|
"Special delivery!" he grinned. "Hey, I know who you are! You're that critic out from Boston. I've read all your reviews! Gee, I thought you were an old-timer like me. You write like you've really been around! Hope this letter is good news! I grabbed it when I saw your name. They were going to give it to another postman to bring out from Pittsfield."
I stepped outside. He had come on a motor scooter exactly like mine. My dogs were swarming around his feet, but he could tell they liked him, so he wasn't afraid.
"Real nice Vespa," he said. "You like the scooters, too?"
"Yep," I said, "crossed Africa on a Lambretta. Greatest trip I ever made."
He was impressed. "Wow! Wish I could do that, but here I am, stuck in the country. Reckon here's where I'll die! Massachusetts born and bred and, undoubtedly, one of these days, dead!"
He was so jolly and cute there seemed nothing morbid in what he said. I laughed with him and took the letter from his hand. Our fingers brushed together. I felt the heat in my crotch. The involuntary physical sensation caused me to look at him in a different way, with the inner eye of sexual appraisal which controls the mechanism of desire. It liked what it saw.
After passing me the letter, he lifted his cap to brush those fingers that had touched mine through his sweat-curled, salt-and-pepper hair. He had a slightly lined forehead with fine crinkles at the edges of hazel eyes that sparkled with good humor above a sharp, thin-bridged nose. His lips were full, and laugh lines had begun to lengthen from the dimples in his cheeks.
When he lifted his arms to raise the cap and touch his hair, his buttoned Eisenhower jacket rode up from his beltline to show just enough of a belly to make me salivate. I had a thing for tummies. I liked licking navels on a rounded dome. Hell, I also liked licking navels on a washboard stomach! Just about any belly would do, but his was really nice.
I couldn't help but notice his dick was dressed left. I liked a penis that rode down the leg. Mine was a lurker that only popped out when inspired, which, at that moment, it was.
He noticed. Out of the corner of my baby blues, I saw his hazel eyes glance downward surreptitiously at the sudden projection in my pants. It was one of those embarrassing moments when sexual arousal was impossible to disguise. And then I saw his grow in slow motion. It was a splitter indeed!
Something inside me said, Go for it, man!
I dropped to my knees, a sign the dogs took to mean I was kneeling down for some wet, sloppy canine kisses, but, of course, that was not at all what I had in mind. I shooed them off and lifted a hand to his fly.
"Not out here," he whispered hoarsely as if someone could hear him, "the old lady might see us."
"She's blind as a bat." I told him, "Even with glasses, she can hardly see the end of her nose, and the elms give as much cover as we need. Nobody can see us from the highway."
I felt his hands come to rest on my shoulders. My fingers unzipped his fly. A little spreading of his legs and a grinding pelvic thrust popped that thing out in a flash until it stood before me ready for priming like a pump. My fingers settled on the long shaft and guided the mushroom cap to my lips before I lifted my hands to that sweet belly and kneaded it as firmly as if I were making crust for a pie. He liked what I was doing. I turned my tongue to his tummy. It drove him just about out of his mind.
"Nobody ever did that before," he said. "I haven't got around much in my life."
"In that case, there's a lot of things I can do that might be new to you," I said before lowering my head to go back to the more serious work of getting him off.
His sighs became heavier while I progressed, then turned into moans. His thrusts became lunges when the moans became grunts. I was determined not to let up until the last instant arrived. I knew when he entered the short strokes, when his balls banged rhythmically against my chin, that he was quickly approaching the magic time.
I pulled back my head just as a milky shower of spray shot out and struck my chin. My hands went to his hips as his right hand snatched at his cock and pumped out three gushers more.
I never cease to wonder at the marvel of a man's orgasm when standing: the way his gut sinks in as his body hunkers downward and backward to anchor his heels flat-footed for the expulsion of semen; the slight lifting upward on the balls of his feet when the first explosion occurs; the backward jerk of the head, chin muscles tight as a drum, lips wrinkled in a taut grimace like an astronaut under G-pressure lifting off from the earth; the short bursts of breath from deep in the chest. Oh, God, if there be a heaven, make it like this!
To me, my postman was inexpressibly beautiful when he came, towering above me, his opalescent substance churned up and raining down only for me. I clung to his hips. His free hand squeezed my shoulder like a vise.
He collapsed over me when done, burying my face in his belly which still heaved with all the effort of shooting toward the sky. His dick dribbled glue-like droplets down my throat and chest. My own untouched penis had pumped itself dry, wetting the inside of my pant leg from the crotch to the knee.
We had made each other happy men. He would turn my Tanglewood summer into a most memorable time with continuing visits that often turned into overnighters. We would make love in ways of which he told me he had never dared even to dream.
He said, the last time I saw him, when he came to Boston a few months letter to see me off on a new assignment in Paris: "I scooter past your cottage and remember that first time. I never make a special delivery without hoping it's someone like you who'll come to the door."
The End
Part 1 | Part 2
|
