William Davis - The Polaroid club book I

What harm could be done in trying? What could go wrong? Who could get hurt, and it just might be the one thing to wring Howard and myself back together. I've got nothing to lose except a few cents worth of postage!

Now fired with seal to carry out her plan, Cindy rapidly dressed in a bright yellow silk blouse with a blue antique design across the front and a pair of matching stretch pants. She hummed, smiling as she combed her hair and applied the little makeup she used. Then she returned to the kitchen and got the photographs of herself and Howard, took them to where the wrapping paper and twine was kept, and in a few minutes had a wrapped and addressed little package to send to Box C123.

She didn't put on a return address yet… she didn't know what it would be. Although Cindy was pretty sure that the couple at Box C123 would be trustworthy, she wasn't going to take any chances. That would be disastrous! Instead, she got the idea from the box number to get one of her own. There wasn't time to rent one from the paper… so she'd take out a post office box, right at the main station in downtown Morriston. That way there'd be no chance of anybody finding out where she lived.

The main post office was situated on Second and Market Streets, a large graystone mausoleum of a building built back when authority was measured in how thick the walls were and how high the ceilings. Inside were the operating rooms of the post office, as well as rooms for the few state and federal agencies of which Morriston could boast, such as the Marine and Army recruiting offices. The ground floor, though, was all for the post office, one entering a long, ill lit but wide marble corridor through either side of the building. There were windows all along the hall, some for stamps, others for money orders, still others for a combination of things, and most of them closed. In the middle was a large bank of post boxes in three sizes; the small ones running along the top half, then a few rows of medium sized ones, and then a series of large ones at the bottom. Beside the bank was a window which, by its sign, handled parcel post and the post boxes.

Sitting on a worn wooden stool, his arms lazily draped on the marble counter, was the window's clerk, Steve Samuels. He was bored, not feeling well from drinking too much the previous night, and his bad leg, two inches shorter and smaller than normal because of a birth defect, ached. Besides which, he had read all of the comic books and men's magazines that were scattered around the back of the post office, and he had nothing to do until quitting time. He sighed and rubbed the leather shoe, alleviating for the moment the heaviness of his extra thick built-up heel and sole.

When Cindy Jamison hesitantly approached the window, he suddenly perked up, leering over at her and smacking his thick, rubbery lips. Hey boy! Was that one hell of a woman there… He smirked, noting the twin wedding bands on her finger and knowing full well she'd been fucked and fucked and fucked by her husband.

He couldn't keep his beady eyes off her, his brain fermenting with lascivious thoughts. Her slacks were the tightest pair he had ever seen on a woman, highlighting her rich thighs and pert young buttocks as she walked towards him, and for a crazy instant the clerk thought he could make out the narrow line of her cuntal split. Her breasts strained against the thin blouse, moving rhythmically as she came, and again the afflicted postal clerk couldn't help his erotic thoughts. Is she wearing a bra? Is that all her flesh and was that faint ridge the seams of her bra…? Or tight, berry nipples, swaying without hindrance? He licked dry lips. That lucky bastard of a husband, sliding into that luscious body every time he wants it… Too bad I ain't fucking it on the side.

Cindy Jamison saw the clerk, felt his burning gaze on her body, almost blushing at the blatant way he all but undressed her. She had lost much of her original courage and conviction by the time she had parked her car nearby, and it was only with the desire to do something to save her marriage, even as drastic as this, which kept her going into the post office and to the window. The blatantly leering clerk was almost the last straw, almost sending her running out of the building and back to her home.

It was terrible the way he kept staring at her, as though she was some sideshow freak. And him, so small, so ugly, so… so creepy! He wore thick glasses with an odd green tint to the lens which magnified his eyes until they looked frogish and bulging. His skin was the color of oatmeal, yet there was a Mongolian cast to his features like the half-caste Indians of the Amazon or the south-of-the-border mulattos of Tampa's Ybor City. His sparse black hair was greased flat to his narrow skull.

"Yes?" the postal clerk said to her, and his voice matched his looks. It was thin, bitter, raspy… and Cindy could only think of the word, dark, to describe its hint of malice.

"I…" she faltered, her throat parched and tight. "I… want to open a post office box."

"What size do you want?" Samuels asked.

So simple a question, yet for the life of her Cindy couldn't think clearly enough to answer. She was tongue-tied, gripped by panic and indecision now that she was faced with actually going through with the operation. The postal clerk leaned forward and repeated the question. Finally she managed, "A small one. Yes, that's it, just a small one, please."

"Fill out this card," the postal clerk instructed, bringing out a three-by-five printed card. "Name, address, and…"

"Address?" Cindy asked, "but I don't want…"

"Have to have the address down, Ma'am. Postal regulations. We're not allowed to rent boxes unless you have a permanent address. We even have one of the mailmen confirm that you live there, too, so don't put down a false one."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of that!"

The postal clerk chuckled. "I'm sure you wouldn't." He leaned forward again. "Here, use my pen." He studied the twin globes of her magnificent breasts as they moved while she wrote out the information on the card. He could tell she was nervous, that there was something the matter… and his tricky little brain started considering possible reasons.

Cindy handed the card back. The clerk picked it up and squinted carefully at what she had written, memorizing her home address. He grinned intimately and asked, "I see you only want the box for yourself. Don't you want your husband to know?"

The unsuspecting wife reeled with the impertinence of the question. It was almost as if this little, gnarled gnome across the counter could read her mind! Could see the obvious state of her confusion and embarrassment and was capitalizing on it for his own sick, perverted amusement! He continued to stare at her from behind his thick lensed glasses, and for one horrid second, Cindy almost blurted out the truth: that she wasn't going to let Howard know what she'd done because he might think ill of her… or other things might happen between now and when Box C123's pictures arrived which would make this whole questionable idea unnecessary. Then she would simply forget she had done this, never return to the post box, let the rent run out on it and the memory fade…

She hoped the latter would be the case, that nobody would ever know what depths she had been driven to… and now this smirking postal clerk was prying where he had no business being!

"It's a… personal reason," she said, trying to sound curt but knowing that there was a weakness, a dread in her voice.

The clerk nodded and took the card away for a moment, then returned with another slip of paper. He handed the slip to Cindy. "You now have Box 34004, near the end. That'll be three dollars and fifty cents for three months."

Cindy dug into her purse for the money and paid. The clerk made out a receipt. "The combination for the box is on the first slip I gave you; the second one is for your records." The way he said it made Cindy think that he could tell she wasn't going to keep the receipt, but was going to throw it away at once.