(Author's Note: Lucas continues to write his stories but he can't show all of them to his family. Read his first stories on Literotica, 11/05/2019, https://www.literotica.com/s/memories-ch-01-4) and 11/25/2019, https://www.literotica.com/s/memories-ch-02-6).
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I'm writing down my more interesting experiences during my life for my children, their children and now their children. I'm Lucas, by the way, and I'm well into my tenth decade of life. I never thought much about the things I saw and did when I was younger but my kids enjoyed hearing about them. Eventually, I was convinced to write them down. The stories accumulated until both my daughter and granddaughter each have a large volume of them.
When the writing habit finally took hold, I realized there were other stories that I couldn't write for my family. They were of a deeply personal level and somewhat profane. I had to write them down but I couldn't give copies to my daughter to include in the tome she was building for later generations.
What follows is one of those stories. One caveat, I tend to exaggerate on occasion. Truthfully, embellishment, exaggeration and outright fabrication are frequent visitors to my tales, especially if it enhances my opinion of myself or my proclivities.
When I was twenty, in 1946, the war was over and I had managed to avoid the draft. I graduated from high school at eighteen and worked in a factory making torpedoes for the war effort immediately after. That ended when the war ended and I needed another job. I was looking for something in a trade with an apprentice program and a decent career path. Meanwhile, I took a job with a market. Back then, there weren't large super markets or malls. Most business was small and local. Johan's was a small market selling local farm fresh vegetables and meat and other household items. Johan was a shrewd businessman and keenly aware of the competition from the approaching A&P and Piggly Wiggly super market chains. He was looking for something to distinguish his business and create a competitive advantage.
Johan had shared his problem with my mother and she shared it with me. I thought about it and approached Johan with an idea. I proposed he consider home delivery of groceries to his clientele. He like the concept but was concerned about the added cost since he didn't want to increase his prices. I offered him a deal. I would deliver the groceries using my own car. I would work for the usual hourly wage and would split any tips I got with him if he split the cost of gas with me. Gas was only twenty-one cents a gallon and the deliveries were local, so he bought the idea and I, as the only employee with a driver's license, became his only delivery clerk.
Home delivery caught on quickly in our small town. Most of the customers were nearby homemakers who regularly walked several blocks to his store pulling their shopping carts. Home delivery, without additional cost, became a personal luxury for many of them. They could call in their orders and I would deliver them. Most of them gave me a quarter or two as a tip with the occasional dollar. As word of the service spread, Johan's customer base expanded to those beyond convenient walking distance. His revenue and profits rose considerably and eventually, he let me keep all the tips while paying for half the gas.
About three months after I began delivering groceries, I delivered an order to a new development of homes on the outskirts of town. These were larger homes, probably approaching 1600 square feet, and the owners more affluential. I took the first bag of groceries, walked up the short walk and rang the bell.
The door was answered by a thirtyish young woman with long dark hair piled on top of her head. She was barefoot and wearing boxer shorts and a man's wife-beater shirt that probably belonged to her husband. I was mesmerized and speechless for a moment. I could hardly ask "Mrs. Robinson?" to insure I was at the correct address. I had never seen a woman dressed so scantily. Her legs were incredibly long under what I realized were her husband's shorts as well. I thought she was braless under the shirt, or at least I wanted that to be the case. I could have a month's worth of fantasies from just that few seconds looking at her.
She answered with a simple "Yes," while I continued to stare at her.
Somehow, I managed to vocalize, "I have your grocery order," and I moved to hand her the grocery bag in my arms. She took it from me. "Thank you," she said. The sound of her voice alone, added another two weeks to my fantasy repertoire.
"I have two more bags," I said and turned to get them from my car. The first few steps were awkward until I managed to adjust my building erection.
When I returned with the other bags, the front door was open. I stood on the doorstep and called, "Mrs. Robinson."
"I'm in the kitchen," came that soft ringing voice from the rear of the house. "Bring them back here, please," she continued.
I walked through a nicely decorated living room into a kitchen with Formica counters and a small table.
"Thank you," she said. "Just put them anywhere on the counter."
I collected the amount of the bill for the groceries and she walked me back through the living room. "Bye," I said. "Thanks again," she answered and closed the door.
No tip. I didn't need one. Nothing could come close to how good I felt. Seeing her was more than enough. Better than any tip I had ever received. And I didn't have to share it with Johan. Hell, I wasn't even going to mention it to Johan.
A week later, Mrs. Robinson called in another order. I wasn't busy, so I pulled the items, totaled them, bagged them and set out for her house within thirty minutes.
When she answered the door I almost fainted. She was wearing underwear again but this time it was hers, not her husband's. She was wearing a white bra and white, almost opaque, panties. I imagined I could see the dark triangle of her pubic hair through the fabric. I probably couldn't but I wanted to so I believed I could.
She took the bag from me. "I have more in the car," I said. "Great. Meet me in the kitchen with them."
In the kitchen, I put two more bags on the counter. She pointed to a chair next to the table. "Have a seat while I get my purse to pay you."
I sat and watched her ass as she walked away. The way the fabric of her panties stretched across her cheeks and darkened in the space between them caused my already erect cock to pulse dangerously.
She placed her purse on the table and took the other chair at the table. "My husband," she said, "says that I owe you an apology and I don't even know your name."
"I'm Lucas," I replied, "and I have no idea why you would owe me apology."
"I told my husband about your service and he asked if I had given you a tip. I hadn't and he told me that I owed you one and I should apologize to you for not giving you one."
"Mrs. Robinson," I replied, "not everyone gives me a tip and I don't expect or demand one. Your oversight is not unusual and you don't owe me either a tip or an apology."
"Lucas, you can call me Anne and my husband thinks I do and I agree." She took some bills from her purse and handed them to me. "This should cover today's delivery."
"This is too much," I objected.
"Keep it. It's a tip for today and last week. Just put it in your pocket and forget about it for now. Now that that's handled, can I get you something to drink?"
"I'm okay."
"I'm going to have something and I hate to drink alone. I've got wine or beer. Even some cola if you're so inclined."
"Really. I'm fine."
"Well, I'm not," she said as she got up and went to her Kelvinator and returned with two cans of Ballantine IPA and a can opener. She opened one and put it in front of me. She opened the second can, sat down in her chair and took a deep swallow.
Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I picked up my can and took a small sip.
We sat opposite each other, sipping our beers for several minutes. Finally, she said, "Now that we're friends, Lucas, do you have a girlfriend?"
"Mrs. Robinson," I opened.
"Please call me Anne."
