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I had worked the past eight years at what I thought was the perfect job.

I had come home to my native Ozarks after many years of chasing ambition and wealth – and was glad to settle down in the county of my ancestors. A national package delivery company had a route open in our area and, after several weeks of interviews and evaluations, my background of long hours and honest work paid off and I was hired. My job consisted of getting up early enough to get to the area distribution center 50 miles away by 7 a.m., looking through my itinerary for the day, making any calls I needed to if I thought someone might not be home, completing a little paperwork and then driving all day through the most beautiful part of the world meeting people who I had grown up with, and who I enjoyed interacting with.

Within weeks I had relearned the first names of most of the people in our remote county, and where to turn on the winding little country roads in order to make my way to their front doors.

What a job! I had enjoyed the past eight years immensely. That is why my actions on one special spring day were seemingly incomprehensible.

One of the major stops on my route – after hitting the few businesses in town – was a large sawmill about 15 miles out of town. For many years I had stopped there on my way back to the distribution center, but recently they had installed a lot of new equipment and needed the various small parts and tools which they received almost daily at a more appropriate time in the day. Therefore I tried to be there by 9 a.m. Our aim is to please.

This particular day I was bouncing down the rocky road to the mill, thinking about nothing in general, other than the fact I was quite horny. My wife had left me a year and a half before – too many hours, too tired at night and on my days off.

I had one package to deliver before I got to the mill. It was for Raymond and Barbara Shillington, a couple about my age who had bought a 240-acre farm – cattle ranch, actually – in the narrow valley near the mill a little more than three years ago. Shillington had been some type of civil engineer back east, and his attractive wife had been a consultant at some kind of an art museum. They had settled in quickly and developed a narrow network of friends and acquaintances: primarily people in the county with money, the movers and shakers. Shillington had been elected to the local school board and I saw him there regularly when I attended their meetings just to have something to do at nights. I ran into his wife once or twice a month at the only grocery store in town, and enjoyed making small talk just to see her adorable smile and get a closer look at her shapely, womanly figure.

Each of the last three years at Christmas time I had delivered numerous packages to their modest home, which was an old, two-story country home which they had spent a great deal of time and money remodeling. She had always come to the door at the sound of my horn, or at my knock, pleasantly passing small talk as I secured her signature on my computerized tablet.

I loved the way she dressed, with simple elegance, allowing her clothing to accentuate her beauty – and figure – rather than hide it, unlike many of the women past 40 in our community. Of course, I had always arrived at the Shillington home in the mid-afternoon. Today was to be different: very different.

As I turned into their 50-yard long driveway I saw the man of the house on his tractor in a field a quarter of a mile way, spreading nitrogen. When I drove into the front yard of the home I sounded my horn twice, loudly, and then scurried about the truck to get their package and my signature pad.

I mounted their front porch and walked past their large picture window to the door, but avoided the impulse to look into their home: invasion of privacy according to company policy.

I knocked loudly and waited a minute or two, before knocking again. The package demanded a signature, so I had picked it back up to return to the truck when the door opened a crack and I heard Mrs. Shillington's soft voice.

"Can you just leave the package there on the porch?" she asked politely.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but it requires a signature," I said, looking out into the field and seeing the husband make a turn and start a new row with his tractor.

"Okay, give me a second," she said, closing the door. A minute later she opened the door, stepping through it and the outer storm door, reaching for my signature pad. The package was long – I think it was a tree stand for deer hunting – and I had sat it on one end and laid the pad on the waist-high top.

She had clearly been in the shower, her shoulder-length, light-brown hair glistening and dark from the recent washing. She was wearing a white, terrycloth robe that ended about three inches above her knee. It was a wrap-around robe with no buttons, just a tie string at the waist which she had unknowingly tied rather loosely in her haste.

Just before leaning down to sign the computer pad, her wet hair evidently had turned cold on her neck and she, naturally, and evidently without consideration that I was a single man in need of a woman's attention, raised both arms, loosened the neckline of the robe, pulled her wet hair forward on her skull and then casually flipped it back outside the top of the robe. Her actions were instinctive, she had probably done it a million times, but I felt a longing deep in my loins when I saw her round breasts press against the material, revealing that part of her soft, feminine figure.

I had been watching her surreptitiously and found her eyes immediately as she looked up at my face.

"I just need your name in the little box there," I said, handing her the plastic stylus. She leaned forward to sign the waist-high pad and the front of her robe dropped open just a little – but enough to reveal about 75% of one of the most beautiful breasts I had ever had the pleasure to voyeur. It was round and full at the bottom, and a little flat at the top (she probably had breast-fed a child or two and was showing the effect of carrying around milk-filled breasts for a year or more). I could not see the nipple, but the gentle curves of one side and the bottom of the breast were doing amazing things to my balls; I could feel them moving in my pants, lightly churning in the restrictions of my boxer briefs.

As soon as I took the pad away, she squatted just a little to get a better grip on the package, hugging it to her chest and shutting my line of vision to her breast. The bottom of the robe, however, parted briefly as she stepped slightly forward to grab the box, revealing a beautifully formed leg all the way up to a small triangle at the bottom of her panties where her thighs met.

I smiled inwardly when I saw the yellow cotton panties, for my wife had worn the same kind of underwear all of our married life. The panties have a seam that goes across the top and bottom of the front panel. Because the seams irritated my wife she always wore her panties inside-out. Barbara Shillington did the same.

"Have you got it?" I asked, hoping she would answer to the negative and ask me to carry it inside for her.

"Yes, I think so," she said smiling up at me, her eyes warm and innocent, giving no indication that she knew I had been watching her.

I turned to leave, afraid she would catch me looking, spinning just once on my way back to the truck when she called out a "Thank you." I nodded and waved before jumping into the truck and turning around in their driveway. I waved at the engineer-turned-farmer as I drove back to the road. He waved back, automatically.

"Lucky bastard," I muttered. "I hope you know what you have and are willing to take care of it."

****************************************

Try as I might, I could not get out of my mind the image of the beautiful woman leaning over and unknowingly revealing her naked breast and pantied crotch. I must have masturbated 50 times in the next few weeks, no longer needing pornography or sexy stories – just the memorized image in my mind.

The Ozarks were full-blown into summer as I bounced down the road to the mill one morning. They did not have any packages, but did have one to pick up. I had a light load and knew I could be home early or, as I often did, I might stop and talk to some of the local people if I saw them out working in their yards and gardens.

As I came around a curve I met Ray Shillington in his huge, 4x4 Chevy. He was pulling a 16-foot trailer loaded with huge rolls of hay. He would be headed for the feed store 30 miles away, I thought absently. I had heard he was selling them some of his hay.

"Not smart," I thought, "You may have to buy that back if we have a hard winter or late spring." Oh, well, he was an outsider; he would learn.

Then the thought hit me. He would not be back home for hours, and I had a couple of hours extra time today to play with.

As I drove past the Shillington home I renewed a fantasy about stopping at the home, finding Barbara in nothing but her robe, and making wild and passionate love with her – with or without her approval. I shook my head vigorously to get the thoughts out of my head as I stopped at the mill and picked up the package.

Heading back the way I had come to get to the highway, I again entertained the evil thoughts of raping the lovely woman. By the time I reached their house my mind was made up. I knew I was risking my job and much more, but I did not care. It was a roll of the dice I was willing to take.

I turned into the driveway and began to plan my attack. As I drove up to the house I did not honk as usual. Instead, I picked out a fairly large package addressed to someone else, and stuffed into my pocket several of the little plastic ties that we use to secure items to the truck side so they will not roll around as we drive.

I walked to the front door and knocked, standing back as I normally do so as not to intimidate the customer. The intimidation would come later. Barbara Shillington answered shortly after the second knock, looking somewhat surprised as she saw me through the storm door.

She was wearing the white robe, though this time it was tied firmly around her waist.

"I didn't know we had anything coming," she said pleasantly, stepping out onto the porch and looking at the large box I had sitting there.

"You don't," I said shakily, and stepped forward quickly before I lost my nerve, grabbing both her upper arms and pinning her body against the front of her house with mine.

Her eyes clouded with confusion as I first touched her, then widened with surprise and fear as I brought both her hands down and quickly secured them with the plastic ties before she even had the presence of mind to struggle. I had her; she was mine for the next hour or two.

"What are you . . ." she started and then gasped as I deftly undid the tie on her robe and pulled it open, revealing her breasts and panty-clad lower abdomen. As I cupped my hands around her breasts squeezing harshly her eyes raised to mine. They were filled with horror as she realized what I had in mind. Before she could speak I forced my mouth over hers, pushing harshly against her face with my mouth as she tried to free herself from my crushing embrace. I felt one of my upper teeth tear softly through her upper lip and tasted blood.

I pinched her nipples and twisted them between my thumb and middle finger as I continued to engulf her lips with my mouth. I realized she had pulled the ties tight around her wrists as she struggled to free herself and was probably cutting off the blood flow. I twisted hard on her nipples again, eliciting sounds of fear and pain from deep within her which could not reach air because of my crushing mouth.

And then she stopped struggling and just stood there rigidly as I continued to ravage her with my mouth and hands. I stopped after a few seconds and stepped back to look at her. She almost fell to the ground when I moved my body away from her, but caught herself and backed up rigidly against the house.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice quivering and her eyes pleading with me to change my mind and let her go.

I didn't answer, but just stood there, looking at her and caressing her nipples with the backs of my fingers. I knew she could see the naked lust in my eyes, and when I raised them to her I saw a whole gamut of emotion: fear, confusion, uncertainty, anger, and, way back, a look I was not able to identify, something she wanted to keep hidden.

She heard a noise and looked down the road.

"Someone is coming, they are going to see us," she said with concern in her voice. I nodded and opened the storm door, escorting her inside and to the couch in her front room.

She sad down like a lady, her knees together and looked up at me. I noticed that she had made no attempt to cover her breasts with her arms. She did not feel ashamed – and she should not. I was the one that should be ashamed, but I refused to even consider such thoughts. I had her in my grasp, the woman I had been fantasizing about for weeks. I would not leave without violating her sexually.

She glanced down at her hands and I saw that they were turning blue from lack of circulation. I pulled out my pocket knife and saw a quick flash of fear in her eyes as you looked questioningly at me.

"I am not going to hurt you," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "I am just going to free your hands. They will get permanent damage if they don't get more circulation soon."

She nodded, looking at her hands as if they were someone else's. She was almost in shock, I realized, and evidently had not recognized the pain.

"Before I free them, though, I need to establish some ground rules, here," I said, watching her closely. She returned her gaze to me, swallowing two or three times. Her mouth was dry, I realized, and walked into the kitchen, where I found a cup half filled with now-cold coffee and brought it out and sat it on the end table beside her.

"I know that I cut your lip with my teeth, and I am sorry for that, I lost control of myself," I said quietly, hoping to calm her as much as possible. "I was also pretty rough with your nipples, but I don't believe I left any marks," I continued. We both looked at her shriveled nipples, surrounded by huge goose bumps. She was really scared, I thought.

I reached out and touched her arms where I had grabbed her and saw they were quite red.

"Do you bruise easily," I asked, watching her eyes. She looked up at me in a kind of daze and shook her head.

"Alright, then, at this time you are unmarked," I said conversationally, watching her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breathing. "If you promise to obey my every command and do not struggle against me I will not mark you in any way, nor hurt you again . . . and I will put new ties on your hands so they will be okay. Are you in agreement?"

She looked at me again, almost like a dog I had once, that got caught in an otter trap and was near drowning. Her eyes were pleading and scared. I did not see the anger that had been there before.

I slid the knife between the two ties holding her wrists and cut them. She immediately began to rub her wrists and hands vigorously. I let the circulation return before I pulled two more ties from my pocket.

I took her hands and she did not resist as I replaced the ties, loosely enough so they did not cut into her flesh, but tight enough so she could not get them free. I placed the coffee cup in her hands and she absently raised it to her lips and drank deeply.

"If you pull against them they will get tighter and tighter," I said. She looked up into my eyes, searching for some hint of humanity. I did not know what she found but she nodded assent numbly.

"You asked me why I am doing this. I am going to tell you," I said, sitting back comfortably in the overstuffed couch as she perched delicately on the front edge of the same couch, just inches away from me – and naked except for her cotton panties.


"Do you remember the last time I delivered a package here," I asked. She frowned and tried to search her memory – which at this time was probably still seared by shock. "I think it was a deer stand for your husband," I added.

She nodded then.

"It was his birthday present," she said simply looking down at her hands.

"Well, that day you were in the shower and had to throw on your robe in a hurry," I continued, replaying the day in my mind. "When you signed the tablet your robe hung open and I saw your right breast."

She looked up at me in astonishment, and then frowned slightly, trying to remember the incident.

"Not only that, but when you tried to pick up the box I saw your legs and panties," I added. "That wasn't your fault, you were just being the adorable, innocent person that you are; the evil was in my mind."

I caught a quick glimpse of astonishment, tinged slightly with hope, before she looked back at her hands.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you since," I said, honestly. "I have probably masturbated 50 times remembering the sight of your breast and panties."

She raised her head and looked me in the eye for several seconds, searching for sarcasm or accusation. Finding nothing she frowned again, slightly, her eyes filling with confusion and uncertainty. Then, she quickly looked away.

"Then, when I saw your husband hauling off that load of hay and realized he would not be back for a few hours, and knowing I had a couple of hours to spare today, I just made up my mind to have you sexually," I said as matter-of-factly as I could.

She looked at me, her eyes filled with misery as my words sank in and then she looked down at her hands again, almost shyly.

"I am on my period," she said quietly and then sat still, interlocking and unlocking her fingers nervously.

It was like a freight train had hit me. I had never even considered that possibility. I looked at her closely, but figured she would not lie, not even to keep from getting raped. 'The best laid plans of mice and men. . . .' I thought wryly.

"Stand up," I said and she did, moving slowly, like someone who hurt all over, but not refusing my command. I moved forward and pulled her panties down, almost sighing aloud as I observed her well-trimmed little bush and ample lips up close.

"I don't see a string," I said, looking up into her eyes, accusing her with my own.

"I hide it inside because my husband says it is gross to let it hang out," she said softly, and then I saw a blush start just below her throat and flood through her face.

I carefully spread her outer lips with my two thumbs and saw just the end of the tampon string. Invading her privacy even more I opened the inner lips and slowly pulled the end of the string out until it hung down between her legs. What in the world was I going to do now? I didn't want her all bloody, I wanted to have sex with her in the most perfect way possible.

She hadn't moved, but was just standing there, looking away as the blush continued.

"You can sit back down," I said, and she did so immediately, closing her legs together again. I watched her as I thought about what to do. She was sitting there so vulnerably, her shoulders hunched slightly forward her head lowered, like a pubescent girl who had suddenly found herself the object of someone's stares and didn't know what or how to cover up.

"I guess I could go in the back door," I said suggestively, watching for her reaction. It was immediate. The fear returned to join her misery. "Do you ever have anal sex with your husband?"

She shook her head instantly, and continued to look at me with pleading eyes.

"Never?"

"We tried once when we were younger," she said, almost sobbing. "But it didn't work. A few years ago on a cruise we did it that way . . . but it hurt so much we never did it again." She continued to look at me. "Please . . ."


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