William Davis - The Polaroid club book II

Cindy shifted slightly on the couch as spirals of passion began to flow through her, and she could feel her nipples harden beneath the plain cotton housedress she wore. Lord, but she wished Howard would be home tonight! She had never known she possessed such strong sex drives until now; she couldn't seem to get enough of her husband and his mouth, tongue, and penis.

The beautiful young wife sighed again, resignedly, and turned another page of her magazine. Well, she would just have to wait until Howard got home to satisfy her desires. (No more masturbation for her! Not with what she and her husband had together!) Boy, she giggled inwardly, would she give him a homecoming reception when he got home on Sunday night…

The telephone rang.

Now who can that be? Cindy wondered, rising. She went into the hallway where the telephone was located, picked up the instrument, and said, "Hello?"

"Mrs. Jamison?" a thick voice asked. "Mrs. Cindy Jamison?"

The young wife frowned, for the voice seemed vaguely familiar to her. And yet, it was not the most pleasant she had ever heard, with its raspy quality. "Yes?" she finally answered hesitantly. "This is she."

"Steve Samuels here, from the post office. You remember me, Mrs. Jamison. I was the man who waited on you when you rented your post office box about ten days ago."

A little shiver of apprehension raced along Cindy's spine as the image of the wizened, gnome-like little postal clerk flashed into her mind. What did he want, calling her at home like this? Oh, God, had… had something happened with those pictures she'd sent…?

"Y-yes," she quavered. "I… I remember you, Mr. Samuels."

"Good, good." A pause, during which Cindy had the impression the man on the other end was smiling. "The reason I called, Mrs. Jamison, is that I have a large envelop here, addressed to you, from a certain couple in Chicago…"

The young blonde wife stifled a fearful gasp. "Chicago?"

"That's right, Mrs. Jamison," the grating voice told her. "This couple is on the department's watch list as possible purveyors of pornographic material through our mails, and consequently the envelope must be opened in front of one of the post office personnel before delivery can be completed."

Cindy closed her eyes, feeling terror creep through her breast. The exchange photos from the couple in Chicago to whom she had sent the snapshots of her and Howard! She knew that was what was in that envelope the ugly postal clerk had, knew it beyond any doubt at all. Dear God, what was she going to do!

"Mrs. Jamison? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I… I'm still here."

"Would you like to take care of this matter personally, Mrs. Jamison, or shall I…" – a meaningful pause – "contact your husband?"

"No!" blurted Cindy. "No, I'll… I'll take care of it." She swallowed deeply. "Should I come down to the post office now?"

"That won't be necessary," crooned Samuels smoothly. "Tell you what I'll do, Mrs. Jamison. I'll bring the envelope out to your house tonight, on my way home. That should be around eight or so, since I have quite a bit of work to take care of first. All right?"

"I… I guess so, yes."

"Fine," the wizened postal clerk husked. "And don't worry, Mrs. Jamison. This might not be anything of a serious nature at all. For your sake, I hope not." Abruptly, he rang off.

The upset young wife stood holding the dead receiver in her hand, her eyes staring glassily at nothing. What would happen when that dirty-eyed little clerk brought the envelope to her tonight? When he opened it and found photographs similar to those she had sent of her and Howie, Polaroid Club photographs? Would he arrest her? Did postal clerks have that power? She didn't know, and confusion reigned strong in her lithe body – confusion and a growing fear of discovery and exposure, of newspaper headlines linking her with a nationwide pornographic picture organization, of Howard losing his job and everything he had worked so hard to build…

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! Why had she done it, why, why? She should have known better than to send those lewd snapshots of her and her husband through the mails. She should have, but she hadn't; and now, she was going to have to pay the devil his due…

She flung the receiver down in its cradle and ran into the kitchen. She needed a drink, badly! In the cupboard under the drainboard, she found a half full bottle of vodka and in the refrigerator some quinine water. She mixed herself a strong vodka-and-tonic, without ice, and drank it down in two swallows. The fiery warmth of the liquor raced through her bloodstream, causing her face to flush. Another, mostly vodka this time, and she returned to the living room, aware only when she sat down on the sofa that she had brought the vodka bottle with her.

The rest of the afternoon, and the early part of the evening, was a torment for young Cindy Jamison. She finished all of the vodka in the bottle, becoming very high but seemingly not high enough to take the edge off her fear and apprehension. She kept glancing nervously at the clock; time appeared to crawl. She chain-smoked the nonfilter cigarettes she had been smoking since high school. Finally, eight o'clock approached and Cindy began to pace the living room like a sleek, lithe panther, her head swimming from the vodka and the imagined possibilities of what was to come.

The doorbell rang at four minutes past eight.

The sudden sound startled the distraught young wife so much that she seemed to stagger forward, in danger of falling. Her heart hammered crazily in her chest. Have to compose myself, she thought blurrily, stubbing out her latest cigarette. She took a deep, shuddering breath and then went into the foyer and opened the door.

Steve Samuels stood on the porch outside, smiling his wicked, leering smile. He held a large manila envelope in his right hand. "Good evening, Mrs. Jamison," he breathed.

Cindy repressed a tremor of dread at the sight of the postal clerk. She had not liked him that day in the post office, feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable under his beady stare, and now that she had seen him again face to face her discomfiture grew by leaps and bounds. She was completely repelled by this gnome-like man, and afraid of him in the bargain. But there was nothing she could do now, under the circumstances, except admit him to her home.

She managed, "Won't… won't you come in, Mr. Samuels?"

"Thank you," he said, and stepped past her, his right arm brushing casually over the swelling bosom of her housedress, feeling to Cindy like a reptile's touch on her clothed flesh. She almost gasped with revulsion. Had the contact been accidental? Or had he…? She shook her head, trying to clear away some of the vodka swirl, and closed the door. No use thinking such thoughts, she told herself, no use at all…

She led the way into the living room, uncomfortably conscious of the clerk's eyes on the swaying motion of her voluptuous young buttocks. She turned abruptly once in the room and said, "Please sit down, Mr. Samuels."

Samuels nodded, grinning, and sat in the middle of the couch, his eyes moving restlessly over the nubile flesh of the young wife as she seated herself in the armchair some feet away. They feasted on the soft, warm satin of her exposed thighs where the housedress had pulled up. Goddamn! he thought. Oh, Jesus, but she's a hot looking little piece! Oh, this little Mrs. Cindy Jamison is going to be the best one yet… the best of all of them! I can't wait to put my cock in that sweet tender mouth of hers… in her clasping little asshole, too! I can't wait to fill her up with loads and loads of my hot sticky cum…

Cindy became aware of the direction of the civil servant's eyes and hurriedly tugged her dress down low on her knees, pressing her columnar legs tightly together. She said tremulously, trying to pretend as if she was totally sober and in complete command of the situation, "You said something about this envelope for me being from a couple in Chicago who were on the postal department's watch list. What exactly does that mean, Mr. Samuels?"