The August morning scorched like the fires of Mount Doom in Clarice Stork's small suburb of Phoenix. Driveways were bubbly tar pits. Just a morning newspaper retrieval was a minor heat stroke hazard during this immensely hot and dry summer. Nobody could even swim in their pools because the water was hotter than the air.
Clarice had been divorced for over two years now. Her marriage was the veritable entirety of Steve McQueen's solitary confinement in the classic prison movie, Papillon. It wasn't just the monotony. It wasn't just the mistreatment. It wasn't just the silence. It had been the walls. Steve McQueen would pace his solitary confinement quarters in the sweltering French Guiana, back and forth and count the steps. The count never changed. Clarice's marital life never changed either. She counted the steps from the beginning of her marriage to its death - like walking the same five steps every day and every night, hitting a wall, turning round and counting them again.
For those fifteen years she stored up her sexual desires in a bottomless cistern. Saving them perhaps for a day of sexual salvation. However, her desires ran so deep and so powerful that there was no easy way to translate them into a useful construct for ordinary life and ordinary relationships.
She attempted dating with a modicum of success; if only her goals were companionship and vanilla-life activities. The men were nice, they tried hard, had good jobs, but the process of dating, texting, calling, scheduling was so conventional that it did not translate into what her soul desired. She hasn't 'fucked' in decades. She's had sex - she hasn't 'fucked' - there is a difference.
As she woke up in her condo on that August morning, it was only 8:21 AM, and it was already 92 degrees outside. Even in the shaded lair of her bedroom with the A/C on full blast, she was sweating and naked.
Her mind turned, as it normally did throughout every part of the day, to the furnace between her legs - the only place hotter than the blacktop outside. Clarice was wearing a black thong from last night, and nothing else. She slinked into it before going to sleep because she wanted to wake up feeling sexy. She wanted that feeling of something tugging between her ass cheeks, and something sheer in the front. Had someone been looking down there, there would be no guessing as to how she trimmed her perfect cunt.
Even at 47, she rarely finds a pussy on her favorite free porn sites better looking than her own.
She reached down slowly, as if her hand had a separate brain with an aim to tease, and conducted a circumnavigation around her pubic area, gently stroking the inside of her thighs and the mound of her pubis bone. She anticipated, yearned; almost roleplaying with herself. She then reached down with her left hand and slid her thong to the side and let the open air caress her outer labia. Even with nobody else in the room, the act of sliding her underwear to the side gave her naughty thoughts, and she imagined onlookers.
Her dainty clit was half-shrouded in its hood, but not for long. While holding her thong to the side, she brushed her right hand's fingertips over her inner labia, dipped them inside her vaginal walls for lubrication, and roller skated them up to her clit, which had already engorged enough to turtle its way out for air.
She then lightly brushed her little red button as if painting wispy clouds on a canvas. She lets out an audible breath involuntarily as the signals from her clit traversed to the pleasure centers of her brain.
As Clarice lounged, tits up, gravity began pulling drops of her milky dew from the posterior wall of her cunt, past her her perineum to then be wicked up by the thong fabric that was still delightfully cleaving her asshole. As she circles her middle finger down and back up from her inner labia to her clit, she squeezes her glutes and performs a lazy version of a yoga bridge pose. With the thong lodged to the side for now, her dark red nipples petulantly demand attention, which she freely gave. As she felt the edge of orgasm approach, she played dead and ceased all movement before she went over the brink.
She looked over at her clock. 8:28 AM. Not much time.
She got out of bed and turned on the coffee maker. 12:00 blinked. There doesn't even seem to be a button to set the time. "Who the fuck designs these things?" she complains to the gods. No point. Rolling power outages during this heat wave will just fuck it up again, she resigns.
Clarice's house had no mailbox. It did, however, have an old style, brass mail slot with a smooth outer brass flap. For her neighborhood it was fairly unique, but there was something satisfying about the sound of the un-lubricated flap making it's SHINK sound as the mail would be inserted past the outer threshold, and the postman drops the flap. That sound hasn't occurred yet this morning, but it will any moment.
Clarice's latest mail carrier had been a black man, about six feet tall, and he had a slender but wiry frame. She had never had a conversation with him, but they have regarded each other with simple greetings of "hello" and "good morning". She imagined scenarios with him, and pictured his umber colored skin contrasted with hers, freckled and pale cream. Their fingers interlocked with Othello contrast. He remains nameless; just as well.
She had surveilled him from as far as five houses away - perhaps a quarter of a mile some mornings. His normal postal service garb would always be augmented with a wide-brimmed tan boonie hat, his mail satchel, and tan shorts that revealed toned calves from hours of walking each day. Although her view to the street is fairly obstructed by a well manicured front lot full of ironwood and palm trees interspersed with random cacti, there is a clear view through her neighbors yard to the street and that is normally where she can spot him.
On one occasion several weeks before this day when he delivered on an afternoon where the temperature reached over 105 degrees, several beads of what Clarice suspected was his sweat remained on a magazine that he delivered through her mail slot. As she heard his footsteps walk away that day, she picked up the mail from her entryway floor and licked the moisture. Still warm, and salty.
She has dared herself on multiple occasions to begin a conversation to weasel his name from his lips, but so far, her fascination with him stupefies her temporarily when she gets near him.
She left the kitchen towards the entryway of her house. Her front door was made of dark-stained ironwood - which made a handsome contrast to the old fashioned brass mail slot and the light tan stucco exterior of her house. The inside peephole rested below three framed glass windows that offered privacy with frosting, but there was a thin outline of unfrosted glass that ran along the frame of each window. It was through these thin spyglasses that she located her postal infatuation with one eye closed and the other squinted for the placebo effect of sharpened vision.
As he approached her house with his usual level of alacrity, Clarice moved her eye from the tiny transparent part of the door window to the peephole. The wide angle view of the door's 'magic eye' distorts her porch and makes the outside look big and far away. Suddenly, she saw the fruit of her reconnaissance as he walked on the flagstones that lead to her porch.
She had imagined this moment for weeks. She had no specific plan, but in that particular moment the inspiration manifested itself - mainly influenced by the sex hormones swimming in her brain after the moments-ago edging session on her bed. She is horny as fuck, and horniness begets boldness.
As she peered at the postman, she watched him separate her pile of mostly junk mail from a larger bundle. Her chest fluttered with arousal. While not moving her eye from the glass, she reached down and slid her thong to the side as she did in bed and pressed her mostly hairless triangle against her side of the mail slot. She felt the silky smooth brass frame press against the hood of her clit.
She still had time to pull away with the front flap in its rested and closed position.
The postman fumbled a bit with separating the mail, and she got a look at his face. He had a trimmed goatee, and a narrow nose that belonged to a magazine male model. His hazel eyes looked smart and curious, but yet he seemed to enjoy every aspect of his mostly predictable and mostly straightforward job.
She could have just stepped aside in that moment and hidden behind the wall next to the ironwood door, but she remained still. As she watched him approach the slot (and her slit), she was at the top of the highest rollercoaster ride, in the front seat, hanging with anticipation - waiting for the weight of the rest of the car to propel her forward. Just standing there at the precipice of erotic insanity made her cunt wet.
She heard the outside flap of the mail slot being opened, a puff of air tickled the skin beneath her trimmed pubic hair, letting her know that she really was doing this. The postman then attempted to push the bundle of mail through but it was blocked by her sex. She saw the confused look on his face, and marveled giddily that whatever was going to happen probably cannot be prevented at this point.
She kept her squinted eye on his face as a hawk spotting food. She was spying as a voyeur on her own exhibition. The word 'titillated' fell far short of describing this singular moment. As he bent down to inspect the obstruction, she had a mental orgasm as she watched him take in his first look at Clarice's cunt, pressed against the slot and on full display to him through the letterbox.
SHINK
