What Can Brown Do for You?

Several years back I was using the home office of some friends across the street. They both worked, and the quiet of their home office enabled me to be much more productive than in my own home office where my wife and kids were constantly in and out that summer.

I never realized how much merchandise they got sent to their home until then. Two or three times a week, there was a delivery. I would hear the knock, but being busy, would not go to the door and just let the delivery person leave the stuff on the porch.

That is, until I looked out the window one day and saw that it was a UPS delivery person—but not just any old delivery person. She was a tall blonde woman with big tits and long legs. "What can Brown do for you?" as the recent commercials ask. Well, I got my bony ass to the door in a hurry to see!

In her late 20s or early 30s, she had a "hard-living" face—that stayed-up-late-many-a-night-in-juke-joints-smoking-Camels-and-drinking-Jim Beam look—but was nevertheless still pretty, and was wearing the UPS summer uniform of brown short-sleeve shirt and shorts. The shorts certainly showed her long and muscular legs nicely, and it being about 104 outside, she had perspired through the brown shirt, through which her perfect boobs, in an apparently thin bra, printed quite visibly.

She was very friendly, and we got to chitchatting about the oppressive Texas heat. She asked if she could come in for a moment for some ice water and to cool off. Like I was going to say "no!" She downed the water fast, and I went back into the kitchen to get her another glass. The icemaker was jammed, so it took me a few minutes to get it in order. When I returned to the den, she was turned away looking out over the back deck, had unbuttoned the shirt, pulled the tail out, and was fanning the front of the shirt back and forth to cool off.

Since she was facing away from me, I could not see anything, so I cleared my throat so she'd know I was back, expecting her to button up. Instead, she casually turned around and took the water from my hand. I could now see her jutting breasts clearly through the see-through material of her bra, and the A/C had perked her nips up to hard points. Damn! She had one super-fine set of tits!

Then, after downing the water in five gulps, in that husky, sexy voice, she asked for a third glass with lots of ice, said her clothes were uncomfortably soaked with sweat, and would I mind if she let them dry in the sun on the back deck.

In fact, I DID mind, as my wife and kids were home directly across the street and could pop over at any time and my friends who owned the house could come home for lunch. Further, if the neighbors on either side were home, they might see her out there, and rumors would fly.

Flabbergasted at her boldness, I stood there speechless, eyes riveted on her incredible tits, which I suppose she interpreted as "no problem," for she walked out on the deck, sat on the bench, removed the shirt, and hung it on the back of the lounge. She then undid the fastener that held her hair in a ponytail, and shook out her long, natural blonde hair.

As if that were not enough, she then stood up and wiggled the shorts off over her boots, draped them on another chair, and came back in.

Wow! What a fantastic body she had! Those wonderful tits, tiny waist, curvy, slim hips, mile-long legs, and, like her bra, the matching see-through material of her panties left no doubt that her pubes were shaved into a perfect heart shape. Her overall look and the ease with which she moved about practically naked made me think she'd worked as a stripper at some point in her past. Like, maybe, yesterday!

She sat down on the edge of the leather den couch with her water in one hand, and, like nobody's business, with her other hand smoothed an ice cube around her sensuous lips, down her neck, and across the tops of her tits through the sheer bra. Somehow we got onto the subject of her husband, who was also a UPS driver, and how unfortunate it was they were always working during the time of day they were horniest--lunchtime.

Well, thanks for sharing. And what a coincidence. It was lunchtime. My thick gold wedding ring was in plain view, but obviously that was a non-issue, as she mentioned that her hubby enjoyed the "fringe benefits" of mostly only "lonely housewives" being home when he made deliveries and how "delighted" she was to find at home alone the rare male —that would be me. I, of course, never told her that I was merely a guest at this house and actually lived across the street.

Next thing I know, she one handedly pops the front clasp on her bra, which snapped open to unleash those hooters unhindered. Yabba Dabba Doo Hoes! Now I've never really met a breast I did not like, but those earned a place on my Top Ten Tits List. D-cups, with smooth, bright pink, half-dollar-sized areolas, they had what I call the "Bob Hope Slope." Caricaturists used to draw comedian Bob Hope with an exaggerated upward slope to his nose, and similarly, her boobs curved upwards toward hard, dime-sized nipples. I LOVE boobs shaped like that!

While still carrying on a normal conversation about gas versus charcoal grills, she played with those magnificent mammaries with the insouciance of petting a cat, squeezing them in countless shapes with her hands and upper arms, rubbing ice on the rock-hard nipples, tweaking them, even licking them and sucking them.

Shortly, a hand—hers, not mine—swirled around her sexy stomach and "outie" belly button and slid into her transparent panties, where she demonstrated impressive dexterity by spreading her pussy lips with index and ring fingers and alternately plunging into her vagina and flicking her clit with her middle finger. As she did this, her butt wiggled on the leather couch, gradually peeling the panties down to reveal her heart-shaped pubes and glistening wet pussy unobstructed. All the while we talked about how we prepped our pork loin and beef brisket, she making liberal use of sexual double entendres. My own meat was hard as a spare rib!

Well, though I was certainly enjoying the strip show, I was also very anxious. Every dog bark and car driving down the street had my heart skipping a beat. And now that I realized this aggressive near-naked horny woman's strip was but a prelude to her plans to "cook" this "rare male" for lunch, I was a nervous wreck, for I did not fool around on my wife.

Her uniform had dried fast in the blazing sun, so I retrieved it, threw it at her, and asked her to quickly put it back on as I looked at my watch and exclaimed, "Oh my, look what time it is!" and lied that my wife would be coming home for lunch any moment. With a disappointed, but-I-wanted-to-fuck look, she nonetheless got with the program in a hurry and left with the parting words, "We'll pick up where we left off another day," giving Mr. Johnson a quick squeeze through my walking shorts as she exited the front door.

For the rest of the summer, I never answered the door again, though sometimes the knocking would continue for ten minutes while the big brown truck was at the curb.

I moved back to my own home office when school resumed in the fall. One day, she made a delivery across the street when my friend, George, the homeowner who'd lent me his home office, happened to be off from work at home alone and answered the door.

Short, ten years older, and with a heavy beard, George looked nothing like me. He told me this good-looking blonde UPS driver's face nearly dropped on the porch when he opened the door as she questioned who he was, how long he'd lived there, who else lived there, etc., etc., etc.

Goerge said he gathered she was expecting someone else. I told him I met her a couple months before when I'd used their home office. He got a huge charge out of that and then fully understood her peculiar behavior when he answered the door. Then I told him the whole story. Several times during the course of my telling what happened, I'd be recounting some detail of what she did, and George would finish my sentence with a shit-eating grin. He never did come out and say, but it sounded like UPS girl pulled the same routine on him. Just how far it went, I'll never know, as our wives were best of friends, and we didn't have complete trust in one another.

I would occasionally see her zooming down the street in the big brown truck, blonde hair flying in the breeze, but would hastily duck behind a bush or my car or something to avoid running into her again.

What can Brown do for me? Now that I'm divorced, how 'bout sending another stripping, bodacious-bodied delivery babe to my new home? I've got plenty of water and other fluids.