by Lucy Appleby
It was a typical Monday morning in the post office, with the usual queue of people who poured through the door at opening time, each intent on pursuing their individual errands. As they waited in line, most chatted to others in the queue; in a small village, everyone knows everyone else's business.
Or at least that is the perception.
If they had known that their efficient new flame-haired postmistress was sitting behind the counter resting her feet on the cane-striped buttocks of a naked man, they would have had a conversation topic to keep tongues wagging for a decade.
But they didn't know. And as they collected their pensions, bought stamps and chocolate bars, stationery and birthday cards and elastic bands, they were oblivious to the presence of Manfred.
Safely hidden, crouching on hands and knees on the floor, he was in his element. Once a month, by tacit agreement, the postmistress gave him a good thrashing. He wanted it. He needed it. He loved it. And if he had been an especially good boy, he was allowed to serve as a foot stool for Mistress Vanessa to rest her feet on.
Of course, if his naked presence were ever discovered he would be mortified and likely die on the spot of shame and embarrassment. Quite possibly the fear of what could go wrong added to the enjoyment of being thus humiliated. It was a real turn on, and his dick twitched in agreement.
People came and went, and the postmistress operated with timely efficiency as she dealt with the requirements of each person at the counter. She was methodical and business like, polite without being over familiar. On first glance, she was somewhat formidable. Her age was difficult to discern; she could be anything between 25 and 50 years of age, with her red hair pulled back tightly from her angular face devoid of any shred of make-up. There were no escaped curling tendrils or wispy bits of hair to feather against her cheeks and soften the rather severe look. She wore black framed glasses, which gave her a certain intellectual gravitas. Her cheek bones were high and well-defined and her lips were wide and full. Her large almond-shaped eyes were clear blue, and even without mascara or eye liner to accentuate their shape and depth, possessed an almost hypnotic quality.
Half way in the queue, Rick Marshall couldn't take his eyes off her. She was magnificent. She had such a commanding presence he was attracted to it like a moth to a candle flame.
As though sensing she was under scrutiny, she glanced up and made eye contact with him. He found himself caught up in that blue-eyed gaze, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching vehicle. He blushed, suddenly feeling guilty of some grave misdemeanour.
When it was his turn at the counter, he handed over an envelope containing a birthday card for his sister in Australia. "I'd like to send that Air Mail please."
As she placed the envelope on the weighing scales, he darted another surreptitious look at her full breasts constrained beneath a grey cashmere cardigan decorated with pearl buttons. He fervently wished she wasn't seated, because he was very keen on seeing the rest of her. The thought of the rest of her excited him.
"That will be one pound 60." She watched him with a quiet detached amusement as he fumbled with loose change, dropped some, picked it up and dropped it again, eventually pushing it towards her. "Thank you." She put the money in the till and fixed him once again with an intense stare as he fidgeted beneath her gaze like a naughty schoolboy.
He stared back, drinking her in, observing the slight narrowing of her eyes and the subtle twitch at the corners of her mouth as he mumbled his thanks. Totally overwhelmed by her presence, he turned and fled, eager to get out before she caught sight of the embarrassingly huge bulge in his jeans.
Rick cleared up the debris from the lawn, raking grass clippings into a large heap and then securing them in green plastic bags. He deftly stacked the bags in the back of a white van bearing the sign Richard Marshall Landscaping and Gardening Services, and then stowed away his garden tools. Retrieving a white T shirt from the van, he slipped it on over his head, much to the disappointment of Mrs Jarvis who was peeking through the sitting room curtains at the gloriously honed and tanned torso of her gardener.
After closing and locking the rear doors of the van, Rick made his way round to the back of the house. Mrs Jarvis was waiting for him with a welcome tall glass of iced tea and £45 in cash as payment for his services.
"Here you are, dear. Drink up. Would you like some cake?"
"Thanks Mrs J. I'll pass on the cake. I'm off to the gym. Can't work out on a full stomach." He grinned and sipped the tea.
"I'm amazed you have the energy to work out after a heavy day of manual work."
"I only had your three hours today," said Rick with a rueful smile. "I need to get myself a few more regular clients. Still - summer isn't too far away, and then I'll be rushed off my feet with more work than I can handle. That's the way it goes."
Mrs Jarvis nodded her agreement. She was a sprightly 70 year old who, once she had reluctantly admitted to herself that she had reached the stage where she needed a little help with the heavier work in the garden, had selected Richard Marshall from an ad in the Services section of the local paper. She had been delighted with the 23 year old hunk who turned up on her doorstep. Not only did he work hard and efficiently, he was honest and likeable, extremely good looking, and had the physique of a Greek God.
"Maybe I can help you there," she mused. "Two of my acquaintances are in need of a gardener. I already mentioned you to Molly. She's a lady in my art group. Her husband died a few months ago, and she's struggling to maintain the garden. It's much bigger than mine, with two lawns and a lot of herbaceous borders that need tending. There's a vegetable patch that she wants you to do something with - maybe grass it over so that it's easy to maintain. Here are her details." She handed over a folded piece of paper.
"Hey - that sounds great. Much obliged. I'll give her a call this evening and sort out a time to go round."
"You're welcome, dear. Then there's the new postmistress. Oh dear, my memory is getting worse ... I can't remember her name, but I was talking to her last week about my garden and I mentioned that you come round here every week to sort things out - and she said to send you round for a chat."
"The new postmistress ...?" Rick felt his throat go dry. He gulped down the remainder of the iced tea. The postmistress. His head reeled as the vision of her filled his mind. He had seen her just once and had thought about her constantly since.
"Yes. She's taken over the post office at the top of Enderby Street. Do you know it?"
"I do," nodded Rick. The postmistress. God - what a woman.
"Then you must call in and see her. She's expecting you to. And between you and I, dear - she isn't the sort of woman you want to disappoint," offered Mrs Jarvis conspiratorially. "She's very strong minded and assertive ... a bit fierce, even. But very wealthy. I heard that she paid cash for her house. Imagine that - half a million pounds in cash! It's the detached stone property next to the post office, and it has a VERY large garden. If she sets you on, you will have more than enough work to occupy yourself with. But you'll still find time for me, won't you dear?"
"Of course I will, Mrs J! You'll always be on the top of my list."
"Oh, lovely," smiled Mrs Jarvis. "That is a wonderful compliment for a woman of my advancing years," she beamed.
Shoving the notes in his back pocket, Rick smiled back as he handed her the empty glass and took his leave.
He had intended to go straight to the gym, but thoughts of the postmistress filled his head. The post office was in an odd and impractical location for the local residents, being set apart from the rest of the village. Surrounded by farmland on three sides, it was situated right at the top of a hill, adjacent to the stone house which had been occupied by the various post master incumbents over the years.
Last week he had gone up to the post office to send a birthday card to his sister in Australia, and as he placed the envelope on the weighing scales, the postmistress had pierced him with her stare, her cool blue eyes appraising him. She was beautiful and scary and flame haired, and she stirred something deep within him - in addition to his dick - something that he couldn't articulate. He could recall every little detail of her features - those stunning cheek bones, the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her jaw, and those clear blue eyes. He remembered being caught up in that powerful blue-eyed gaze.
"That will be one pound 60," she had advised him with a quiet detached amusement as he fumbled, dropping his money. "Thank you."
Those were the only words she had spoken, yet he remembered them so clearly, along with the slight narrowing of her eyes and the subtle twitch at the corners of her mouth as he had mumbled his thanks. For some strange reason he had felt totally overwhelmed by her presence and had practically run out of the post office.
And now he was intent on going back.
The thought filled him with a nervous dread, tinged with excitement. With his looks, he was assured of the attentions of a bevy of beautiful girls. But Rick had discovered long ago that he wasn't particularly interested in girls of his own age. He preferred older women. Older women like the postmistress. She made him feel ... what? Scared. Intimidated. Inadequate. Aroused. Yes, all of those, but most of all, she made him feel gloriously, wonderfully, alive. His penis stirred and twitched at the thought of her, as though it had a life of its own and was intent on some serious action.
He avoided parking outside the post office. Instead, he pulled in near to the top of the hill, switched off the engine, and glanced at his reflection in the driver's mirror. Beneath the thick thatch of sun-bleached golden blond hair, his face was flushed, his cheeks tinged pink.
I look like a frigging garden gnome, he though ruefully, willing the blush away. He turned on the radio and sat there in deep contemplation, barely hearing the heavy rock music that blasted forth. In his mind he was rehearsing what he would say to her, perhaps beginning with a 'Good afternoon'?
No. Too formal. Hello would be better, or Hi. Yes, that's more like it. Hi. I'm Rick Marshall. Mrs Jarvis said you are looking for a gardener ...
His reverie was interrupted by a sudden pounding on the window. Startled, he looked up.
Oh God - it's HER!
It certainly was her. And boy, did she look cross. Rick flicked off the radio and turned to stare through the window. She had ceased her furious pounding and was glaring at him. That look reduced him to a state of gibbering helplessness.
"Open the window," she mouthed.
He did so. "Um, er ... hello," he mumbled.
"What a dreadful DIN! Don't you have any consideration for anyone but yourself?"
"Erm ... pardon?" He stared at her. Now that she wasn't sitting behind the post office counter, he could see all of her. He drank her in. Large breasts constrained beneath a grey cashmere cardigan with pearl buttons. A narrow waist, flaring out to join curved hips, accentuated by the tight pencil skirt she wore. It ended fractionally above her knees, and her calves were long and shapely, ending in trim ankles and charcoal suede court shoes. Classy. Elegant. Sexy. Very sexy. She was tall too, about 5 9. He stared, unaware his jaw had dropped at the sight of her and he must appear very much like some moronic half-wit. She was speaking. God - what did she say? I wasn't listening!
"Um, er, I didn't quite catch that. Sorry."
She gave him a contemptuous, dismissive look. "I said, keep that damned radio turned off and come with me and we'll talk about your contract."
"My contract," he repeated stupidly.
"Your contract for gardening and landscaping services. If you don't want the work, I'll look elsewhere." She turned away from him.
"Wait! No. I mean yes - I want the work. I'd be very interested in a ... a contract with you. Mrs Jarvis said ..."
"Come along. Follow me." She led the way.
Rick jumped out of the van and hurried after her, following at her heels like a puppy seeking an affectionate pat. He found the courage to speak. "You're not at work in the post office then?" Shite - what a frigging stupid thing to say!
"Obviously not, since you are speaking to me here on the road." She gave him a withering look. His penis shrivelled. "I close at 5pm Monday to Friday. Here we are." She was leading the way to the back door of a pretty stone built house. "Come in. We shall have coffee."
He was about to tell her that he didn't drink coffee thank you very much, but the words wouldn't come. He didn't dare utter them. Instead, he sat obediently at the table and he drank coffee. It was most unpleasant but he drank every last drop, conscious of her appraising glance. He squirmed, and cleared his throat.
"I'm Rick Marshall," he began.
"I know who you are, your name is plastered all over your van. Now, let's discuss business, shall we?" Her right eyebrow arched gracefully. Enticingly.
"Yes," he nodded.
"I shall require your services twice a week for the next six months. I would like a half day on Thursday's to coincide with my half day closing, and I want a full day from you on Saturday's. After the six months has elapsed, we will renegotiate."
"I ..." I don't work Saturday's. "Yes, Thursday afternoon's and all day Saturday - that will be fine," he found himself saying.
"Good." She named a price that was double his usual rate.
He blinked. "Oh, that's ... generous."
"Yes," she agreed. "It is. But I have high standards and you will maintain them."
"Of course."
"Very well. Come out into the garden and we'll discuss what needs doing."
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