United Package Service

You walk leisurely over to the front door, and push aside the curtain covering the side window. Standing outside is a delivery person for the United Package Service. The man is about six feet tall, black, in his early to mid twenties and staggeringly good looking. His light khaki uniform nicely complements his chocolate skin, and although it is not the most form fitting uniform you've ever seen, it still reveals that a well-built body lies underneath. His hair is close cropped, and his smile is dazzlingly white. Under one arm he is holding a box about 18 inches long, 12 inches wide, and six inches deep, and in the other hand he is holding an electronic clipboard. You throw the deadbolt and open up the door. Standing in the threshold, you lean against the door frame, cocking one hip jauntily.

"United Package Service," the delivery man says, and then asks for you by name. For some reason, when he says your name, is sends chills down your spine. Your body begins to tingle, your pussy growing slightly moist and your nipples hardening.

"I am she," you reply, stammering only slightly. The man holds out the box for you to take. You accept it. It is not terribly heavy, given its size. You wonder what is in it; some sort of birthday present, you surmise.

"Sign here," the man says, holding out the clipboard. His voice is somewhat strained. You realize that your now erect nipples leave slight prominences through the loose-hanging jersey fabric of the t-shirt, and that you really are showing quite a bit of leg.

"How am I supposed to hold that clipboard and sign it at the same time while I'm holding this ... package?" you playfully inquire, being sure to linger on the final word.

"Oh, uh, I can hold that for you, terribly sorry miss, I should'a had you sign for it first." The man is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

"No, that's fine," you assure him. "I'll just put this down inside." With deliberate slowness, you turn around in the doorway, and saunter a few steps into the foyer. Stopping in front of a small table, you place one hand on the table surface, then bend over to place the package on a lower shelf. You bend only at the waist, keeping your legs slightly parted and ramrod straight, and as you bend over, you can feel the hem of the t-shirt you wear slide up your thighs and onto your asscheeks. You hear a sharp but quiet intake of breath behind you, indicating that you are showing at least your ass (if not more) to the delivery man.

You stand right back up, deciding to limit his view to a mere instant, and the shirt slides back down to mid-thigh level. You contrast the quick rise with a correspondingly slow saunter back to the doorway. "Sign where?" you demurely inquire. You again stand with hips cocked and chest jutted.

The man's face is almost comedically twisted in surprise and embarassment. Without saying a word, he quickly hands over the clipboard. As you accept it, you look him up and down, and see that he is trying to subtley shift his stance to hide a growing erection. You scribble your name down with the stylus on the electronic clipboard, and then a thought occurs to you.