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Cindy's Borement
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Cindy's Borement
Being a mailman may not sound like the most glamorous occupation in the
world, but it does have certain occasional benefits. As a case in
point, there is a lady who lives near the end of my route, whom I shall
call Cindy. This is not her real name of course, but the story I'm
about to relate might be interpreted by some as somewhat scandalous and
I wish to protect her reputation.
"Cindy," an attractive woman in her late thirties, invited me in for
tea one morning as I delivered her mail. She is a delightful
conversationalist, though I could tell from a certain pleading tone in
her voice that she was desperately lonely. Her husband, you see, spent
long hours at the office and had little time for her. She told me that
she was looking for a "special friend" to help ease her boredom.
Now I must admit that I don't have much of a social life either; I
welcomed her offer of friendship wholeheartedly. She smiled and
expressed her gratitude. Unfortunately the conversation ended there
for at this point she stretched out her arms, yawned, and walked down
the hall towards her bedroom. She was obviously tired from our long
talk -- heavens! it must have been over an hour! -- and wanted to take
a nap. Not wanting to overstay my newly acquired welcome in her home
(and also anxious to complete the last of my route) I thanked her for
the tea and headed for the front door. She implored me to stay, but I
knew it was only out of politeness that she did so. I thanked her
again and left.
The next day I made a point of delivering Cindy's mail last of all, so
that if she invited me in again I would be able to stay longer (her
afternoon nap notwithstanding) without having to worry about finishing
my route. Much to my delight, she was waiting for me with a fresh pot
of tea and some cookies.
This is rather embarrassing, but I suppose that as this story is of a
"True Confessions" nature, I might as well not try to hide any of the
facts. I don't mean to titillate or scandalize; please forgive me if
you find what I am about to describe unseemly.
You see, Cindy has a quite ample bosom, and this particular day she was
wearing a low cut summer dress that emphasized her decolletage. Being
a healthy, normal male, I am suspect to sensual desires, and found that
my gaze kept dropping inadvertently downward from her eyes as we
spoke. She noticed this ungentlemanly behavior, but thankfully she
didn't mind. She winked at me as if to say "I understand, that's all
right," and to make it absolutely clear, she leaned across the sofa to
pour another glass of tea, and very nearly -- pardon my language --
brushed my face with her breasts.
(Please don't think poorly of her because of this. This is, after all,
the nineties, and such openness should not be taken as immodesty, but
rather as a healthy attitude towards the human body.)
After this incident, the strap of her dress inexplicably kept falling
from her shoulder. She would demurely push it back up, only to have it
fall again. Despite my utmost respect for Cindy, and her previously
displayed candor concerning this most pleasant part of her anatomy, I
found myself too distracted to keep up my end of the conversation. I
kept stuttering, and -- how ashamed I am to admit it -- I could not
refrain from thinking vaguely lewd thoughts. To avoid any further
embarrassment, I hastily excused myself. I was deeply attracted to her,
but she was a married woman. That she was unhappily married made no
difference; I could not allow myself such indiscrete thoughts. She
begged me to stay a while longer, saying that the conversation was just
getting interesting -- how kind of her, to so politely excuse my clumsy
stammering -- but at last I begged off and left her house.
The next day was a Saturday. Cindy's husband was playing golf when I
made my rounds. The poor woman! No wonder she so valued my company,
despite my undeniable and obvious attraction to her. Then again,
perhaps it was precisely because I demonstrated a desire for her that
she kept inviting me in. That is perfectly understandable; it must
have been flattering to have the attentions of a man when her husband
denied her such.
At any rate, she was dressed much more modestly that morning. While
her husband played golf she was planning to go horseback riding, or so
I surmised from her outfit. I had long suspected from her cultivated
demeanor that she was a prep school girl; her sharp riding suit
confirmed this suspicion. She had obviously enjoyed the benefit of a
classical English education.
I didn't stay long in order not to delay her any further from her
afternoon expedition, but one unusual event took place that is worth
mentioning. She handed me her riding crop and asked me if I wanted to
"try it out." It was a perfectly good crop, I suppose, a nice, sturdy
model that smacked solidly in the palm of my hand; of course I'm no
expert in such matters. But as I was testing the instrument, Cindy had
slumped over the kitchen table! I was at once alarmed for her health,
although much to my shame I couldn't help noticing that she had a very
shapely, well-rounded rump. But that's beside the point. I
immediately rushed to her aid, and after she reassured me that she
hadn't fainted or started choking, I left. I never did discover what
had caused her to fall bent over the table like that. I hope that it
wasn't due to failing health.
Over the next week our relationship grew more and more flirtatious,
though I assure you it was all purely innocent. How I pitied her! Her
brute of a husband really should have paid her more attention; it's sad
that the closest thing to romance in her life was coy flirtation with
the mailman over morning tea.
I was truly impressed with Cindy's knowledge of foreign literature and
culture. She showed me a copy of an Indian religious text -- I had no
idea that the Buddhists had such bizarre and intimate sacred rituals.
Those were not half as strange a certain practice of the French
nobility she later taught me of, known as "eating one another." At
first I found the idea revolting, but I try at all times to keep an
open mind and I suppose that in time of famine no potential source of
nutrition should be ignored.
Cindy had a rather unusual hobby as well: she collected police
restraining devices. I found her collection charming in an eccentric
sort of way. She was a bit careless with it however, as I discovered
that Friday.
When I delivered her mail, I found her front door wide open. I shouted
a "hello!" but there was no answer, so I let myself in to make sure she
was all right. She called to me from her bedroom, unhurt, but what a
predicament she had gotten herself into! Early that morning, before
even getting dressed (she was wearing only a short nightgown, which --
ah, lewd thoughts again, but how can I help myself! -- I found most
flattering to her curvaceous figure and pretty legs) she had been
examining the latest addition to her handcuff collection, an early
model used by the New York Police department. Somehow she had managed
not only to get both hands locked up in the device, but with the chain
looped around her bedpost! Charming and witty as she was, she was
constantly doing utterly silly things like this.
It's a good thing that it was I who found her in that compromising
position, I told her, and not that lecherous swine John who works for
UPS. Don't get me wrong, John is a good friend of mine, but I find his
attitudes towards the fair sex despicable. There's no telling what he
might have done under those circumstances.
The key to the handcuffs, Cindy explained, was on the bed directly
beneath her buttocks. I admit to feeling a certain guilty pleasure
with my hand upon the latter while retrieving the former. She applied
numerous kisses of gratitude to my neck, chest, and earlobes as I
unlocked her from her accidental bondage. This too gave me a great
deal of sensual pleasure but I am proud to say that I exercised a
gentlemanly restraint all the while.
Our conversation that morning was not as easygoing as usual, owing to
Cindy's frustration. She was understandably embarrassed and angry at
herself for getting into that amusing situation with the handcuffs. I
assured her that there was nothing to be ashamed of; I found her
silliness rather charming in fact, but her mood only worsened when I
told her this. To cheer her up and let her know that I thought no
worse of her, as I left -- bold move! -- I kissed her on the cheek.
Alas for me, our "special friendship" ended the next day, but I am
overjoyed for her. As I was delivering her mail, I heard from her open
bedroom window the unmistakable sounds of marital bliss. At last! Her
husband had come to his senses! I wondered if he had stayed home that
Saturday for the express purpose of giving Cindy the sexual attention
she so desired and deserved. I knew then that she no longer needed my
company, which saddened me, but I suppose it was all for the best. Who
knows what rumors were already going around about us?
John the UPS driver was making a delivery in that neighborhood at the
time; I left a note the windshield of his van telling him that we must
get together for a beer soon, and that I had a story for him that he
would undoubtedly appreciate. (Of course, I did not intend to reveal
the name of my "special friend," only the circumstances. Her
reputation must be protected, after all.)
I will always fondly cherish the memory of Cindy and our brief but
pleasant relationship. And that, dear readers, is one of the things I
like about being a mailman.
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