Message-ID: <770eli$9705121443@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/770> Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com> Subject: STORY: Happy Mother's Day Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough to be reading this. This is fiction. No one delivers on Sunday! No resemblance to real or historic persons, places, etc., is intended. Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan, who chooses to remain 'anon.' Do not repost, store on public sites without permission. No commercial use is warranted. For personal use and/or entertainment purposes. Visit the Spraycan site: <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY by Mr.Spraycan Just another day? Or will there be a surprise? Sally is almost past caring, but she wishes either of her daughters would phone, at least. She sits at the kitchen table, discarded sections of the Sunday newspaper, the debris of lunch everywhere. To Sally, a good lunch is a half-dozen glasses of wine, some salty snacks. Maybe I should take a nap, she decides. She's not so much drunk as exhausted. That's her rationale. The door bell rings. She peers through the peephole. A delivery guy, with flowers in a cellophane wrap. She feels a rush of excitement, fumbles with the lock, smoothing her rumpled clothes, pushing her frizzy greying hair back. At forty-five, she is not a total wreck, but she hasn't been looking after herself either. Not since Bob left, with his teenage slut. Sally is slim -- serious drinkers often are -- but her beauty has faded a little. She has that defeated, round-shouldered look, bags under her eyes, make-up applied with a careless verve. "Mrs. Feldstein? Sign here, please," the pleasant, brown-uniformed deliveryman says. He's in his twenties, and big. Over six foot, broad-chested, with that military, polizei, lifeguard, square-jawed look. Not handsome, not ugly. But very real. He hands her the clipboard and steps past her into the hallway, looking for somewhere to put the flowers down. "Oh, no. I'll take those," she tells him, signing and gesturing helplessly with the clipboard. He pushes the door closed behind him. "That's alright, ma'am, we take care of the details," he instructs her gruffly. Looks at the tag on the flowers, and says: "From Rosemary. Thoughtful of her, wasn't it?" There are tears in Sally's eyes. Rosie. Not the one she'd call her most thoughtful daughter. She'd not called in weeks, and is always rushing off to somewhere or other exotic -- Bangkok, Montevideo, Bratislava, Azerbaijan, Newark -- on business. "Are you alright, ma'am?" the deliveryman asks solicitously. "I'm fine . . . I'll be okay," Sally replies. "Then . . . Happy Mother's Day? May I say that?" he says with a twinkle in his eye. Sally smiles, trying to hold back the tears. "Yes, happy, I suppose . . .oh, Jesus . . ." The delivery guy is standing closer, puts his hand on her shoulder. "Don't be miserable. Someone loves you, you see?" That makes the tears well up. "Do they? Do they?" she sobs, a bitter taste in her mouth. That lousy cheap Chardonnay. She's shaking with emotion. The deliveryman puts his arms round her, hugs her. She lifts her face to his, and he kisses her, full on the mouth. Much later, as he gets ready to leave, he looks down with a friendly smile on the naked woman, still sprawled on her unmade bed, sound asleep, smiling peacefully at some secret thought. She has a completely different look about her. What does the great philosopher say? "Nothing looks better than a freshly fucked woman." So true, he agrees. Outside her car is waiting, parked behind his delivery truck. Rosemary hands him the check. $200, not bad for an hour's work. Fun work, too. She asks him a question: "Did she suspect?" "I don't know. Maybe. But she really threw herself into it, ma'am." "Very drunk?" "Just average. She was quite willing, didn't need the dots connected . . ." "Did she come?" "Yes, definitely. Several times." "And, it was okay for you?" "Do you care? Well, yes. Not so bad, really. I'd rather fuck you, but . . ." "But I'm buying today, not playing, Brad. Thank you, then . . . maybe we'll find a part for you in the next episode . . ." He drives off, back to the studio to drop off the truck and get changed. Maybe a Happy Mother's Day for everyone involved, then, TV producer Rosemary tells herself. Lucky mummy. He's quite a hunk, even if he is a little on the dullwitted side . . . yes, he might fit nicely in "Delivery Studmuffins, USA." Copyright (c) 1997 by Mr.Spraycan [ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: <infos.an@edtec.com> ] -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /