-so-obvious charms. I am flattered, and I can't help but respond. Are you sincere? I wonder if I will ever know. I think about telling you, sometimes. What would you do if I told you, right there in the shop, during business hours?

Ah, no, that would be a bad idea. But you know, Valentine's Day is coming up. Do you know much about Valentine's Day? Maybe I will surprise you.

Now. What did I do to you today? It started when I leaned across the counter to talk to you, and it ended with me leaning over, impaled from behind on your cock, your hips slamming into my ass again and again. How did we get there? Oh, it was delicious...
and Valentine was off and running, and he had another letter to add to his collection, another letter that made his dick hard and his mouth dry and his palms slick.

* * * * *

He read about Valentine's Day. Apparently there had been an ancient festival where young men had drawn the names of women from a box, and then the couples had paired off to be friends and often lovers for a year. Attempts by Christians to co-opt this festival for themselves led to the establishment of St. Valentine's Day, honoring a priest of the early Christian days who had married young couples in secret. Now there were all kinds of kinky Valentine's Day celebrations. It was quite the hot hoilday.

He wondered if his author would reveal herself to him on Valentine's Day. The mere idea made him hard, and he longed for February 14th with ardor. He wished again and again for some way of communicating with her, but pummel his brain as he would, he could not think of a way to do it. The channel was one way, and he could only wait for more.

The letters came once a week all through January, and then the beginning of February was empty. Finally on the tenth he got one. It was a Tuesday again, 8 a.m., and he was looking through the night's dropped-off mail, trying not to hope, but unable to help himself. He spotted the familiar handwriting and grabbed it with fumbling fingers, ripping it hastily open.

Mmmm. You look so good to me today. You have on jeans and one of those button-down shirts you favor, something soft and worn and comfortable. I am walking up and putting my arms around you from behind, running my hands up and down your chest. I love that you are tall and skinny, I love your flat stomach and hard ass and the lovely leanness of your arms and shoulders. I don't know if you are older than me or younger--much the same, I would guess. Your face is handsome and beginning to look a little weathered. I don't see any gray in your hair. And certainly some parts of you seem to respond like a young man. I am unbuttoning your shirt from behind, sliding my hands beneath the soft cotton to feel your skin, pinching your nipples very lightly; nuzzling your back with my nose and then sliding your shirt off over your shoulders and kissing your bare back.

You turn and we kiss. I taste your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and then I am kissing your chin, running my tongue down the salty column of your neck. I kiss my way lower and then go to my knees in front of you. I can see the bulge your cock makes against your jeans (you don't know how often I have stolen glances at the front of your jeans when I am in your shop) and I place my mouth over the crotch of your pants and blow, a gentle, steady waft of hot, hot air. Your hands are in my hair now, and I am unzipping your pants, pushing them down to your knees. You don't have on underwear, there is nothing to get in the way, and now my warm, wet mouth takes you in, all the way, one long, swift gulp, until the head of your cock grazes the back of my throat and my lips are sealed tight around your shaft, my nose buried in your curly hair. My eyes are closed. My tongue strokes your cock and I begin moving my head up and down, running my teeth gently and then not-so-gently up and down your length. You are stock still, your hands still in my hair, your knees locked, trying to stay balanced as I suck and suck and suck, feeling you harden and harden, tasting the little drops of pre-cum. I am cupping your balls with one hand, squeezing them gently and then tighter, in rhythm with my sucking. You want to cum but you don't, you won't, not yet...


He read on, hypnotized, and then retreated for quick relief. When he was finished jerking off he zipped up and sat in the bathroom for a minute, alone, staring at the letter. There was something... He turned the last page over.

See you on Valentine's Day, it said. Five words, alone in the center of the page. And below them, again, that one word: Valentine.

The bell on the door jingled and he leapt up and tucked his shirt back in, glancing into the mirror and smoothing his hair. It could be Valentine. He never knew.

* * * * *

The next three days dragged by. There were no other letters, no instructions, no nothing. He would have to just... wait. He didn't know what he would do when he met her, when he found out who it was. Would they talk? Would they fuck? Kiss? Would she be shy? Surely not, but then again, maybe writing was what she did best... Oh god, what if she didn't show up? Or what if she came in as a customer but never said who she was?? It had said "See you on Valentine's Day," not "I'll tell you who I am on Valentine's Day." But wasn't it implied? She had never before given even a clue as to who she was, or what days she might come in.

February 14th was a Saturday. The shop was open from nine to five, instead of eight to six like on weekdays, and that morning before work he dressed and shaved with care, but not too nicely--he already felt like a fool, and if she never showed up, he didn't want to feel even stupider. He wore a denim button-down shirt, soft and worn, and jeans. No underwear. Well... he couldn't help but laugh at himself, but he couldn't resist. And he tucked a condom into the back pocket of his jeans.

The shop was busy all day, with people coming in to mail things or check their mail, looking for Valentines or just having a regular day. He flirted with all the women, watching like a hawk for any sign of recognition, and although many of them flirted back, he just couldn't tell. No one gave him a letter, no one whispered into his ear, no one did anything unusual or odd at all. The weather was dreary, and by four o' clock the day was dimming. It wasn't cold enough for snow, but the sullen clouds that had hung overhead all day looked ready to burst when he finally turned the sign over to "Closed" at five p.m., with a feeling of disappointment. It was completely dark outside, and the streetlights in the parking lot flickered on as he lowered the blinds over the plate-glass windows. The shop was dark, the only light spilling over from behind the counter, back in the freight room.

Well, she must have been one of the women who had come in today. There was no telling which one, though--probably 12 or 13 women had come in today, almost all of them attractive in some way or another. As he cleaned up, he began mulling them over in his mind. The woman with the buck teeth had come in today. And the chubby girl. Not his Roman empress, though... And then there were the two women who came in together nearly every time, was it one of them? They were both about the right age...

As he leaned down to put the packing tape away in a cabinet beneath one of the tables, he heard someone walking slowly along the sidewalk outside. The unmistakable click-click of a woman's heels. He stood up slowly and listened. The heels came closer and then stopped outside the store. He couldn't see outside, but she couldn't see inside, either.

He heard the distinctive little creak of the mail slot outside opening, and with a sudden motion he flipped open the lock and swung the front door wide.

She froze in mid-bend, head turned to look at him, her eyes wide and startled. The orange light from the streetlights washed over long dark hair, small silver-framed glasses, a short dress, high heels. And a letter, in her hand. There was no stamp on the letter, and the writing was clear in the bright sodium glare. Clear and familiar.

She straightened. Her mouth quirked a little to one side. "Caught in the act," she said.

His mouth was dry, and the sight of the letter had given him an instant hard-on. "Yes," he agreed. There was a pause as they sized each other up. He recognized her--she came in twice a week or so, and she had definitely been in the running, but he had not thought--well, she was too pretty, really. Why had she described herself as "in the middle"? She was short, and not, to be honest, fashion-model thin. And her mouth was a little too generous, and she wore those delicate little glasses. But her body was gorgeous--curvaceous and trim. And her hair was always shining and smooth. And her hands... he had noticed her hands before the first letter came, as would any man who was not actually dead. "Would you..." He struggled to form a coherent thought. "Would you like to come in?"

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