The Gift - Turning Pages

"Sign here, lady."

The parcel delivery guy was surly, taking it out on her for living on the third floor. He had to make two trips, there were so many boxes.

"Somebody must like you, to send you so many things," he begrudgingly acknowledged. He looked up from the scanner, and saw confusion on her face.

"I don't know. I don't know who's sent me these parcels. Look how they're all covered the same way."

"Yeah, well. I wouldn't know about that. You enjoy, lady. I'm always the one delivering parcels, but no-one brings them to my door. Huh, hell of a job, being a parcel guy. People get all sorts, plenty in brown paper wrapping, too. 'Specially them rich women, they like their brown paper parcels. All that mail order stuff, know what I mean?"

She was tolerant with the guy, one of life's moaning millions, and acknowledged in turn the rain and the heat he had to cope with as he did his rounds.

"Yes, I think I do know what you mean. But I don't know what these are, nor who they're from. Still, they are beautifully wrapped, aren't they? Thank you so much."

She smiled at him, her eyes creasing with a real smile, but dismissing him. She wanted to inspect the parcels in her own time.

She placed them on her dining room table, carefully laying them out. The parcels were identically wrapped in rough brown paper, not cheap; hand made, possibly, with speckles of colour scattered through. Each parcel was wrapped and tied with string, knotted tight so it would not come undone. Next to each knot was a single initial, her initial, R, written in a looping cursive, written in a deep blue ink.

Her mind immediately went back to the wonderful book she had received the previous month, and she looked more closely. Yes, the writing appeared to be in the same confident hand that had addressed the book to her. An admirer and a magician who sent her a miraculous book that took her every mood, told her what to do, and predicted her every response.

Her hand reached inside her blouse, an unconscious movement, adjusting the strap on her bra, lifting it just a little, shifting it on her shoulder. The movement, subtle and small, was just enough for her to sense the weight of her breast, a fullness, a heaviness. After they left the thin strap, her fingers lightly brushed the length of her throat. Her two fingers, fore and middle, left a slight trace. Subconsciously, all unthought, her fingers traced her skin. A faint blush rose on her neck, and her pulse quickened. She didn't know.

Next to each initial, her own letter, a number was written. Not a digit; no, her sender of parcels wanted to show off his wonderful script, and had written each number as a word. One, two, three.... Clearly then, the order in which each parcel was to be unwrapped. Each parcel numbered, each parcel a different size and a different shape. Seven parcels, string to be cut, paper to be peeled back, something within to be revealed. She tightened the muscles of her thighs and was aware of the base of her belly, the fullness of her breasts, a heat in her gut. Expectation. Who had sent her these gifts?

Parcel One.

The first parcel was about ten inches by six, perhaps three inches thick. Some weight to it. R turned it in her hands, touched the tying string with her fore finger as if she were helping him (it must be him, sending her gifts, again), helping him hold the string in place as he tied it. She saw that an end of string fell from the knot, which was intricate and looped. She pulled upon the string.

With a strange resistance, as if the thread was animate and reluctant, there was a movement as the string all unravelled. The paper, bound flat before, was released and unfolded, curving back to reveal silver metal and black plastic within. A Polaroid camera, one dark lens at its front, an eyepiece for viewing and a long thin slot for the ejection of film.

Images then, instantaneous and unseen, light to carve darkness away. But from what? Patience would be required, a frame and a focus, and then the revelation of a picture slowly darkening from a ghost to a vision, a small square of colour on a table. A picture of her? She hated pictures of herself, they revealed too much. Was that the point? Revelation?

She placed the camera on the table, and took one step back. The lens was a black circle surrounded by chrome, with a flash bulb to one side. She didn't have a tripod, but was already accepting that pictures would be taken. The camera would need to rest on a table or a shelf. Did it have a timer? She imagined herself brushing her hair so it would be shiny, thick and long down her back. If she held her head just so, the pose would be right. She's imagining herself already, holding a pose, waiting for the shutter. Exposure. Deep in her belly, a tightness started, an awareness. Good God, who would she expose? Herself, or another woman?

Parcel Two.

Her heart was faster, her fingers quick to the end of the string, she wanted to undo all of the parcels immediately. She wanted the peeled back paper to be a mess all over the table, spilling to the floor, all of it ripped open and revealed, spread wide. But she knew, remembering the book, that a story needed to be told, instructions given, directions followed. There was a sequence of numbers given, two, three, four.... She needed patience within herself to open the parcels in the right order. If she opened something out of sequence it would be all wrong, and she wouldn't know what to do.

The second parcel contained two bottles, one a shampoo, the second a body wash. A razor. Well, the next move was obvious. Before she could even think of opening the third parcel, the unwrapping must wait. She sat in her favourite chair, the dropping glow of the setting sun casting a golden light on her skin, and realised that the parcel maker was making her slow down and relax.

He couldn't wrap hot water, and she already had thick towels, one for her hair, another for her body, but she realised some of this experience didn't need to be wrapped. She turned to the camera, placed it on a shelf, and set the timer. She posed, her street clothes practical but dull. Never drawing attention to herself, her first image would document the time before seven parcels were undone and their contents revealed. R had a glimmer of what might be in the parcels, and just before the shutter clattered, she straightened her back and was taller. Click.

She promised herself to place all of the images in sequence, but not to look at them until the last one was taken, even though she had no idea what it would show. The first image developed.

She walked through to her bedroom and kicked off her shoes. In her hands she held the two bottles and the razor, which she placed on the dresser near the bathroom door. Reaching behind her back she unbuttoned the single pearl button on the collar of her blouse and slid the zip below it down. Crossing her hands she tugged the bottom of the blouse up from the waist of her skirt, and in a fluid movement pulled the garment up over her head, then dropped it to the floor.

She stood and looked at herself in the mirror, her face neutral, not judging, merely accepting herself. She reached behind her back and unclipped the bra, slid one strap off one shoulder, then the other. The garment dropped to the floor. She stood looking at herself once more, hands straight by her sides. In the mirror her reflection looked back, her dark eyes holding a steady gaze, observing, just looking.

She was what she was, and that was full breasted, one breast slightly smaller than the other, nipples a pale brown against her pale flesh, a tiny blaze of freckles just below her neck and down to where her breasts curved apart. A mature woman's breasts, with a fullness, a weight.

She imagined a man behind her, his hands cupping the heft of those lovely breasts, his fingers pulling the nipples up tight, his lips on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, and with one hand pulled her hair from her neck and tilted her head to expose the side of her throat. He wasn't there, but in her belly a wetness began and with it an ache. She shook her head and dropped her fingers to the zip at the side of her skirt.

Shimmying her hips, she wriggled the skirt over her ass and thighs and dropped it to the floor. Stepping out of the dark folds of cloth, she bent to unroll stockings down her legs. Lastly, she pulled her knickers down, a practical high waisted pair that smoothed her curves.

With the right skirt, with some tightness and cling, she knew her long thighs looked good. With a confident walk, she could turn a man's eyes and drag them after her for a long, appraising look. Some men would turn and look when she passed by them. She too would turn and look back, sometimes, if he was the right man with his own confident walk.

Stepping through to the bathroom, she reached inside the shower screen to turn on the hot water, it always took a while to come from the boiler. While she waited she sat on the toilet and luxuriated in a long pee, her stream silenced by the jet of the shower.

Reaching into the shower she adjusted the taps until the water was a perfect temperature, as hot as she could bear it. She tipped her head back, wetting her hair ready for the shampoo, and lathered up a thick foam. Her hair was long and thick, a wave flowing through it as it fell half way down her back. A man could run fingers through that hair and it would be a silken fall over his hands. It would splay over a white pillow like a fan, or hide her breasts when she lay on her back. A man who loved hair would delight in that hair. A man who loved breasts would love hers.

She reached for the bottle of scented body wash, and it was something cool and exotic. Usually she favoured lighter scents, florals and creams, delicate about her skin. If her usual scents were colours, they would be pale and light, sun kissed. But this bottle felt darker, deeper, the liquid within it more primal somehow, earthy and rich. If this scent was a colour it would be a deep violet, a dark chocolate, or a deep lush red. The colour of blood, moon dark and musky.

Deep in her belly, her own blood responded, a vein tightened and a nerve twisted around her clitoris like a coil of hair around a lover's finger. She lowered her head, a slight dizziness, and reached for the wall to steady herself. The tiles were cool against her hand. She looked down at her body, and in the heat of the water her skin was flushed hot. She turned down the heat and began to lather the lotion around herself, up and down her limbs, over her breasts and belly. Was it the water, too hot? Or was it her body, heating?

The lather was thick and smooth, and with her hands she cupped her breasts, hugged her hips, and bent to rub the froth down both her long legs. As she bent forward, the wet coil of hair fell like a rope on her torso, heavy and long. Her fingers were slow and deep as she ran them back up the insides of her thighs, and with a sudden heat she pressed them hard against the lips of her cunt, a hard press there. Again she leaned her weight against the tiles, but this time she moved her feet apart, a firmer stance, a wider gap between her thighs.

Leaning with her forearm on the wall, her forehead resting upon that arm, her hair a long, sinuous twist and a dropping weight, she dipped her fingers into herself. Jesus, what was this, this sudden heat within her? Two fingers into her cunt, she pressed into herself, inside and out, her palm a pressure upon the hard bone. She pressed, fuck, a hard push to stop the ache even starting, fuck, two fingers a firm stroke alongside her outer lips, ahh, her head arched back, her long throat wanting two hands upon it, her eyes closed tight, so tight that red light brightened behind her eyelids, darkness coloured by her own flesh.

Oh fuck, circling fingers quick upon her heated clit, circling and avoiding, returning and Jesus, she did not expect this, deeper again, and then a firm press upon the bud of her anus, fuck, her body twitched and her fingers gripped the wet tiles for balance, balance nearly lost. Her toes curled, gripping the tiles, and the hot water beat down, dear god she needed this, now, harder, deeper, fuck, just come, just come, gasping with the suddenness of it, where in fuck's name did this come from, this deep, thick weight high in her cunt ah fuck, she moaned, make me come, come, fuck fingers, oh fuck here it is here it is now. Now, fuck, fuck me now, come.

Her body shuddered, her lungs gasped and the water, the falling water kept falling. She sighed and leaned her chest against a cool tile, her hand cupping her sex and the sudden heat there. Oh sweet fuck, she did not expect that. Fuck. The water fell, rinsing the foam from her flesh. An after-shock shuddered through her, the water falling. Ah, that was good. Sweet god, yes it was.

She got her breath back, and her eyes focused. She looked on the bench and saw the razor there. Her legs were still lathered with foam from the body wash, and with firm, strong movements she let the razor glide over her skin, leaving her limbs smooth. She liked a soft darkness at the base of her belly, so sculpted a delta there, perfectly shaping her hair into a vee. She smoothed away any short curls between her legs and was bare between them but lightly covered by hair soft to her palm, at the base of her belly.

She stood under the shower, turning her body and letting the foam rinse away. She reached for her thick towel, wrapping her body which was still flushed from her sudden orgasm. Moving to her bedroom, she couldn't decide whether to drop the towel and present herself to the camera naked and glorious, or tease with the towel wrapped tight around herself. In the end she took two photographs, the first with the towel wrapped around, a flirtatious look over her shoulder at the lens. For the second photo, she set the camera at the same height as her delta, and stood with her hands on her hips and her feet apart, staring down the lens as if to challenge it. She was nude and magnificent, her sex central and her body tall.

Parcel Three.

Energised now, she took the third parcel in her hands, and it was small and soft. Intrigued, she sat in her favourite chair by the window. The slight breeze drifting through the trees outside twisted the bottom of the curtains, and was delightfully cool on her skin. The small parcel had no weight, almost no substance. The ribbon, like the others she had unravelled, was looped and a dark blue, like a shadow from the moon at midnight, circling her initial, R.

She pulled upon the end of the ribbon, and the circles broke and the paper curled apart, revealing carefully folded lingerie. A pair of stockings, a garter belt, a half cup bra and delicate laced panties, all a white that was not quite white, a cream that was not quite cream; a shimmering iridescence that flickered like quicksilver as she turned the under clothes over in her hands. She traced the delicate filigree lace with her finger tip, and saw the quality there.

The sizes on the tiny labels were hers, all quite right. She smiled, of course they were the right sizes. These gifts were for her, after all.

She stood, and stepped into the panties. Pulling them up her long legs, she imagined strong hands pulling the cloth down so it folded at her ankles; and those same hands taking her feet and placing them apart; his hot breath on her sex, opened up by the movement. The coolness of the cloth at the centre of her was a relief, and she shivered with the contrast of her skin's heat and the cool satin of the cloth. She cupped her palm over the triangle that now covered her mons, and delighted in the soft touch against her skin.

Reaching for the garter belt, she placed the thin threads of cloth about her waist and ran her fingers down the elastic straps and pulled the ends away from her legs. Placing some tension into the elastic, she let them snap back against her flesh, and a sharp intake of breath caught her, a reaction to the quick pain on her skin. She laughed at her action, softly, taken by surprise. She looked down, and rubbed the reddened skin to ease the sting.

Smiling to herself, she rolled one of the fine stockings onto her foot, and delighted in the long movement of delicate silk up her leg. The pale length of the stocking, with a darker band at the top circling her thigh, gave her leg a lean elegance. Clipping the stocking to the garter, she imagined strong fingers unclipping it, heated palms cupping her ass cheeks, agile fingers rolling the fine skein down her legs. What she dressed herself in could be undressed. She rolled the other stocking up her leg, and again stood, posed, her feet spread apart, her hands on her hips. She was long legged and girdled in fine cloth about her hips.

She turned and admired herself in the mirror, the back of her legs long and lean, her ass taut and firm. She clenched the muscles of her ass, and watched her cheeks tighten. The tightening of her muscles made her aware of her centre, still heavy and full after coming in the shower. Her breasts, too, were full and tight, her nipples thick. She reached for the delicate cups of the bra, and the cloth just covered those nipples.

The cleavage created by the brassiere was delectable, shadowed. Her breasts were nicely risen in the half cups. She adjusted the straps so that her breasts were high, pushed up, spilling creamily from the cups of cloth. Why not, a visual treat for anyone who looked; and if she leaned forward, a satisfying roundness and weight. She posed, and took two photographs. One with her breasts full and deep as she leaned forward, her chin resting on her joined hands. The second image was of her torso, sitting proud and straight, her half cupped breasts high, her nipples still tight and hard.

She stood, and a third image was processed, standing tall in her white lingerie, her arms crossed, confidently. The creamy white cloth suited her skin. Between her legs, the soft gusset of her knickers wettened, darker. She touched her finger to the cloth. Never mind, she thought. Being wet felt good.

Parcel Four.

She was eager to be dressed now, and wondered what he had bought her. A long dress, perhaps, or a gown, long and elegant, a slit high on her thigh. Would the slit be so high, that the smooth flesh of her thigh above the stocking would show? Or a swirling skirt that would circle wide if she turned fast, a wonderful shimmer of movement? Shoes, too, one of the parcels must surely contain shoes.

Parcel number four was a rectangular box, about four or five inches thick, maybe two feet long by a foot wide. A box with a lid, a surprise beneath the wrap of the paper. She laughed lightly as she realised that she was unwrapping boxes, uncovering paper, revealing garments within; so that she could discover lovely clothes that would hide her skin, cover her limbs, cover her up, unreveal her. And in so doing, reveal another woman in her. His vision of her, wearing the clothes he had chosen for her.

Audacious of him, bold. She wondered what type of woman he would make of her, in the clothes he chose. If she did not like them, she could tear them from her body and throw them to the floor and stand naked, revealed. She laughed again as she realised he might quite like that too, her nakedness. She hoped he would like it, a lot. She liked his taste in lingerie, subtle and refined. Pale colours, not quite white, but not a statement shouted out loud with bold shades. His choice in colour was muted, subtle. She wondered if the dress or skirt would be colourful, or whether it would be black or white like a photograph might be. She wondered if polaroids came in black and white as well as colour.

Resting her hand on the lid of the box, she shook herself from the light revery into which she had fallen, speculating on what might be in the box. Silly, she should just open it to find out. She marvelled at the way the collection of parcels made her want to prolong the mystery, to let her imagination run on in the meantime. She remembered the book, and how a single word would open up her mind and let it fill with her own fantasy.