It's Thursday. Late summer. Hot. Bloody hot. And it's Valentine's Day as well. I've had a rough time at the office, and am very pleased to have arrived safely at home, though I'm sweaty and doubtless smelly as well.
As I walk in the front door, I call out to Karen, but there is no answer. Bummer. Karen knows there are two things I really like on these hot days. A tall cool drink, alcoholic or not, and Karen herself. Looks like I've missed out on both. I've got a gift for her as well. Nothing special, just a token. You know, of my love.
Dropping my briefcase arrogantly in the hallway, I stroll through to the kitchen. Karen and I have a rule about leaving notes, and we both take it seriously. There's a small whiteboard above the fridge that has comments scrawled on it of an informational, amusing, or erotic nature, depending on the situation and the company. It's always my first stop if Karen is not at home.
Looking at the board now, I can see a message written in her careless scrawl, but I need to get closer to see what it says. You know, if it were possible for handwriting to be sexy, Karen's would be top of the heap. She has a way with a pen that grabs me by the heartstrings every time I see it. Getting close enough to decipher the intertwined words, her absence becomes fact.
Hon, see the bag on the table?
Spinning, I see it, swing back.
It has a card in it. Read it. Open the parcel.
Without delay, I cross to the table, wondering what the angel has got for me. She has a well developed gift-giving skill, along with a sixth-sense for appropriateness, and my heart lurches any time she buys me something, knowing it will be perfect.
The brown paper bag sits unceremoniously in the centre of the rough teak table, and I never would guess it has any significance without the warning from the whiteboard. Lifting the top of the bag, I can see a small card inside, white and bright with a red heart in the centre.
Turning the card over in my hand, I see some more of her expansive text, scaled down somewhat to match the small canvas.
Happy Valentine's Day. I want you to do me a favour. I want you to trust me, and do as I ask. It will be worth it, you have my promise.
Now here's what I want you to do. Go out and get back in the car. I know it's hot and you just got home, but please do it anyway.
Take the car down to the lake. Go to the car park, over where we sit to watch the ferry. Leave the car in park 37, lock it up, and head for the sundial. I'm sure you can work out what to do after that.
Oh, the gift. It's just a little something, so you know I mean business.
Dropping the card to the table, I grab the parcel from inside the bag, intrigued and curious. The soft squishy parcel is wrapped in bright red paper, tied with a thin white ribbon. I pull it off and open the paper, revealing a bra. A dark crimson, medium sized, sexy, glorious Karen bra, drenched with the smell of her. As I lift it clear of the wrapping, I see a thin string hanging from the end of the strap, and yet another card on the string, spinning with total abandon, its newfound freedom entrancing.
Nonetheless I stop the card with my fingers, and tilt it up to read the familiar scrawl, this time written in ink of almost the same red colour as the bra.
God! I took this off just after you left this morning, and spent the whole day braless. My blouse constantly slipped across my nipples, exciting me as I worked in the office, and I even went to get some groceries without it.
When I got back home, I was so horny I wanted you to call you and get you here to have your way with me. But I didn't call. I could have relaxed and taken care of it myself, and I wanted to, but I wanted to wait as well. For you.
Anyway, it's fairly obvious that as you have my bra in your hand, I'm not wearing it. I'm still horny, and I'm still waiting. Find me, honey. Fast.
That's enough for me. Dropping the bra and its attachments to the table, I head back outside. The heat slams into me as I leave the shade of the house and walk briskly to the car. Throwing the door open I jump in, start it up, and head for the lake. As you can see, I'd never dream of not doing as she wants, especially after the way she asked.
Lake Lamont is about twenty minutes from our place by car, and by the time I get close the air conditioning has cooled the car to a temperature which is bearable, though by no means cool. Heading around near the ferry terminal, I check out the park numbers, finally spying thirty seven in the distance. I can gun the car across the other parks directly to my destination, as there aren't many people around on a Thursday evening, especially Valentine's.
Popping the Ford into the instructed park, I can see the sundial directly in front of the car and I hop out, again being slammed by the still, oppressive heat. I bend over to lock the door of the old beast, and stroll expectantly to the sundial, the top of which is glittering in the late sun.
As I get closer to the dial, I can see that the glare is coming not from the stone top, but from something glistening on it. Closer again, and I can see there is a large, shiny red card taped securely to the sundial, a familiar scrawl covering the card, this time written with one of those white paint pens.
Look at the arrow on the card. Put your head down near the sundial, and stare along the arrow until you can see where it points. That's where I am. Take careful note, then remove the card, and bring it with you. (I don't want anyone to follow you!)
Well, what choice do I have? The arrow heads to a clearing near the edge of the lake, along past the end of the mowed and manicured area where I'm standing. Taking another sighting to make sure, I rip the card from the top of the sundial and trot around the lake. The heat is even more oppressive here somehow, but I'm buoyed by the thought of finding Karen, and stroll out across the gap between myself and the clearing, finding myself whistling as I walk.
I close the distance slowly, the low reflection from the lake water becoming painful behind my eyes as my angle to it changes, and I hold my hand in front of my eyes, like the brow of a hat, to shield myself from the glare.
Nearing the clearing, I'm suddenly aware of the quiet and isolation this far around the lake. In the weekends this is a madhouse, but Thursday evenings are obviously perfect for other things.
Getting closer now, I can see that what I thought was a clearing is actually just something of a thinning of the intertwined trees and vines around this part of the lake, and I start to wonder how I will know what to do next. Perhaps Karen is waiting for me just out of sight. I hope so. This heat is too much.
I'm walking past a lone tree toward the larger looking gap when I spy something on the trunk. Something red. Dark red, and I detour slightly to pass the tree more closely. Suddenly I realise what it is that is attached to the tree. It's a pair of panties. Woman's panties. Karen's. The ones that match the bra on the table at home. I can't see Karen though, or any more cards. Stepping right up close to the tree, I take hold of the panties gently, the lacy softness contrasting with the roughness of the tree bark. Glancing around me to ensure no-one is watching, I pull the panties gently toward my nose, and inhale the delicate scent of my love.
Searching more thoroughly, I happen to look around the back of the tree trunk, and there is another small note, a rough white sheet with red ink, inimitable Karen.
.... There is more of this story ...