And then, an irresistible impulse to make eye contact. Obviously not for the sake of intimacy–after all, I was on the verge of piddling all over the ground in front of a complete stranger. No, as was so often the case, it was not the prospect of “intimacy” that had my clit throbbing. What I wanted–with every last fiber of my aching hole–was to watch his reaction: the amazement, and, more importantly the profound, animalistic desire.
And so, as I squatted, pussy poised over pebbles, I turned my head and there he was, package in hand. Apparently he’d seen the note I’d written in bold block letters and taped to the middle of the door, about six feet one inch from the ground, though it could easily have been as much as six two: “WORKING IN GARDEN. DELIVERIES IN BACK.”
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