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,
