Fog of Lust, Beginning

Started by Adele Thompson · 1 Replies
Posted: 3 yrs
Fog of Lust - 1

The 'Fog' has an affect on every person at one time or another.

Sometimes it appears suddenly, usually triggered by circumstance. I believe many people go through life and never understand how it works. I will be the first to admit not understanding this change in inhibitions and attitudes.

Sometimes this change appears suddenly, and, sometimes it is triggered by circumstance. Once you begin looking for this change, you may at least understand. Rarely in the moment, but when reflecting later. Good Luck!

Friday

Lisa Smith, a young woman in the full bloom of womanhood, stood alone on the sidewalk. The activity outside her office unnoticed.

She appeared to be taking in the skyline outside, but Lisa's unfocused eyes were not seeing anything outside. Her mind in another place, another time, a day not to long ago.

She shivered, her body responding to the memory. She felt aroused on one level, but ashamed on another.

She turned and looked around her new office. Modern, efficient, perfect on the surface, yet cold. Her eyes shifted and held on the wall behind the sleek desk.

The diploma, her diploma, placed in the center of a wall full of awards,

Dr. Lisa Rose Smith, PhD.

The wall includes additional certifications. The one she is truly proud of is Certified Forensic Analyst, Master. The ceremony for adding the word Master to the certification was unusual, a strange place. The 2 story, brick and granite building. It had many windows all perfectly aligned reflective like mirrors, it gave a nice appearance. There was a single door with a green canopy above. The dark gray door had the word, "No Admittance" engraved into the steel. From the taxi she couldn't read the lettering. She thought the address was wrong until a man stepped out to greet her. There wasn't a knob, key lock, or pad. The door just opened, from the inside only, she thought.

Inside, the furnishings were nice, warm, made her think of a gentleman's club from a fiction book she had read.     

She remembered the day of the presentation, the group of twenty-one, all men except two women made a big deal about her age, twenty years old, a first in her field.

The ceremony was not a big deal to Lisa at the time. She had been blessed with a mind for numbers and an unusual affinity for connections. She has a sixth sense about accounting for money and the trail it left behind, even more important, any missing trails.

She had taken the path of forensic accounting because it held the most curious and appealing puzzles. She loves puzzles and mysteries of all sorts, but money puzzles were her favorite. Dr. Pope, her mentor pulled her aside and said some words that stuck, she had a plaque made with his observation.

"An external auditor -- A guard dog - A Bulldog, he Nags"

"An internal auditor - A seeing eye dog, he Barks."

"A forensic accountant -- A Bloodhound - He Bites"

Most of her associates thought her odd. She always asked more questions about the people involved in these mysteries than the dollars and cents. For Lisa, it was intriguing to put herself into the mind of the person manipulating the money and guess the many possibilities that person might imagine.

Sometimes these people were smart, but frequently they just thought they were smart. She leaned early that when you are on the inside, it's difficult to see from different perspectives. Solving these puzzles gave her great satisfaction and the more difficult, the greater the pleasure.

Recently; she had apparently solved an important mystery, but she never got enough detail to finish. Lisa didn't feel confident. The lack of confidence bothered her, bothered a lot.

Monday

One of the government agencies had asked her to consult and she quickly gave them a possible solution. She had explained that more time and information would be needed to know what had gone on. Lisa's problem was the speed with which they had accepted her first blush opinion. Then, made an arrest based solely on her opinion, they stopped looking for other answers and never gave her enough information to thoroughly audit the situation.

Now, a young woman named Clarissa Perez was locked in a cell and Lisa could not talk to her. She should not have told them anything until she had more information.

Lisa met with the lead investigator and expressed her concerns, but he was only interested in closing this case and moving on to the stack of cases piled on his desk.

"Hey Girly, you gave us what we needed, that's it." He told her. She hated being referred to with stupid names.

What about evidence? She had asked.

Doesn't matter, we can take your expert opinion and either get a confession or a plea. Either way, it's done. He had made an imaginary mark in the air as if it was a scoring a point.

"I will not testify." she stated firmly.

"Doesn't matter, this one will never see a court room." Peter spat back.

Lisa had left his office feeling like she was the one guilty of a crime. That was two weeks ago and the Perez girl was still being held.

Eric Monroe was keeping keeping tabs on the young woman. Eric is Lisa's geek friend in the computer science lab. His area is more like a cave than a lab. He always insists she go to him, he refuses to show his face in her building, much less come to her office. He won't even call or take a call from her office. Lisa has told him he's paranoid but he just laughs at her.

Eric may be paranoid, but he is a genius with information technology and computer networks. Not only does he monitor the Perez case filings, he has shown Lisa screen captures of Clarissa in her cell and in the prison dining hall.

Tuesday

Lisa talked Eric into meeting her for coffee. He insisted on choosing the place and she agreed. She took an early lunch, planning to walk. The address arrived written on the plastic lid of her morning coffee from Starbucks. How he did that, she was left to wonder. Well, that's Eric, she thought. Two blocks from her building, waiting for the traffic signal, a motorcycle slid up to the crosswalk. The driver flipped up the dark shield on his helmet, she was shocked to recognize Eric.

"Hop on, Fast!" He said, handing her a helmet identical to his.

Without any thought, she hiked her skirt and climbed on the back. Holding on with both arms, she tried to use one hand and then the other to yank her skirt down. Useless! She thought.

Eric turned to the side, "What's all the moving around back there?

She laughed and yelled, "I can't get my skirt down."

She felt him laughing at her, and whacked him on the shoulder.

The rate they were passing other vehicles was scary, and then he really accelerated. Lisa held on like her life depended on it. She was surprised how quickly they cleared the city proper. He slowed to a reasonable speed and turned to the side again.

"You can stop squeezing me now, I can barely breath."

She realized her death grip and loosened her arms, embarrassed.

Over coffee she told Eric she was being followed.

He said she probably was since she's not helping the crooked cop. He did agree to look into it. The meeting was to give her a flash drive so she could keep working on the case.

Wednesday

I left my office in a huff. Of course no one saw me leave.

When I get mad, I hide it. I don't want to hurt other's feelings, but if I'm honest, I don't want others to know I'm not always in control. That would be out of character. I'm Lisa Smith, the quiet prodigy, the methodical accounting professor. Yeah, the one most of the faculty resents. It should be their problem, but I've let it become mine. Accomplishing full professor status, with tenure, at the ripe old age of 25 makes me a frequent target.

I let Dave Mathews soothe me, driving out of the faculty parking garage. Trying to forget Thomas Hardy, the most resentful associate professor. He thinks he should be head of forensic accounting. I laugh out loud, the imbecile can't find his way around a ledger. He doesn't even know what a T account is.

Dave continues to soothe me, and by the time I get on the interstate I'm better, relaxed and in my own world.

The problem with leaving mid afternoon is the crowd of people trying to avoid the rush, as if that's possible. Even though it's midweek, the traffic is thick and building.

I'm stuck in traffic, stop and go. I choose the middle lane because logically it has a small chance of moving along faster. Today, none of the lanes have an edge. Luckily, I have a great playlist, thanks to Eric, the cute geek in IT. I think he likes me, but NO way am I going to encourage that!

The middle lane of three is barley creeping north. I absently keep score of my pace, glancing in the rear view at a yellow Mayfield truck. I followed it on the highway and passed it when I got the middle lane. Looks like I'm winning so far, it's fallen at least ten car lengths back.

When I lean over to skip to the next song, I notice another truck, a big one, keeping pace in lane beside me. It's not an 18 wheeler, more of a delivery type.

I'm surprised people aren't blowing their horns. He's leaving a lot of space in from of him and other drivers are taking advantage, but I can't get enough space to change lanes.

Go figure.

Maybe he's not in a hurry.

Maybe he's texting.

Maybe he's dreaming.

I glance over at the pokey truck. The driver looks like an average white guy. Oh well, who knows, I'm just glad he's not in front of me.

I have to focus on the car ahead, we are now mostly stopped, not much go. After a few minutes we move slightly, then stop again. The average while guy stays right beside my car, even when traffic creeps forward. Strange, I say to myself, feeling suspicion.

In the rear view, the yellow truck is so far back I can't count now. I'm winning, a little.

I glance over at the average white guy again. What's with his phone. It's flat against the window. Maybe he has a cheap one with not much signal.

Or, is he an operative? My imagination goes into overdrive.

The players in one of the cases I'm analyzing has taken measures to stop our investigation. But following me with a big truck, that's new.... and not likely.

I can't look any more, the constant creeping requires my attention to avoid slamming into the car ahead.

Finally we start moving again, steadily, though slow. At least my foot isn't constantly on the brake.

My Dad taught me better than to two-foot the brake and accelerator, but today is an exception.

I kick my shoes off, the 4" heels are torture in this traffic, I try to pull a foot up to massage some feeling back into it. My skirt is too tight, it takes some twisting and yanking, but I manage to get my tired foot up.

After a few minutes, I glance right, the nut job average white guy still there. What the hell? Is he using the phone for pictures? Why would he take pictures of me. I've never seen the guy before. I Check myself in the vanity mirror to see if I have a blob or something on my face or in my hair.

My lane moves ahead and leaves the average white guy, and his 10 wheel truck behind. That was just weird. I never pay much attention to other people in traffic. Dad taught me to watch the cars, not the people. I got that lecture after waving at a boy when I was first driving.

We top a hill, the stream of cars looks like serpentine rows, barely moving along together. Occasion we slow to a crawl but now I can relax on the brake and idle along.

I'm startled by a horn. It's a window van, creeping along, just like all of us sheep. I've decided we are all sheep today.

When I glance over, there's man waving, holy cow. I don't know him, he appears to be eastern Indian. I snap my head forward as my mind scrolls through all the players in the Mawdood el-Matin case. We just put el-Matim away for tax evasion. His main cover was a remodeling company. This van has 'WC Drywall' on the side. I can't think of a single person connected to Mawdood el-Matin that would look for revenge. The entire crew was glad to see him gone. He was as much a threat to his people as to America.

Maybe this is another crazy knucklehead like the average white guy. Or is this one of the bad guys Eric has warned me about.

Maybe this is the day of the full moon. The man keeps the van right there for a minute or so, then it moves slightly ahead. I get a sense of relief that another crazy is moving on.

The relief doesn't last long.

When I glance over, the van driver has moved farther forward, but not passed. Now, I'm treated to multiple faces pasted to the windows that span the length of the van. Most appear Hispanic. They're all grinning. Well at least I'm surrounded by friendly people. No road rage today. I hope.

I think the van guy must be honking at someone else, but his passengers are waving at me. People are crazy, maybe I've hooked up with a caravan headed for the loony bin.

I glance again, faces still plastered against the windows. There's a lot of conversation going on over there. One of the men points my direction and motions to another man, now he's at the window too.

Sometimes I'm a little slow, but there's no doubt these men are looking at me. From their expressions, they are checking me out, but why?

Maybe because I'm obviously Caucasian? Surely not my dark auburn hair. This is crazy. They definitely are not any of the el-Matin people.

This is a major highway, good grief, it's broad daylight! There's a van load of men looking at me. Strange acting foreign men.

Should I be concerned? No I'm more like suspicious.

Or Scared? Maybe.

Flattered? I think NOT. They appear to be making fun of me.

I try not to stare, just take subtle peeks. With all the talking, laughing and pointing, I begin to think something is wrong with me or my car.

I check the gauges. normal.

Tires? The steering feels fine.

I touch my hair, it feels fine.

I glance around inside the car, nothing amiss.

I glance down, Oops, my skirt is up to the tops of my stockings.

The Fog rolls in.

My head snaps forward, not daring to look their way.

My hand moves too pull my skirt, but I stop myself.

I don't want them to know that I know. Better they think it's accidental, let them think I'm innocent and clueless. Better yet, forget me all together.

My heart beats faster, a crowd of very strange men are looking at me!

My embarrassment turns to, what, excitement?

NO! Never...! More Fog rolls in.

Maybe, I don't know.

My phone rings, damn, it's in my purse, which is in the floor because it fell when I had to slam on brakes. It keeps ringing.

I can't look, can't let this van load of strangers to think I see them looking.

The ring continues, insistent. Just ignore it!

It starts ringing again, ignore it.

I click my seat belt loose, check the traffic ahead, then stretch to reach my purse. It takes all my effort to get hold of the strap. I yank it up in the seat and feel for the ringing phone. It shows an 800 number. Probably only of those damn robo calls. This time, Eric's ringtone. Eric never calls to shoot the shit.. I fumble for the phone and look up again. Braking hard.

Pay attention Lisa!

"Hi Eric."

"What, No, I'm fine. Just a weird day in traffic. Can I call you back?"

I drop the phone back in my purse. I should have asked him about these weirdos. No, he would know I'm crazy.

In the process of all this. My skirt managed to get even higher. The skin above my stockings is showing. The mental Fog, thickens.

Damn Lisa, why don't you just strip for them, I think, exasperated. Yeah, you should give middle easterners a treat!

Hell, I should be in Foreign Relations.

I consider slamming on brakes or accelerating, but there's not more than a car length front or back.

I feel the fog, I affects my brain, takes this opportunity to hatch a thought.

Hell Lisa, why don't you undo some buttons, open your blouse, maybe they'll wreck or something. Fat chance, any way, I would never! Are you sure?

Finally I get a break, my lane begins to move slowly ahead of van. What a relief. I quickly try yanking my hem down, not all the way. Fog drifting away? Not yet, but rolling out, maybe? Who knows maybe someone else needs a quick flash from a nerdy girl.

That was kind of kinky, having all those strange men gawking. Actually the whole episode turns me on in a kinky kind of way.

I wonder if the average white guy got some good pictures. I hope they don't show up on the internet.

My mind curses over and over.

Why did I wait to pull my skirt down?

You didn't want them to think... What? Think you were showing off?

No, not me! It wasn't on purpose anyway. Was it?

Did I really like showing myself to strangers? No. But what about that time... Nope not going there, Past is better left forgotten.

Does this mean there's something wrong with me?

Nope, it was the Fog

I truly didn't want them to see my embarrassment. But, Yeah, that was kind of kinky. Plus, the trip home seemed to fly by, I'm almost to my exit. This ordeal has lasted for half an hour, at least.

What will I tell John? Oh Hell No, he's not hearing about this.

I know exactly how John would react. He would insist on a redo. He loves things like this. He would badger or bribe me until he had me in the car doing crazy stuff.

Whew! I pull safely in my garage, I breathe a long sigh and think about the Blackbox Cabernet waiting inside.

Saturday

Saturday morning I wake from a deep sleep, I didn't even undress. That was the Cabernet. It feels like I'm in the same position I fell asleep. I do feel refreshed. While brushing my teeth while my mind drifts to the previous day. What a day that was. In the bright light of a new day, it seems like I was in some sort of daze. Fully conscious, but not myself. Definitely not in control!

The memory of the guy taking photos with his phone gives me a shudder. Why did I let that happen? Truth is, I can't think of a way to have stopped him.

And all those strange men staring at me with my skirt pulled up obscenity exposing everything. They were going wild over there! They may have been cheering for more for all I know. Probably were cheering in some foreign language, middle eastern spanish maybe.

Oh, this is so frustrating. What's wrong with me? I'm missing something, I just know it. Things like this happen to other people, not me!

I take a long hot shower, hoping it will generate the solution.

It doesn't.

I towel down and slip into shorts and an old T-shirt.

I pick up a magazine and sit on my bed.

I can't get into it, so I pace about the room. I'm a caged cat. Or a rat?

A quick shower usually refreshes, not today.

Start over. Pull top off over my head, kick off shorts. Hmm, no underwear, I am weird today. I take another shower, washing my hair this time.

No silly, you are naked because you aren't dressed yet, Duh?

I stand naked. Hmm shorts and top, or a sundress, maybe skirt and top?

Decisions, decisions.

It's so hot out...

Sundress, yes that will be best, I have errands today.

Rifling through my closet, light and airy, and comfortable I'm thinking.

After holding up and nixing two possibilities, I pull out a bright yellow sundress, one of John's favorites. He has no say about it today. Thankfully he is not here, he would be ogling me constantly. That's his main hobby. Sometimes it drives me crazy. Well, not always.

I hold the dress up under my chin, look in the mirror, side to side. Yep, this is it.

This is actually a cover-up, John calls it a casual dress, but it will be cool and it looks really good.

It has little cap sleeves that position the shoulders. The front and back scoops made with a continuous drawstring that ties in front. There were tassels on the drawstring but I replaced them with small seashells last summer.

Continued....
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Adele Thompson Joined: 5 yrs

Posted: 3 yrs
Fog of Lust, Beginning Continued..

I slip it on just as the doorbell rings. Oh, darn.

I go downstairs and peek through the side light at the front door. I see it's Sam the postman. He's early. He's cute in an older guy way. Anyway, he's always friendly and polite. I like him, he's fun too.

He appears to have a wad of mail and the signing pad thing, he probably wants a signature. He got me to sign for a Valentine once.

I open the door with a bright smile. Hi Sam!

"Hello Miss Lisa." he replies.

His eyes travel over me, head to toe and back. This is his usual once over. I almost giggle. It makes me think of an X-ray or body scan when he looks at me. It's the same every time.

When I first met him, my impulse was that he's weird, but time as well as a very thorough background done by Eric, my IT guy, has proven him to be just fine.

There's a grown son in Nashville and a small terrier named Trix. He lives a quiet life. No red flags.

After two years, I have come to expect his very thorough perusal or inspection, I really like it when he gives me a nod of approval.

Sam hands me a stack of mail before producing the signature thing clasped under his arm.

I clutch the mail under my arm and balance the gadget or pad whatever it's called, clumsily doing my best to make a scribble.

He could help by holding his thing for me, I think, but don't say.

Wait, why am I signing, he just handed me my mail. He's tricked me again.

"Thank you." I say, moving to close the door.

"Wait there's more!" Now he sounds like the Apple guy.

I watch him lumber to his truck. Then he wheels a large box from the back of his mailman truck.

He says, "It's a big one. I will need to help you with this one."

He slowly lifts the package and takes a few steps toward me.

"You need to feel this thing, I don't have any idea what it could be." he says stepping through the door.

I stretch my arms to get them around it, surprised he doesn't let go.

"Are you ready? Got a good grip?" He asks.

I pull the box close, expecting the weight. I'm squeezing his hands against my chest. I expect him to turn the box loose but he doesn't.

"Loosen up a little, my hands are caught." Sam says, chuckling. "I was just kidding, it's not that heavy."

The box is tall. I can't see over the top of it. Sam was probably taking the weight. I think he just wanted to show off his manly strength. But I almost stumble, prepared for weight that isn't there.

His eyes widen when I look up, the jokes on me.

"Sam!" I grin, "you're messing with me!"

He teases me with his X-ray look, giving me the once over with a grin. Sam likes to tease. Acting like he can get away with anything. He can be such an ass, but I put up with his bull as usual.

I study the box. It's light as a feather, feels empty.

Why did he pull that on me? Holding on instead of just giving it to me. Another of his silly flirtations.

"Sam! why are you always pretending with me? I'm laughing and he is too.

I study his face for a few seconds, trying to put on a stern face, but that's impossible, I'm laughing again. Then my mind does the overdrive thing, analyzing this situation. I probably get that funny look that John teases me about when he knows my mind has gone somewhere else.

Yes, I surprised him, pulling the box so tight. I wonder if he felt anything? I was certainly aware of my lack of a bra, I could feel his hands. Did I squeeze more?

Really? My mind is spinning with thoughts of motives and questions.

I did not do it on purpose, did I? No, not at the outset, but how do you analyze the fraction of a second when intention changes? Did he start out to set me up? Was that his original purpose?

Oh, yeah, I'm suspicious, life has been full of misinterpreted motives and reasons.

My suspicion increases, Did my sweet postman... Did Sam cop a feel?

OMG! He did! I feel the Fog.

Wait, I'm not pissed... if anything, I'm what?, I don't know.

No, that's not right... surely not. But, he has an interesting look on his face as I set the box down and lean to read the label.

"Feels like an empty box to me." he observes.

Studying the label doesn't reveal much, it's mostly smeared. I can't even make out the address, much less the sender. Suspicion grows. How did the box find it's way here with a smeared address?

"What do you think?" Sam asks. He squats down.

I ignore him, Carefully examining the few smeared lines. No clue to the content.

"You gonna open it?"

"Maybe..."

"Ever heard of a company called Incidentals?" Sam's eyebrows raise.

"Nope."

"You need my knife?"

"Yep."

"Here, want me to slice it?"

I look up. He's looking down. The fact that I pretend not to notice where he's looking convicts me of lying to myself.

I take the knife. Sam is watching closely.

I glance up again, he is still looking down.

I know what's going on. The question is, what to do. The Fog feels thicker. What to do?

The idea of calmly allowing the postman to what... Look down your dress?

I don't know, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm imagining. Lisa, who are you kidding?

I stand up and tell him I'll open it later.

"Well, OK." He sounds disappointed.

I wonder why the disappointment?

Because he can't look down my dress? Disappointed because he wants to know what is in the box?

I'm not sure. Yeah, you are. I do know he was curious about the contents.

After bringing the box in. I watch him leave. I leave the damned box in the foyer and quickly go up my the bedroom.

The vanity stool is similar height as the box. Am I obsessing, yes? I place the stool in front of the mirror on the back of the closet door.

My eyes on the mirror, I lean over the small stool. Damn, my breasts are right there, no doubt. My nipples stiffen as I lean farther. The weight of the drawstring just opens the neck right up.

Sam the postman just helped himself to an open view of my breasts. The neck of the dress falls open up like the curtain of a stage show. The actress in the show is me!

I'm embarrassed, slightly. Sort of, but not really. The tingling sensation below my navel is pronounced.

Letting Sam look down my dress gave me a thrill, no question. I could have prevented it, but didn't. The mental fog changed the situation. This is something I have been having serious thoughts about. I haven't found any research on it. Surely. I can't be the only person to recognize the way a situation can change a person.

I sit on my stool, staring into the mirror like I sometimes do when I'm feeling edgy. It helps a little, not much. Reviewing the scene. What about his fingers? I'm being fair. The material is so thin. I reach up and move my hands over my chest. This is very thin fabric. Even the backs of my hands heel details. After studying the effects for a few minutes, there is no doubt. I'm not embarrassed to say my nipples are like erasers and I may take this personal exploration farther.

That rascal, I thought he just 'played' like the dirty old man! I'm the one that got fooled, he got a sneaky feel.

I listen for that quiet small voice within; that's why I'm sitting here. Waiting for a revelation about how the Fog works. I know brain chemistry is involved, but the trigger eludes me.

My room is quiet, the only sound is the clock. No comment from the voice.

My mind replayed the front door escapade. Now it seems extended, longer.

Were his fingers moving before pulling away.

I'm imagining my nipples caught between fingers. That wasn't exactly how it happened, so I catch my nipples between my own fingers to be sure. My nipples grow erect and sensitive just imagining. What the hell, Lisa! That was out loud! I am sitting here twisting and pulling my nipples.

I wonder how I will act when it happens again? Wait, what! When it happens again. How can it happen again. No way! It will not happen again!

Yeah, but what if it does? How will I act? What will I do? When it will happen again! This isn't thinking, this is crazy imagination. I pull harder. Face it Kiddo! Fantasy, that's what this is.

Fantasizing about a helpless situation, about being touched, helpless, no control... I lay back on the bed. Remembering my escapade with the Postman. Now I'm acting in some kind of an erotic play. I can still feel long fingers slowly moving over my stiff nipples. I get warm just remembering the sensation.

He wasn't doing it on his own, he is innocent

I wasn't letting him, it happened accidentally. I'm innocent too.

Who am I kidding, I let it happen, even helped, I liked it and will help make it happen again. Nope, Don't think that. It was an accident. I had no control. I am blameless, that's part of the key.

John might come by this afternoon. This is another escapade will NOT know about. Maybe I can create a little fog with him. Just to relieve some of this pressure. It won't be the same, it won't be an accident. I won't be innocent, or blameless. So why does that not sound as exciting? I have lost my mind.

I take a deep breath. I pick out some cute sandals and get my self out the door for some shopping. I will be alert for the slightest sign of mental fog and run the other direction. What a morning. Driving away from the house, I wish I had gone farther on my own. Exploring my breast has left me somewhat horny. Did I just say that? Yes!

Monday

I called in for a personal day.

My iPad reminds me the exterminator will show up around 10am, so I have plenty of 'Me time'. I pull one of John's t-shirts and go downstairs. In the kitchen I make dry toast and coffee to take out back on the patio. I finish and put the cup and plate in the dishwasher. Heading up stairs to, dress for the day. I'm seriously thinking of wearing the same dress again, it's so comfortable and cool. I take the first step when the doors rings.

Let it ring and go change? Or answer the door. I pad barefoot to the door. Through this sidelight, it's Sam.

"Good Morning." I say brightly.

He hands me a stack of mail and peers around into the foyer. The two boxes sit right where we left them.

"I see you haven't opened those yet." raising his brow.

Nosy bastard, He is doing the X-ray thing. I can almost feel his eyes doing the inspection. He give me the nod of approval and I smile.

"Nope, haven't had a chance yet."

"I'll be glad to help." he replies, eyeing the boxes.

I hesitate for a second, trying to sense the presence of that foggy feeling.

"Sure, I can use your help."

'Do they make you nervous? Or froghtened maybe?"

"No, just been busy. Come on in."

He steps inside and closes the door.

I'm standing there wearing John's old t-shirt, and nothing else. As soon as that thought registers, I can feel that fog descending over the situation. My heart speeds up, I have a tight feeling in my stomach and if I was wearing panties, there would be a damp spot forming.

What is it about this old man that makes me feel this way? But I know it's not him per se. It's the situation.

"Well, lets get to it." He says.

I step behind one, leaning over to push it his way. It's a little late to be thinking that I should have asked him to wait while I change.

I can feel my breast moving under the thin cotton of this worn out t-shirt. It leaves nothing to the imagination. For either of us.

"I'll hold it up and you try to read that label again." He says, lifting the box for me.

"Good idea." I move closer. Am I really going to play this game? My foggy mind asks.

"Let me hold it up and you try to read that tag again." He says. Really? The box with the impossible to read label on top. Yep, this way it makes everything easier. There's no foul here.

"Good idea." I reply. I don't even need to hold on to the box, just lean against it.

"You need to get a grip on it yourself to steady it." It's not a command, but I comply.

I hold the box with one hand as he slowly moves it up and down. He tells me to let him know when it's just right.

I guess any excuse will do, I think as his fingers.. Wait. No, it's the box moving his fingers up and down. O damn, this is feeling way too good.

"Hold still for a second." I say. When the box positions my nipples near his fingers.

I study the tag that is completely illegible. I'm stalling to see if he will move those fingers instead of moving the box. I have my rules now.

"I can't make heads or tales of this writing, must be Greek or Chinese."

"Let's try the other one." he says pulling the box away. He sets it to the side.

I push the other one closer to the middle of the foyer. I try to watch him under my eyelashes. He is not missing the opportunity to look down my shirt. Lucky me, this is one that John cut the neck out of. As usual, he over cut the neck. Sam is staring down my top again.

Sam lifts the next box toward me, "You ready?"

Not surprising, he goes through the up and down movement. With the box. Brushing my breasts and swollen nipples in the process.

"What do you think?" he asks. I don't answer, concentrating on controlling my breathing.

"This one is about the same." I get out.

"Maybe we should just open the darn things." he says. "If you're scared, I can call for backup."

Oh great, all I need is postal backup. I wonder if that would meet my new requirements.

"No, John will be by shortly, I'll let him deal with them. But, Sam, I appreciate your help and concern. You're the best!" I say with a big smile." I think I've made his day.

Mine is definitely off to an unusual start. I wander out to the patio to think about my new requirements. The key, Innocent, Blameless, Seemingly not in control, And most of all Safe.

I lay on the lounger thinking of new possibilities.

After lunch, I go through the house bagging all the trash, the container goes to the street today. I think about changing, but this old t-shirt sure is comfortable and I'm not going anywhere.

When I go through to the garage, I hear the sound of a basketball and then it hitting the backboard above the garage door. Rather than open the big door, I push the container through the side door on the way to the street.

"Hey Miss Smith!" It's Johnny from next door. He uses my goal all the time.

I stop to wave and clap when he swooshes one through the net, not even touching the rim.

"Miss Smith, You up for a little one on one? He asks walking over. "Let me roll this to the street." he says taking the bin. I walk along, asking how summer school is going.

"It's fine, only one more week to go."

"That sounds good, what'cha going to do for the rest of the summer?"

"I've been working down at the pizza store in the evenings, I may be able to get more hours. I don't know for sure yet."

Walking back from the street, he bounces the ball my way, I pop it right back to him. He bounces it harder as we get close to the house.

"Let's see you hit a three pointer!" He says sending the ball back when I get close to the line He and I painted last spring. I catch his pass and shoot. It hits the board and goes in.

"Awesome!" he yells. Dribbling the ball toward me, I know he wants to show off his quick maneuvers. I change my stance and move forward, watching his eyes. I have told him over and over, he has a tell when he does a head fake. Sure enough, I catch it, knock the ball loose and grab it. In a split second he comes back to take it away. I naturally dribble quickly and fool him. When he comes back for it, I realize I could fool him all afternoon. I quickly pass him the ball and tell him I have to go.

Whew, that was close. I know he saw. I hope I left quickly enough. At least I got away before the Fog came rolling in.