I do deliveries. It's an easy job and there is always work. Doesn't matter how things are going in the general economy, someone will always want something delivered somewhere, and I was willing to assist.
I'm not saying all deliveries are easy. Some are a challenge. Others are a blasted nuisance. Delivering an aggressive pit-bull proved to be both a challenge and a nuisance but that's another story. I've found the invention of digital cameras to be a boon. Sometimes you're asked to just leave the package at the front door or back door or whatever. With a camera I can take a quick photo to show that delivery was made and any missing item is the problem of the recipient.
No such troubles occur when you have to have the package signed for. With a signature on your little pad you're covered. The owner accepted and signed and can't say they haven't. (Not that that stops the occasional crook from trying.) The down-side to getting signatures is you have to have someone home to collect and then wait until they sign. I always ring up an hour in advance to let them know I'm on the way, but some people just don't get the hint.
Take yesterday, for example. I had this package and needed a signature. I phoned through and told the man who answered that I was on the way. He said no worries, someone would be home. I arrive and knock and no-one answers. I knock again, muttering under my breath. I was about to knock again, really loudly, when the main door opened.
This particular house had a heavy wire security door. You've probably seen them about. They do double duty, serving as a fly screen and as a one-way security screen. It's something to do with the way the wire is shaped, the holes in the wire smaller on the house side as opposed to the visitor side. It means that the owner can see through the wire door while the visitor can just see a vague movement behind the door.
"Yes?" came the enquiry.
"I have a delivery," I said.
Seeing I was expected, had a parcel, wore a uniform, and owned a great big delivery truck parked in easy sight of the door, you'd think that the woman would have guessed that.
"Oh, yes. My husband told me that a delivery was coming. Ah, could you just leave it there? I'll bring it in later."
In was quite happy to that. Who wants to stand there carrying a parcel that got heavier by the moment? I put the package down to the side of the door.
"There you go," I said. "If you can just sign here?"
I whipped out my little computer pad, stylus at the ready.
"Ah, my husband's not here right now."
What enthralling news and who cared? I just needed a signature. It didn't have to be his. I'd let the cat sign if it could use the stylus, just as long as someone signed.
"I don't require your husband's signature," I politely explained. "Yours will do just as well. It's just that the instructions for this delivery insist on a signature."
"Um, what happens if I don't sign?"
"I return the parcel with the notation that delivery was refused. The parcel will be returned to the sender."
"You can't do that. We've already paid for it."
"And as soon as you've signed for it to accept delivery it's all yours."
"Can you come back later for the signature?"
Of course I can. I am at your beck and call. I don't need to make five hundred other deliveries. I can just circle the block until you're ready to sign.
"Not really, ma'am," I said, surprised at how dutiful politeness won through. "I have a number of other deliveries and won't be back this was until tomorrow at the earliest."
A possible problem registered. Maybe she couldn't write.
"Ah, if you happen to be illiterate all you need to do is make a mark on the pad," I said helpfully. "That will be accepted as your signature."
"I'm not illiterate," she snapped. "I know how to right."
"Then will you please sign? It's not binding you to a contract. It's just accepting receipt of your package. Just open the door a few inches and I'll pass in the pad and you can sign and pass it back."
What was with this woman? Was she worried about me barging in?
"Oh, all right!" she snapped. "I'll sign your silly pad."
She unlocked the door and pushed it open, hand out for the pad. I damn near dropped it. She was starkers. Totally and gloriously naked, blushing fiercely, but seeming smugly pleased by my reaction.
She was in her early twenties, blonde, and stacked with a firm high bosom that totally defied the tug of gravity.
Why she hadn't just asked me to wait a moment while she went and slipped on a dress is beyond me. I passed her the pad, my eyes all over her. I wasn't deliberately staring at her, but I was certainly enjoying the view.
"Um, ah, if you'll just sign in the box at the bottom of the pad?" I managed to say.
She took the pad and signed it. There was still a tinge of red on her cheeks but her smirk was a lot bigger. She was starting to enjoy showing herself, pleased by my reaction and evident nervousness. That nervousness was fast disappearing. It wasn't as though I hadn't seen a naked woman before.
"Thank you," I said as I took the pad back and tucked it into its holder. "And I really should apologise to you."
"No need," she said airily. "You were just doing your job."
"True, but I wasn't apologising for that. I was apologising for this."
I calmly reached for her and ran my hand across her breasts, feeling them against my palm, feeling her nipples scrape against my palm, one after the other. They were, I noticed, standing erect. Her flashing was exciting her.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, trying to sound shocked but only sounding excited.
"I see you're a natural blonde," I said softly. "Is that fur as soft as it looks?"
She had a small strip of pale curls leading down to her slit. My curiosity got the better of me and I tested the softness of those curls. I've known some girls who had quite coarse hair on their mons, but not this woman. Soft and silky little curls, obviously treated with a good shampoo and conditioner.
At this stage the woman should have been stepping smartly back and closing the door on me, instead of which she just stood there while I caressed her mons. She was spluttering slightly. Something about I had no right to touch her. Quite true, but she wasn't doing anything to stop me.
