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Black, silky tap pants don't come up as high on my waist as I expected, or as low on my thigh. I dust with powder so the thin fabric wouldn't stick, then accede to Pete's request. I put them on. I feel like a frickin' fool, until I look into the mirror.
Something happens then, I don't know what. That silvery top shows a soft and responsive bust - the word 'sag' never even occurs to me. The shortie shorts show wide, womanly hips. When I stand side-on to the mirror, I see deep, muscled thighs, not a fat butt. Some weird thing happens, as if I wasn't seeing with my own eyes. It almost scares me into a 911 call, but I like it. Whatever it is, I want to see it as it sees me. A folded scrap of paper falls out of the package, along with a CD. I take the note and CD out into proper light and read the outside. "Please read this after supper." Some sense of honor kicks in, like not reading someone's diary. I put the CD in, something dark and sensual by Pink Floyd. Hey, it works for me.
I admit, the silky bits tickle as I look into the coolers. Something big with garlic and mushrooms come out of the red one, and some vegetables, and a foil-wrapped package labeled 'dessert.' I also find soup, some veg, and a lengthy list of more stuff. The blue cooler, with ice in it, has butter for the warm bread, salad, a cold veg, and another package labeled 'dessert'. Everything comes on nice plastic plates and dishes labeled 'dishwasher and microwave safe,' but the delivery guy said they wanted only the coolers back.
Our table for two is covered by the time I empty the coolers. Half of what comes out is 'comfort food,' warm and soft. The other half is extravagant luxury.
I still have the wanking book (well, that's what it is) in my hand as I sit to eat. The camisole turns into silky teases across my nipples, panties turn into an exercise of what I can squeeze against where. They had soaked through long before dessert - I'm glad that the wooden chair's finish can take the wetness.
Hot food is hot, cold food is cold, my clothing caresses me, and my reading seduces me. It suddenly strikes me: I'm solitary but no way lonely. And, that other note still waits for me.
Pink Floyd winds down to some dark, gut-wrenching note just as I finish eating, or decide I'm done. I put the food away but leave the dishes in the sink. I'm too eager to read the next note.
Another card, a black and white photo of a couple, the most elegant image of sex I have ever seen. My hand brushes my own nipple unconsciously and I realize it had tightened to a firm nub - a "raspberry," as Pete would say. I linger over that picture and brush again before I open the card to read it.
"Sweet one, there's another package for you, in the Christmas closet." That's the one where we store the seasonal decorations. I usually open that door about three times a year. "There's a voice recording on your phone, too. Thinking of you!" Next to his scrawled name, he had drawn a little graffito of a smiling penis spurting. I laugh.
My phone's right at hand, so I open that first. Pete knows I never use all these fancy features, so it takes me a moment to navigate into the voice recordings. When I do, I see one message labeled 'Lover lady.'
"Sweet one," it starts. I feel a twitch low in my belly, and feel the panties tug against me when my legs cross. "Think of me having raspberries and cream for dessert!" I certainly have raspberries for him, and the 'cream' oozes out of me.
I play it a few times on my way to the Christmas closet, just to hear his voice. A box covered in pink paper sits on the floor. Too eager to bring it downstairs, I plop down right there and tear the paper off.
It contains smaller packages, individually wrapped and numbered.