The doorbell rang: that was unexpected on a mid-Saturday morning. Juliet started at the sound, went to the window to look out before opening the door. Her home was a bit isolated, she was always careful anyhow, and today her old lover had gone off to town to do some research at the local university library, leaving her unexpectedly at loose ends. He'd been very apologetic, but quite firm about needing to do so. Said he'd be back about five or six, and would bring something special for dinner. Still, she was moping about, not really up for much of anything.
Outside, standing on the porch, a darkly attractive man, not too far off her own age but surprisingly old for his apparent job as a deliveryman, in tight bicycle-messenger suit, mountain bike with two big baskets leaning against a tree behind him. Big wraparound sunglasses. She thought to herself, appreciatively, that he was awfully fit and good looking. He held a brown-wrapped package under one arm. Others lay in the bicycle's baskets.
She opened the door, he smiled at her, looked at the package, asked "Are you Juliet?"
She nodded, and he handed her the package. Bulky but weighing almost nothing. She was mystified, hadn't ordered anything: she looked at it and asked "Don't I need to sign for it or something?"
He shook his head, continued to stand there, and she realized that he might be expecting a tip, told him "Wait a mo..." and re-entered the house. She sorted through her wallet and found, of all things, a two-dollar bill: she returned to the door, handed it to him.
He grinned, said "Thank you, Ma'am", and touched his forehead in an odd, almost-military three-finger salute, then trotted to his bike. She watched his butt and legs as he disappeared down the drive, then turned to the package.
Plain brown wrapping paper, tied with a string, not even taped shut, just her name and address on it. Curious.
She opened it on the dining table: a manila envelope on top, a wide-rimmed white straw hat with a feather in it, a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, then a pair of almost, non-quite, stiletto high-heels, bright red! She goggled: she hadn't worn such heels for years, and then only for costume purposes. How the devil did people walk in these things in the real world? Beneath them, an absolutely transparent piece of fabric, sheerest something, light blue. She picked it up, shook it out: a blouse. It probably weighed as much as a postage-stamp.
Curiouser and curiouser.
It MUST be a package from her lover, but there was no indication at all of authorship. Whoever else? The final object, a very tightly rolled and folded, very small pair of long white-satin jeans: she examined them. Incredible! First of all, they were FAR too small for her, even if they were mostly lycra... She tugged at the material, and it stretched beautifully. They weren't cheap. Then she noticed the zipper: it was a single piece, brass, exposed, and ran uninterrupted from the belt line in back down through the crotch and up to the snaps in front.
She held them up to her body and giggled at the thought of wearing such a contraption, finally laid them aside and opened the envelope. There were several pieces of paper inside. A map of the grounds of the local horse-racing track, "The Downs". She hadn't been there for years. On the map, a big arrow pointing to a small carefully drawn "x" at the front edge of the upper observation deck, the roof of the track officials' skybox. That, she knew, was the hardest place to gain entry to, the best view in the whole arena. A bright yellow pass that said "ROOFTOP: admit 1", and a parking pass for "EXECUTIVE LOT #1". Both were stamped with today's date.
A sheet of plain computer paper. A second envelope, pinned to it. She unfolded it and read the printed message:
Drive to The Downs, so that you get there by 2 PM. The fifth race is at 3:00. Get to the rooftop at 2:30, the end of the fourth race, so that you can get to the rail at the X, and stay there to keep that spot for the fifth race. There will be a wrapping of white tape on the rail at your place, the X. Don't leave: you'll never get the spot back if you do. Stay there through the fifth. Once the crowd begins to return for that race, no matter what happens, DO NOT TURN AROUND, not for anything. Now, go to the bathroom and shave that pussy of yours completely. Baby-butt smooth. When you go to the track, wear NOTHING except what came in the box. Nothing whatever! Enjoy your afternoon.
Inside the pinned envelope was a brand new $100 bill, with a sticky that read "Bet this on Schottsie in the fifth race, to win."
She eyed the small pile of stuff, then chortled happily to herself. An adventure: just what the day called for.
At noon, she was in the shower: the lather and edgy coldness of the razor against skin and alongside her clit felt good. She was almost drooling wet already, but resisted the temptation to play with herself. Once dried off, she wriggled into the pants: they fit like a glove: a surgeon's rubber glove. It took some doing to get the seams straight and all the creases and wrinkles flattened, but eventually they fit just like a painted-on second skin. She was pleased that there were no muffin-like bulges at her waist: gymnasium and running worked! As she worried the zipper closed, she decided it was a good thing she was perfectly shaved: there were no protective undies in the package, and the fit was such that she'd have had a whole fistful of pussy hair caught in the zipper's teeth otherwise. Once closed, the cool metal of the zip rubbed teasingly on her clit.
She eyed herself in the mirror, put on the blouse. She might as well have had nothing on at all, she thought: her areolas and nipples were quite plainly visible, as was the crack of her pussy, the detailed outline of a pussylip obvious on either side of the long blatant shiny brass pussy-splitter - she'd never in her life showed anyone a camel-toe!
She couldn't go out in public dressed like this, she thought at first, but finally decided that she couldn't possibly back out. Besides, there'd be over a hundred thousand people there, and she was sure to know exactly nobody at all in the crowd. Well, maybe ONE person. A sly grin covered her face as she decided "Why the hell not?"
A bit of practice walking in the heels. She practiced making her legs long and walking with just the right wiggle: it made her ass and tits bounce nicely. She had to admit that the brass pulled deep into her pussy-split and rubbing on her clit as she walked was more than merely interesting. As was the whisper of almost nonexistent fabric across her hardened nipples.
She had to drive barefooted, the high-heeled ridiculosities at her side in the seat. Each movement of her feet on the pedals sent shivers up her spine as the brass worked its magic against her clit and lips.
At the track, her lot was almost full: she pulled up to the valet's station. From behind her glasses she watched the young attendant's ill-hidden goggle-eyed appreciative glances as she maneuvered the shoes back onto her feet, giving him plenty to ogle. And he was young enough to be her son! Out of the car, walking, there were the not-so-subtle -that is, blatant- stares. Her breasts, always small and never, she felt, her strongest point, were certainly getting attention now that they were well and truly on display!
No pockets anywhere in the outfit. With the hundred dollar bill, ticket, and parking receipt in hand, she managed to get across the lot to the elevator marked "ROOF" without incident, other than a couple of men nearly tripping over their own tongues as she passed, leading her to giggle inwardly. At the elevator, a young woman attendant checked her pass, took her up to the top of the building, eyes studiously averted, said not a word.
Juliet was enjoying herself immensely from within this odd anonymity.
She looked about: there, near the back wall, were the betting windows, almost empty because the whole crowd was outside for the running of the fourth race. She was timing things beautifully so far. Up to the window she sauntered, tried to act as if she did this every other day, said to the elderly man behind the bars "One hundred on Schottsie to win in the fifth, please."
Wordlessly he exchanged her C-note for the chit: she had no place to keep it except in her hand. Oh well.
The crowd's roar announced the start of the fourth race, a mile and a quarter, about two minutes of action at a distance. She listened, stood at the door to the rooftop while the crowd quieted through the backstretch, swelled to a climactic crescendo as the leaders pounded through the homestretch. The chorus of boos and cheers subsided and the crowd streamed past her, heading indoors to bet, or claim their winnings, or visit the bar.
She slipped through the last incomers, trotted towards the now-empty railing, looked for the tape. There it was, just where it'd been promised. She sauntered over to it, stood there leaning on the rail, almost alone. Below here, a four-level sea of backs of heads spread out for acres, human wheat-fields, not an eyeball to be seen. Beyond them, the whole mile-plus track was visible, above the pari-mutuel tote-board on the infield. It was hot in the sun: there were no chairs at all up near the rail, where the crowd would congregate for the actual race.
She leaned against the rail, pressing her mound against the hot metal. She could feel the tape of the "X" through the lycra on her thighs. "GOD but I'm horny" was her only coherent thought. She looked about expectantly, saw nobody that looked even vaguely familiar, nothing except a few older men eyeing her openly from yards away. She grinned to herself, turned away from them, found reason to lean down and adjust her shoe, her bottom pointed right in their direction. As she straightened up, one man knocked over his beer as he craned to improve his view.
It felt good to cause such a problem. Powerful. She studied the zipper, placed the brass between clit and rail, felt the glorious heat soak through and caress her clit. Woof! Such a rush.
Now, closer to race time, the crowd was returning, and suddenly, with the bugling announcement that called the horses to the gate, there was a serious rush for the rail. The crowd pinned Juliet in tightly, a jovial, many-deep crush of bettors, a vertical sardine-can of humanity in the sun. She resolutely faced forward, remembering the admonition in the note. To her left, a youngish woman, her thigh pressed hard against Juliet's own, binoculars up and in use. To her right, an older man, trying alternately to be a gentleman and avoid pressing on her, whilst slyly eying her breasts.
