It was the end of a long day. The kind of day where I’m bouncing from customer to customer… with my “silent” pager buzzing against my hip like some adult toy gone amok. By noon I had already said, “I’ll be right there” so many times that a Star Trek transporter would have been my only hope.
The quick stop I made at the office on the corner was worth it, though. I opened my briefcase and took out the small gift box my client’s secretary had given me as she blushed so deeply. I looked at my watch; it was 5:45. Just over fifteen minutes before I could open it. She had been dressed in a short pink skirt-suit that clung to her — all over. The soft cloth stroked her legs as she crossed them, creeping higher and higher on her thighs. Our eyes met. Our gazes locked and embraced like we had embraced only once before, a long time ago and since then only in our dreams. She handed me a box about the size of a hairbrush, wrapped in shiny white tissue with a curled red ribbon around it and whispered, “Open it tonight, at three minutes past six.” The box was light as a feather. As she walked away I watched her naked body shift underneath her soft outfit. I almost dropped the box.
It was too small for a tie. Wrapped too nicely for a piece of chocolate. A small candle? It’s too light for a bottle of cologne. Only ten minutes to go. Maybe it’s empty and she’s driving down the road chuckling mischievously…. But I don’t think so. What did three past six mean?
Finally, I pulled on the ribbon. I imagined it was the shoulder strap of her red silk negligee, sliding down her body to expose creamy white skin for me to touch, caress, and kiss. I opened the box. Inside there was just a card. It was a thin, plain white card with the impression of a flower on the front and a subtle gold border around the edge. As I opened the card something slipped out of it and fluttered back into the box but I barely noticed it. My eyes were riveted on the words, written in a neat, curled hand.
I stood and read the penned words several times, unbelieving. Could there be any other meaning? I picked up the thing that had fallen back into the box and twirled it between my fingers. It was as light as a summer cloud but more erotic then a black lace teddy. No. I knew what it meant and, the next moment, I knew who was tapping at my door.
She said, “I just came by to drop off these papers.” But when I looked in her eyes they spoke an entirely different message. There was an electric thrill that passed between us as she continued talking about reports and our lips drew closer and closer. The papers fell to the floor, as did the soft pink skirt-suit.
The morning sun streamed through the window, highlighting the streaks on the glass and the dancing dust in the air. Then I noticed the warmth inside me and suddenly remembered the box, the card, and the other gift that had been pressed inside the card. We had used it throughout the night. We laughed when it touched us… sometimes we moaned. It had tickled, enticed, and entranced us. I looked over beside me and the bed was empty. On the pillow lay the feather.
Copyright (c) Mark C. Robinson 1997, All Rights Reserved