Dreaming of Snowfall


He opened his eyes, closed them quickly against the glare from the window. She had pulled the curtains wide in her excitement. Cautiously he opened his eyes again. Oblivious to her nakedness, she was standing directly in front of the newly bared window.  The smooth round globes of her buttocks wobbled slightly as she leant forward with her hands on the sill, as if presenting to him. He imagined the view from the front; if the newspaper delivery boy was on time he would be seeing the attractive middle-aged housewife living at 38 Robin Hood drive in a whole new way.

Her husband yawned and stretched, suggesting sleepily, 'honey, I think you should cover up before looking out of the window.' Despite the warning he was giving he did not seem overly concerned.

She giggled girlishly, stepping back from the window and covering herself with an arm across her breasts, a hand between her legs. He admired her naked form, partially silhouetted in the light of the breaking dawn. She was curvaceous, those rounded full hips silently urging him to join with her.  

'I just love the snow,' she enthused, 'don't you?'

'Sure, what's not to like,' he sighed, closing his eyes again. He like snow well enough when he had no reason to leave the house. He drifted easily back into slumber. His last conscious thought slipped away with him, ultimately to shape erotic dreams. He would enjoy her charms when he woke again later.

Sighing with disappointment at his sleeping form, she turned back to watching the flakes gently falling, black against the growing light. A movement from outside caught her eye and she edged forward again to look down into the street. There he was, the newspaper delivery boy, gazing up at the window as he had at the same time yesterday, the day before and the day before that.  

Not exactly a boy. Sixty eight year old Tim had not only found it a struggle to manage on his meagre pension, but so far had failed to break the habit of waking at the same time as he had woken for the past thirty years. That would not have been so bad had his wife Gertrude not suffered from constricted nasal passages. Her stentorian blasts rendered further slumber impossible to achieve. So when the newsagent had shared in passing the vacated post, Tim had jumped at the chance. The newsagent may have had a twinkle in his eye, but Tim was deadly serious and the deal was done.

The opportunity for a sneak peek at the scantily clad or even topless models spreading themselves unashamedly across the pages of the lower end tabloids was a pleasure soon discovered. He had never been one for newspapers. He had no desire to read the sanitised and generalised opinions that passed for news in tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers. But it was a tonic to imagine what a woman might look like without the significant barrier presented by a flannelette nightgown or the demotivating defence of a layer of cold cream and curlers. It was a long time since he had seen Gertrude through lustful eyes.

It was awkward to walk with a raging erection fighting to emerge. The huge canvas bag in which he humped the newspapers around door-to-door in the cold and damp of an early morning mist made a very efficient cover for the bulge in his trousers. I have become, he thought shamefully, a dirty old man.   
He had seen her on his first day, an unexpected but welcome sight, a sight that had confirmed that there would be a second day in the job. She had opened the door just as he had lifted the letterbox flap, dragging it out of his hand. There was the briefest glimpse of a breast, a nipple, a smudge of hair (he thought it imagined) before the door slammed shut. He lifted the flap again, could not resist a peek. It was confirmed. She was there, completely naked, backed against the wall directly opposite the door. She made no attempt to move away. He held the flap open, barely able to believe his eyes. Her hand crept across the bare thigh. Elegant and neatly manicured fingers tipped with glossy red nails worked through tight auburn curls. He watched as she pleasured herself, thighs thrusting and fingers probing.

Tim woke from a dreamless slumber to find Gertrude impaling herself on an erection that would not have shamed a man in his prime.

‘I’ve had the strangest dream,’ she gasped, her eyes closed, rolling her thighs without breaking her rhythm, ‘you took a job delivering newspapers…and it snowed.'

Tom Covenent


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