UNDERWOOD

Installment #2

by Jason Rubis

We'll start this story with something your sweet, dirty Pamela found in her mailbox one fine Saturday morning. It wasn't a letter from my publisher. It wasn't a light or cable-bill, either, or a wad of brightly-colored junk-mail advertising VCRs and new dining-room sets at rock-bottom prices. It was a pretty envelope, baby-blue, about the same size as one you'd send a birthday card in. It had my name and address written on it in ink by someone who knew something about calligraphy. But it wasn't my birthday. The return address was just a street address in central Virginia. No name. I took the pretty envelope back into the house and set it on my kitchen table while I made tea and took a shower. I'd been working in the garden, you see, just like in the fantasy I just told you about. And as sexy as I was feeling, all dirty and sweaty, I didn't have you there to play with, so I had to go up and shower all by my lonesome. Poor me.

I wanted to keep the envelope as a special treat for myself. I get so few of them since I moved down here. I had no idea who it could be from - I don't know anyone in Virginia, central or otherwise. I didn't dress before I opened it - sometimes I like to walk around naked in the house, and it's my house, and my body, so what the hell. I fixed myself a cup of tea and sat down and opened my treat.

It was an engraved invitation. Very good paper, with raised gilt letters spelling out words to the effect that I - Pamela Barin - had been invited to a special something-or-other at someplace called "Underwood." The address for this Underwood someplace was the same as the return address on the envelope. The date was a week away. Nothing else. No details about what the something-or-other was going to be like, though it did say "accomodations will be provided" as a little aside.

Well. That was nice. Maybe even a little mysterious. Maybe (I thought) it had come from one of someone who'd read and admired my novels - some of those people get kind of eccentric.

But I probably would have just ignored it. Wild as I might be once you get me hot and sweaty, I'm not very social. And a girl has to be careful about funny invitations from mysterious sources, am I right?

Of course I am.

But there was something else on that card that made me sit up and stare. A few little words added below the fancy gilt letters in ball-point pen, in a handwriting I knew very well. The writing said "Hope you can make it - love, Tomas."

After I got done staring, my heart started pounding. I mean, hard. I got that little prickly feeling you get on your scalp sometimes, and from there it went up and down my back and turned into a shivering fit. So I sat there clutching my mug of hot tea in both hands, like it would warm me. Tomas.

Not Thomas. Tomas. Toe-mass. Someone who'd meant a lot to me at one point, someone I hadn't seen or heard from in a long, long time. I've mentioned him to you once or twice before, but not so you'd know how my heart was just going crazy at my little kitchen-table.

There's a lot to tell you about Tomas, but let me just preface it by saying the chief thing seeing his little message did was get me horny beyond belief. That horniness rose up in my belly like a hand waving for my attention, and you'd better believe it got it.

Lucky thing I was already naked, huh?

I didn't go crazy. I just pushed my chair back and spread my legs nice and wide, so I could look down and see my now very hot pussy looking back up at me. And then, very slowly and deliberately, I pulled back the little hood of flesh over my clit with my left hand. I licked the thumb and forefinger of my right and then, every bit as slowly and deliberately, I started playing with my clit. Gently, just tickling it, almost like I was torturing myself with pleasure.

I didn't let myself think about Tomas while I played with myself - at least, not in any direct way. His handwriting on the letter was too unexpected, too strange. I had to take some time to get my head around it - how I felt about him just showing up after what, two years? For the moment, I was content to deal with the surge of horniness that came flooding into me with all the memories.

I gasped and bit my lower lip, until it felt like it was going to start bleeding any minute. But I kept it up - tickle, tickle, tickle on my poor clit. I got it so big I could stroke it between thumb and forefinger, like it was a teensy little cock. I didn't penetrate myself, much as I wanted to. I teased myself, in tribute to how much of my time with Tomas had been sweet, torturous teasing. I wouldn't give myself the luxury of a surrogate cock; don't get me wrong, baby, I love my finger. My vibrators, dildos? Don't get me started. Use them damn near every night. But I wanted to do this right. If it wasn't a real cock, I didn't - for the moment - want it.

Maybe I was doing a little magic right then, casting a spell with itching and tickles and gasps and moans and wetness. Showing myself what I wanted, and asking the universe for it.

They say that when you do that kind of sex-magic, it's the orgasm that finally casts the spell, throws it out there into the world like a message - an engraved invitation, you might say - to ask for whatever you want. Well, my orgasm right then - it didn't take me long to come, hot and sensitive as I was - was like a god-damned catapult. And my message of desire went screaming out into the universe like a flaming comet. I could feel it leave me.

And you know what? I think I could feel the universe picking it up and RSVPing right away.

The answer was yes. Wait a bit. Not immediately. But we can help you. We can work with you, Pamela.

And really, what more can a girl ask for?