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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Scarlet Parcel (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
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{ASSM} The Scarlet Parcel (Bradley Stoke) (MF)

Title: The Scarlet Parcel
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF
Short Summary: Heather is expecting a Scarlet Parcel.


[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]

For More : /~Bradley_Stoke



Story: The Scarlet Parcel (4,375 words)

Heather is a single mother living in a pretty cottage in
a picturesque English village. After seeing her daughter
onto the school bus, she must get back before either
Gerry or the postman arrives. The postman is due to deliver
a scarlet parcel whose contents Heather hopes will promote
Gerry's passion.




The Scarlet Parcel
==================



A pair of blue-tits was fighting each other for exclusive
access to the peanut holder Heather had just attached to
the bird table. A female pheasant's dull brown feathers
twitched under a bush as it waited for Heather to return to
the cottage kitchen. Then it could peck at the seeds
scattered liberally at the foot of the rotting bird table

Heather smiled. She pushed open the door to the kitchen
where her daughter, Paula, was stirring a bowl of Coco
Pops with a spoon.

"Is the pheasant there?" Paula asked.

"Yes," said Heather, as she poured herself a cup of coffee
from the jug. "Not the boy pheasant, though. One of his
girlfriends."

"Oh!" said Paula, disappointed. "I like the boy pheasant
best. He's pretty!"

Heather sat next to her daughter by the kitchen table.
Over the sound of The Fimbles on the television, whose
morning adventures occasionally attracted Paula's
attention, Heather could hear the reassuring sound of
lambs bleating in the field that abutted the cottage garden.
She loved her cottage and everything about it. The garden
she tended when she had the time. The view over the
fields to the distant copse and farmhouse. The birdsong
that greeted her every morning as she drew the curtains to
her bedroom. It might be an expensive luxury. The
mortgage was easily the most expensive thing she had to
budget for. But she didn't begrudge it at all.

If there was any consolation resulting from her separation
from Roger, it was the agreement that she keep the
cottage (even if she was burdened with the mortgage).
And, of course, Paula. It wasn't as if Heather could have
either Roger's job at the Insurance Company or the
girlfriend he'd left her for. Nevertheless, she sometimes
wished Roger showed more interest in his daughter other
than the child subsistence payments, the rare phone call
and the birthday presents.

"What are you doing in school today, Polly?" Heather
asked, as she sipped her black coffee. "Are you doing
sums?"

"Oh Mummy!" Paula laughed. "We do sums every day.
And reading."

"What are you reading at the moment?"

Paula pulled a book out of her school bag with
illustrations in bright primary colours of animals with
smiling faces. Heather took it from her hand and turned
the pages languidly. She was putting it back in her
daughter's bag when she noticed the cover of Paula's copy
book had words scrawled over it. She pulled it out and
read them to herself.

"Who wrote these words?" she asked, keeping her voice
as calm as she could.

"Debbie did."

"Why did she do that?"

"She said that's what you are, Mummy."

Heather tore the cover off the copy book, crumpled it up
and threw it in the kitchen fliptop bin.

"Why did you do that, Mummy?"

"Because they were bad words that Debbie wrote. Do you
know what they mean?"

"No."

"Didn't Debbie tell you?"

"She did, but I didn't understand. I don't think she really
knows either. Is it something grownups do?"

Heather bit her lip. "If your teacher, Mrs Ridley, asks
why the cover's missing, tell her I tore it off. And if she
wants to know more, she can talk to me. Do you
understand, Polly?"

"Yes, Mummy," said Paula, who was already losing
interest in the exchange and whose attention was
wandering back to children's morning television.

Heather smiled indulgently and patted her daughter
lovingly on her head.

"I love you, Polly," she said, as she so often did.

"I know, Mummy!" said Paula.

Why did Heather feel the need to tell her daughter that?
Wasn't it obvious to everyone? Perhaps she did so
because it needed to be said the more urgently when there
was no father around to share the burden of childcare.
Perhaps she just felt that in some ways she was less the
perfect mother than she'd like to be.

When breakfast was finished, Heather took her daughter
hand-in-hand out the cottage door, down the path to the
village lane and past other cottages to the school bus stop.
She regarded with regret the neighbouring cottages she
was no longer welcome to visit as she was when Roger
was living with her, even though he was more often away
than at home. Heather felt a residual bitterness. It wasn't,
after all, her fault that Roger took off with another
woman, but she was the one being punished for it.

She saw Mrs Butterfield and her two young children, one
a boy and the other a girl, dawdling ahead of them as the
boy sorted out some toys in his satchel. Mrs Butterfield
raised her head and looked at Heather and her daughter
with obvious alarm. She then pointedly hurried her
children over onto the other side of the road so Heather
could overtake them without there being the need to greet
each other.

Heather tried to catch Mrs Butterfield's eyes as they
passed in the hope that she could make a conciliatory
nod. In many ways they were very similar people. They
were both young mothers in their late twenties, whose
children went to the same village primary school, and
they wore similar clothes of sweater, slacks and trainers.
But Mrs Butterfield had the benefit of a Mr Butterfield
who let her fulfil her role as a modern middle-class
housewife without the need to work while her children
were still young.

"Do you play with Bobby and Lucy at school, Polly?" she
asked her daughter, nodding towards Mrs Butterfield's
two children.

"I used to, Mummy," said Paula, squeezing her mother's
hand. "But they don't want to play with me any more.
And anyway I'm best friends with Amandip and
Mustapha. And with Sveta in Painting and Drawing."

Heather nodded. She was pleased that there were still
pupils who got on with her daughter, but, as someone
whose own childhood had been as ordinary as it could be,
it sometimes pained her that her daughter was forced to
make friends with children on the ethnic margins of
country life.

Heather and Paula lined up near the stone bus shelter with
all the other parents and their children, but were notable
for their relative isolation. No parents and no children
came up to chat with them, to ask how they were,
whether Paula had her MMR jab or if Heather might
consider helping out on a stall at the next village fund-
raiser. In fact, the parents, all mothers up to the age of
forty, were intent on avoiding eye-contact at all costs,
taking advantage of the need to fuss with their children to
ensure that they need never look directly at the mother
and daughter standing in the shade of the picturesque
cherry tree. The children were equally complicit,
although Heather was comforted that none of them were
old enough to do so from genuine malice. It was worse
with the older children, whose school bus was parked
further along the country lane. They sometimes took
pride in their rudeness. Especially Judy Evans, whose
mother had once been one of Heather's closest friends in
the village.

Heather waved at Paula as the bus pulled off to take her
and the other village children to the school in Upper
Dumbledean. Paula was the only child sitting by herself
on a bus that was already more than half full since
picking up children from the neighbouring villages of
Winstone and Cressington.

It was a fine sunny day, so Heather was rather looking
forward to her morning stroll across the fields to the
petrol station shop, which was the nearest place she could
go to buy groceries and a newspaper. But she couldn't
dawdle. She needed to be back at the cottage before the
postman arrived. She was expecting a parcel and she
didn't want the hassle of having to drive fifteen miles to
the nearest sorting office if she missed the delivery.

Heather often considered this brief hour between seeing
Paula off to school and returning home as the only part of
the day when she could truly be herself. She loved the
walk over the fields, past the grazing sheep and cattle,
past the copse where she sometimes saw deer, and over
the stiles. Even the few words exchanged with the staff at
the petrol station, who mostly lived miles away from her
village, were a source of inestimable pleasure to her.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" remarked Betty, as Heather
knew she was called from the label on her blouse.

"Perfect!" Heather replied with a grin as she picked up
the blue plastic bag of magazines, milk, biscuits and a
newspaper.

She strode out of the petrol station, slightly regretting that
her excursion was more than halfway over, but she
needed to get back in good time. And she wanted to be
ready for when Gerry came round. He said he'd be there
this morning, depending on his appointments, of course,
and he didn't normally disappoint. Heather's heart jumped
slightly as she remembered her morning caller. At least
Gerry loved her, as he was so keen on telling her;
although Heather knew he was far too sensible to
abandon his wife and teenage children for her.

Heather got back to the cottage only just in time. She
could see the postman's red van parked outside the village
hall, under the notice-board with its announcements of
flower shows and jamborees. She widened her step,
hoping to be at the cottage before the postman.

"Oh, hi there, Mrs Printon," greeted the postman who was
coming towards her. Heather didn't wish to correct him
about her marital status, though had she and Roger got
married perhaps she'd have got a better deal from their
separation. "I popped a card through your door, but
seeing as you're here, you might as well have your
parcel."

He handed Heather a shapeless package that crinkled
with plastic, cloth and paper. She almost snatched it from
him. "Where do I sign?"

"Here," said the postman, proffering a form. "Another
scarlet parcel. The packaging these days!"

"Indeed," said Heather, who was annoyed that the parcel
couldn't have been plain manilla. What would the
postman think? He'd almost certainly noticed the sending
address and drawn his own conclusions. However, Bill
was a good sort. He never passed judgement and, in any
case, Heather was sure he delivered far more
incriminating parcels than one in scarlet from a
coquettishly ambiguous internet address.

Heather rushed into the cottage, sat down in the kitchen
and pulled apart from the parcel. Yes, it was from Scarlet
Dream and did contain the lingerie she'd ordered off the
internet at attractively low prices with special discounts
for regular customers. It was lacy, deep red, and revealing
in exactly the right places. It also accentuated her
medium-sized bosom. Gerry would be pleased.

Heather gazed out the kitchen window. Paula would be
happy if she were here now. The male pheasant was
pecking at the seeds she'd left out, surrounded by his
harem of plain brown female pheasants. Small birds flew
back and forth to the peanut holder, perching just long
enough to peck free a few crumbs before flapping off to
the bush where they waited for their next turn.

It was only after reading the newspaper over another cup
of coffee that Heather decided to try out her new
purchases. She'd never been bothered with things like this
when Roger lived with her. Perhaps it might have made a
difference if she had. Gerry liked the texture and look of
erotic lingerie, though Heather wasn't sure if she were a
man she might not prefer total nudity. It wasn't as if men
ever dressed in such things. Well, not normally. Although
since Roger left she'd learnt that what was apparently
normal and what men actually got up to were not
necessarily the same things.

Heather spun around on the stiletto heels that seemed
most appropriate when you wore Scarlet Dream's
lingerie. It was a perfect fit. She was still a very good-
looking woman, as Gerry always reminded her (and
Roger very rarely did). The evidence of the caesarean
section was almost completely invisible. Her waist was
trim as a result of all the exercise and, of course, her
twice-weekly step aerobics classes in nearby Eastchurch.
Her breasts may not be huge, but they were pert and
apple shaped. She now trimmed her crotch, another thing
she never did when Roger lived with her. It looked better
like that in Scarlet Dream panties and, anyway, Gerry
appreciated it.

Heather sat on the double bed that was a legacy of her
near-married past and idly flicked through the woman's
magazine she'd bought at the petrol station. It was all
about film stars, fashion hints and, of greatest fascination
to Heather, articles about finding, keeping and pleasing
boyfriends and lovers. There was a world outside
represented in these magazines, a long way from country
villages and domestic drudgery, where a girl could go out
for the night, dance the night away, and return home with
the man of her dreams. And this man was someone who,
with a little patience and the benefit of having read
articles in magazines like this, would be nothing but putty
in the hands of a modern Ms. Before long, it would be
roses, wedding bells, a sporty Audi TT, and one of those
diamonds that were featured in those decidedly erotic
advertisements.

Suddenly, Heather heard the familiar squawk of a startled
pheasant followed by the low buzz of his wings. She
jumped to her feet and looked out of the window to see
Gerry's Mazda parked in front of the cottage. He was
early! She watched as he got out of the driver's door,
opened the rear door to retrieve the jacket of his suit he'd
hung up, and, with a swift manoeuvre copied from The
West Wing, slipped it over his shoulders. Heather hurried
down the stairs to the front door. She composed herself,
still wearing only her scarlet lingerie, while Gerry
hovered over the front door bell. It wouldn't do to be too
hasty in opening the door, but on the other hand she didn't
want to antagonise her neighbours more by leaving Gerry
on the doorstep for too long.

At last, after counting to ten after Gerry first rang the
doorbell and breathing slowly and deeply to compose
herself and her nerves, Heather opened the door. She
hoped that no neighbour could glimpse her in the
underwear she wore specifically for Gerry's benefit.

"My gosh, Heather! You needn't have!" Gerry exclaimed
when he saw her in her lace and silk outfit.

"For you, my love, nothing is too much," said Heather
with a broad smile. "Come in! Come in! You're a bit
earlier than you said. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

Gerry nodded. "It's been a long drive from Worcester," he
said. "But I might just have clinched the deal. A coffee
would do me the world of good!"

As he entered the cottage, he kissed Heather shyly on the
cheek and followed her to the kitchen. He sat down on a
stool and glanced at a photograph of Paula.

"Your daughter's at school today?" he asked with a kindly
smile.

Heather nodded as she poured a cup of coffee, put in the
milk and three sugars that Gerry liked, and handed it to
him. "It's not the school holidays, as you know."

"No, of course not. I'd know if my two girls were off
school," he laughed.

Heather leant against the washing machine, her long legs
stockinged from her high-heeled shoes to the top of her
thigh, and a bright square of Spring sun shining on her
bare midriff. She sipped her coffee and studied Gerry
with trepidation. Although she'd known him for well over
a year and had got to know him very intimately indeed,
perhaps more so than his wife or colleagues, she knew
there were huge parts of him that were barred from her
forever. He was a very ordinary looking man in many
ways. Only just in his forties, filling out around the waist,
and with a hair-line that was receding quite noticeably.

He took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped a sliver of
sweat off his forehead.

"It's very hot driving, you know," he said apologetically.

Heather smiled. "Especially all that way! Was the
motorway bad?"

As Gerry proceeded to give an account of his drive from
Worcester and the tortuous A and B roads he'd navigated,
Heather gathered her wits about her. Gerry always
perspired when he visited. Heather knew that it was more
his nerves than the temperature. He was worried about his
wife discovering that he was seeing someone else, even
someone who lived so far away. And he also felt very
guilty. What would his daughters think?

When Heather had judged that both she and Gerry were
sufficiently relaxed, she strode seductively across the
kitchen, one impossibly long leg in front of the other, and
smiled as Gerry became visibly more aroused by her
presence. And it wasn't just that he perspired the more
heavily: sweat trickling down his high temple and onto
his reddened cheeks. He was getting more excited in
another area that in a sense mattered much more.

She placed a hand on the front of his trousers. His penis
was rock hard and a splendid seven inches of manhood it
was too. He flinched slightly as Heather squeezed his
testicles through the loose fabric of his trousers and the
boxer shorts she knew he wore underneath. She kissed
him tenderly on the forehead, which smelt quite
distinctively of some Indian curry he'd no doubt been
feasting on the night before.

"You seem ready for action," Heather remarked.

"It's your outfit!" Gerry protested. "You know how much
I like silk and lace. And red as well! I love you, you
know. No one else understands me so well."

Heather had heard his protestations of love many times
before, but words were worthless with a family in tow.
She pretended not to hear him, although it sometimes
occurred to her that although Gerry was a sales rep and
all that often implied, he probably wasn't that bad a
father. And one who would probably get on quite well
with Paula.

"Shush!" said Heather, placing a finger gently but firmly
on Gerry's lips. "You probably don't have much time.
Shall we go upstairs and make as much of the time we've
got together as we can?"

"Yes. Yes, of course," said Gerry, taking off his jacket in
preparation. He then folded it over his shoulder and
loosened his tie as he followed Heather up the familiar
staircase to her well-lit bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Heather was aware that the disrobing was often the most
awkward part of her meetings with Gerry, so she put
especial effort into making the ceremony as erotic and
natural as possible. Thankfully, she didn't have to remove
any of her own clothes. The split crotch of the panties
ensured that this was not necessary, though she usually
liked to throw them to one side at some point or other.
She was able to concentrate her attention on Gerry's shirt,
trousers and underpants. She was unhurried and sensual
as she spread her fingers open on his hair-tangled
stomach and eased his boxer shorts down his upper
thighs, kissing his erect penis as she did so.

Soon he was naked and on his back on the bed, while
Heather returned her mouth to his penis, not only her lips,
but also her tongue and teeth, busy at keeping his penis
erect, while her fingers, with their sensibly manicured
nails, ensured that it didn't spend itself too soon in the
process. The advice given in the women's magazines
about suppressing premature ejaculation had proven their
worth many times over, although nothing was as good as
actual practice.

Gerry was well blessed. His penis was straight and stiff,
no kink in it and the skin pulled off the glans completely
and easily. His testicles were like eggs in size and shape,
much like those in the fridge, but much more tender.
Gerry would gasp whenever Heather squeezed them, but
as he expected her to do it she did this every time. Just as
she would also take each testicle into her mouth, closing
her lips around it, while her hand continued to grip his
penis, and run her tongue through the long scrotum hairs
and over the strange tubes that would channel his seed to
his member. But not yet. And not while he was still
unprotected.

It was a very explicitly illustrated book that Heather
managed to trace on the internet that taught her the skill
she had now perfected of taking a condom out of its
wrapper, putting it onto her partly opened mouth where
she kept it in place by sucking the rubber in, and then
with her mouth, sliding the condom down the length of
Gerry's erect penis, using a single hand to secure it in
place. Heather had learnt that there were different size
condoms appropriate for different men, and that Gerry
required a very average sized condom for a good fit. She
wondered whether there actually were many men who
required the larger sized condoms, but she had learnt that
there was certainly a need for the smaller models. A good
fit was a necessity and any looseness was very dangerous
indeed.

Once protected, Gerry could now enter her. For reasons
of comfort more than anything else, Heather slipped off
her lacy red panties and dropped them to the floor. Gerry
had once complained that a condom made him less
sensitive and wondered whether he could make love
without it, but Heather was very strict on such matters.
Whatever his protestations of love, what would they be
worth if something unpleasant or unexpected happened as
a result of their conjoining?

Although very different in most other ways, Gerry was
much like Roger in his lovemaking. He preferred making
love from the front so that he could look down at
Heather's face beneath his outstretched supporting arms.
He liked to thrust in slowly and steadily at first, pulling
his penis almost free from her vagina and then plunging it
deep inside again. He liked to gradually build up his
thrusts into a faster and more urgent rhythm, which was
Heather's cue to vent forth those urgent whimpering
gasps for which she was so grateful there were no party
walls between her and her neighbours' cottages.

Heather wasn't sure that she was actually faking it. She
certainly faked the orgasm, but then she did that with
Roger as well. Orgasms came rarely for her and most
often when she was pleasuring herself. The cries of
ecstasy and joy, however, that signified orgasm had
become such a routine part of her lovemaking, Heather
wondered whether they had just become something as
natural as the thrusts she found herself reciprocating
without ever planning to do so.

Another feature Gerry had in common with Roger was
his love of anal intercourse, but this was a privilege
Heather rarely granted. It was something best kept for
special occasions. She worried about it ever since she
read that article in Cosmopolitan about the long-term
health risks of too frequent penetration. Perhaps if Gerry
were less well-endowed and the risk less great, she might
have thought differently.

So when Gerry's finger probed her anus from behind, his
penis thrusting vigorously at the front, Heather let the
finger enter as far as the second joint, but squeezed her
buttocks tight to make further penetration impossibly
difficult. She then orchestrated her thrusts and her ecstatic
cries to the climax she could see Gerry was pretty much
on the verge of achieving.

As he did with his own grunts and gasps. And like all
men, the moment of release was fairly obvious, although
his penis didn't automatically collapse after releasing
semen into the condom's nipple.

Afterwards, Heather and Gerry lay together on the sweat-
sodden sheets, soon to be changed, Gerry's arm around
Heather's shoulders, while the sales rep talked about his
wife, his daughters, and the deal he was hoping to close
in Shrewsbury. This was different to Roger, who'd
normally doze after they'd made love, but then Gerry
would soon have to get back into his Mazda and onto the
road again.

Heather kissed Gerry quite tenderly on the cheek before
she opened the front door to the cottage to let him out. He
made his usual protestations that he'd be back as soon as
he could and that he loved her.

"Well, just ring when you can," said Heather with a
smile.

"I will. I will. It's been? it's been wonderful seeing you
again. I can hardly wait till next time!"

Heather wandered to the living room to watch Gerry
drive off in his Mazda. She still wore her scarlet outfit
with the panties back on, but she'd soon change into
something else. It carried rather too obviously the smell
of recent sex.

Heather returned to the kitchen and looked out at the
garden where a goldfinch was perched on the bird table
and a host of sparrows were pecking at the seeds on the
ground. No pheasants this time.

She looked at the notes in her hand. As always, Gerry had
been more generous than he needed to be. And even
though they'd not had anal sex, he insisted on paying for
it. Heather put the money in a jar in the kitchen and
glanced at her desk diary. Three more appointments this
afternoon: two regulars and a new one. As always, it was
the new one she was most anxious about, but Phil and
Jeremy would be just as demanding as Gerry.

Heather sipped her coffee. She'd have to change the
sheets and put on a fresh outfit, perhaps a black or a white
number from Scarlet Dream's catalogue. And then back
to work.

Heather glanced at the school photograph of her daughter
in the frame by the kitchen window. She sighed.

Oh, the sacrifices the single working mother has to make!

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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