The Scarlet Parcel





A pair of blue-tits was fighting each other for exclusive 
access to the peanut holder Heather had just attached to 
the bird table. A female pheasant's dull brown feathers 
twitched under a bush as it waited for Heather to return to 
the cottage kitchen. Then it could peck at the seeds 
scattered liberally at the foot of the rotting bird table 

Heather smiled. She pushed open the door to the kitchen 
where her daughter, Paula, was stirring a bowl of Coco 
Pops with a spoon.

"Is the pheasant there?" Paula asked.

"Yes," said Heather, as she poured herself a cup of coffee 
from the jug. "Not the boy pheasant, though. One of his 
girlfriends."

"Oh!" said Paula, disappointed. "I like the boy pheasant 
best. He's pretty!"

Heather sat next to her daughter by the kitchen table. 
Over the sound of The Fimbles on the television, whose 
morning adventures occasionally attracted Paula's 
attention, Heather could hear the reassuring sound of 
lambs bleating in the field that abutted the cottage garden. 
She loved her cottage and everything about it. The garden 
she tended when she had the time. The view over the 
fields to the distant copse and farmhouse. The birdsong 
that greeted her every morning as she drew the curtains to 
her bedroom. It might be an expensive luxury. The 
mortgage was easily the most expensive thing she had to 
budget for. But she didn't begrudge it at all. 

If there was any consolation resulting from her separation 
from Roger, it was the agreement that she keep the 
cottage (even if she was burdened with the mortgage). 
And, of course, Paula. It wasn't as if Heather could have 
either Roger's job at the Insurance Company or the 
girlfriend he'd left her for. Nevertheless, she sometimes 
wished Roger showed more interest in his daughter other 
than the child subsistence payments, the rare phone call 
and the birthday presents.

"What are you doing in school today, Polly?" Heather 
asked, as she sipped her black coffee. "Are you doing 
sums?"

"Oh Mummy!" Paula laughed. "We do sums every day. 
And reading."

"What are you reading at the moment?"

Paula pulled a book out of her school bag with 
illustrations in bright primary colours of animals with 
smiling faces. Heather took it from her hand and turned 
the pages languidly. She was putting it back in her 
daughter's bag when she noticed the cover of Paula's copy 
book had words scrawled over it. She pulled it out and 
read them to herself.

"Who wrote these words?" she asked, keeping her voice 
as calm as she could.

"Debbie did."

"Why did she do that?"

"She said that's what you are, Mummy."

Heather tore the cover off the copy book, crumpled it up 
and threw it in the kitchen fliptop bin. 

"Why did you do that, Mummy?"

"Because they were bad words that Debbie wrote. Do you 
know what they mean?"

"No."

"Didn't Debbie tell you?"

"She did, but I didn't understand. I don't think she really 
knows either. Is it something grownups do?"

Heather bit her lip. "If your teacher, Mrs Ridley, asks 
why the cover's missing, tell her I tore it off. And if she 
wants to know more, she can talk to me. Do you 
understand, Polly?"

"Yes, Mummy," said Paula, who was already losing 
interest in the exchange and whose attention was 
wandering back to children's morning television. 

Heather smiled indulgently and patted her daughter 
lovingly on her head. 

"I love you, Polly," she said, as she so often did.

"I know, Mummy!" said Paula.

Why did Heather feel the need to tell her daughter that? 
Wasn't it obvious to everyone? Perhaps she did so 
because it needed to be said the more urgently when there 
was no father around to share the burden of childcare. 
Perhaps she just felt that in some ways she was less the 
perfect mother than she'd like to be.

When breakfast was finished, Heather took her daughter 
hand-in-hand out the cottage door, down the path to the 
village lane and past other cottages to the school bus stop. 
She regarded with regret the neighbouring cottages she 
was no longer welcome to visit as she was when Roger 
was living with her, even though he was more often away 
than at home. Heather felt a residual bitterness. It wasn't, 
after all, her fault that Roger took off with another 
woman, but she was the one being punished for it.

She saw Mrs Butterfield and her two young children, one 
a boy and the other a girl, dawdling ahead of them as the 
boy sorted out some toys in his satchel. Mrs Butterfield 
raised her head and looked at Heather and her daughter 
with obvious alarm. She then pointedly hurried her 
children over onto the other side of the road so Heather 
could overtake them without there being the need to greet 
each other.

Heather tried to catch Mrs Butterfield's eyes as they 
passed in the hope that she could make a conciliatory 
nod. In many ways they were very similar people. They 
were both young mothers in their late twenties, whose 
children went to the same village primary school, and 
they wore similar clothes of sweater, slacks and trainers. 
But Mrs Butterfield had the benefit of a Mr Butterfield 
who let her fulfil her role as a modern middle-class 
housewife without the need to work while her children 
were still young.

"Do you play with Bobby and Lucy at school, Polly?" she 
asked her daughter, nodding towards Mrs Butterfield's 
two children.

"I used to, Mummy," said Paula, squeezing her mother's 
hand. "But they don't want to play with me any more. 
And anyway I'm best friends with Amandip and 
Mustapha. And with Sveta in Painting and Drawing."

Heather nodded. She was pleased that there were still 
pupils who got on with her daughter, but, as someone 
whose own childhood had been as ordinary as it could be, 
it sometimes pained her that her daughter was forced to 
make friends with children on the ethnic margins of 
country life.

Heather and Paula lined up near the stone bus shelter with 
all the other parents and their children, but were notable 
for their relative isolation. No parents and no children 
came up to chat with them, to ask how they were, 
whether Paula had her MMR jab or if Heather might 
consider helping out on a stall at the next village fund-
raiser. In fact, the parents, all mothers up to the age of 
forty, were intent on avoiding eye-contact at all costs, 
taking advantage of the need to fuss with their children to 
ensure that they need never look directly at the mother 
and daughter standing in the shade of the picturesque 
cherry tree. The children were equally complicit, 
although Heather was comforted that none of them were 
old enough to do so from genuine malice. It was worse 
with the older children, whose school bus was parked 
further along the country lane. They sometimes took 
pride in their rudeness. Especially Judy Evans, whose 
mother had once been one of Heather's closest friends in 
the village. 

Heather waved at Paula as the bus pulled off to take her 
and the other village children to the school in Upper 
Dumbledean. Paula was the only child sitting by herself 
on a bus that was already more than half full since 
picking up children from the neighbouring villages of 
Winstone and Cressington. 

It was a fine sunny day, so Heather was rather looking 
forward to her morning stroll across the fields to the 
petrol station shop, which was the nearest place she could 
go to buy groceries and a newspaper. But she couldn't 
dawdle. She needed to be back at the cottage before the 
postman arrived. She was expecting a parcel and she 
didn't want the hassle of having to drive fifteen miles to 
the nearest sorting office if she missed the delivery.

Heather often considered this brief hour between seeing 
Paula off to school and returning home as the only part of 
the day when she could truly be herself. She loved the 
walk over the fields, past the grazing sheep and cattle, 
past the copse where she sometimes saw deer, and over 
the stiles. Even the few words exchanged with the staff at 
the petrol station, who mostly lived miles away from her 
village, were a source of inestimable pleasure to her. 

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" remarked Betty, as Heather 
knew she was called from the label on her blouse.

"Perfect!" Heather replied with a grin as she picked up 
the blue plastic bag of magazines, milk, biscuits and a 
newspaper. 

She strode out of the petrol station, slightly regretting that 
her excursion was more than halfway over, but she 
needed to get back in good time. And she wanted to be 
ready for when Gerry came round. He said he'd be there 
this morning, depending on his appointments, of course, 
and he didn't normally disappoint. Heather's heart jumped 
slightly as she remembered her morning caller. At least 
Gerry loved her, as he was so keen on telling her; 
although Heather knew he was far too sensible to 
abandon his wife and teenage children for her.

Heather got back to the cottage only just in time. She 
could see the postman's red van parked outside the village 
hall, under the notice-board with its announcements of 
flower shows and jamborees. She widened her step, 
hoping to be at the cottage before the postman.

"Oh, hi there, Mrs Printon," greeted the postman who was 
coming towards her. Heather didn't wish to correct him 
about her marital status, though had she and Roger got 
married perhaps she'd have got a better deal from their 
separation. "I popped a card through your door, but 
seeing as you're here, you might as well have your 
parcel."

He handed Heather a shapeless package that crinkled 
with plastic, cloth and paper. She almost snatched it from 
him. "Where do I sign?"

"Here," said the postman, proffering a form. "Another 
scarlet parcel. The packaging these days!"

"Indeed," said Heather, who was annoyed that the parcel 
couldn't have been plain manilla. What would the 
postman think? He'd almost certainly noticed the sending 
address and drawn his own conclusions. However, Bill 
was a good sort. He never passed judgement and, in any 
case, Heather was sure he delivered far more 
incriminating parcels than one in scarlet from a 
coquettishly ambiguous internet address.

Heather rushed into the cottage, sat down in the kitchen 
and pulled apart from the parcel. Yes, it was from Scarlet 
Dream and did contain the lingerie she'd ordered off the 
internet at attractively low prices with special discounts 
for regular customers. It was lacy, deep red, and revealing 
in exactly the right places. It also accentuated her 
medium-sized bosom. Gerry would be pleased. 

Heather gazed out the kitchen window. Paula would be 
happy if she were here now. The male pheasant was 
pecking at the seeds she'd left out, surrounded by his 
harem of plain brown female pheasants. Small birds flew 
back and forth to the peanut holder, perching just long 
enough to peck free a few crumbs before flapping off to 
the bush where they waited for their next turn.

It was only after reading the newspaper over another cup 
of coffee that Heather decided to try out her new 
purchases. She'd never been bothered with things like this 
when Roger lived with her. Perhaps it might have made a 
difference if she had. Gerry liked the texture and look of 
erotic lingerie, though Heather wasn't sure if she were a 
man she might not prefer total nudity. It wasn't as if men 
ever dressed in such things. Well, not normally. Although 
since Roger left she'd learnt that what was apparently 
normal and what men actually got up to were not 
necessarily the same things.

Heather spun around on the stiletto heels that seemed 
most appropriate when you wore Scarlet Dream's 
lingerie. It was a perfect fit. She was still a very good-
looking woman, as Gerry always reminded her (and 
Roger very rarely did). The evidence of the caesarean 
section was almost completely invisible. Her waist was 
trim as a result of all the exercise and, of course, her 
twice-weekly step aerobics classes in nearby Eastchurch. 
Her breasts may not be huge, but they were pert and 
apple shaped. She now trimmed her crotch, another thing 
she never did when Roger lived with her. It looked better 
like that in Scarlet Dream panties and, anyway, Gerry 
appreciated it.

Heather sat on the double bed that was a legacy of her 
near-married past and idly flicked through the woman's 
magazine she'd bought at the petrol station. It was all 
about film stars, fashion hints and, of greatest fascination 
to Heather, articles about finding, keeping and pleasing 
boyfriends and lovers. There was a world outside 
represented in these magazines, a long way from country 
villages and domestic drudgery, where a girl could go out 
for the night, dance the night away, and return home with 
the man of her dreams. And this man was someone who, 
with a little patience and the benefit of having read 
articles in magazines like this, would be nothing but putty 
in the hands of a modern Ms. Before long, it would be 
roses, wedding bells, a sporty Audi TT, and one of those 
diamonds that were featured in those decidedly erotic 
advertisements.

Suddenly, Heather heard the familiar squawk of a startled 
pheasant followed by the low buzz of his wings. She 
jumped to her feet and looked out of the window to see 
Gerry's Mazda parked in front of the cottage. He was 
early! She watched as he got out of the driver's door, 
opened the rear door to retrieve the jacket of his suit he'd 
hung up, and, with a swift manoeuvre copied from The 
West Wing, slipped it over his shoulders. Heather hurried 
down the stairs to the front door. She composed herself, 
still wearing only her scarlet lingerie, while Gerry 
hovered over the front door bell. It wouldn't do to be too 
hasty in opening the door, but on the other hand she didn't 
want to antagonise her neighbours more by leaving Gerry 
on the doorstep for too long.

At last, after counting to ten after Gerry first rang the 
doorbell and breathing slowly and deeply to compose 
herself and her nerves, Heather opened the door. She 
hoped that no neighbour could glimpse her in the 
underwear she wore specifically for Gerry's benefit.

"My gosh, Heather! You needn't have!" Gerry exclaimed 
when he saw her in her lace and silk outfit.

"For you, my love, nothing is too much," said Heather 
with a broad smile. "Come in! Come in! You're a bit 
earlier than you said. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

Gerry nodded. "It's been a long drive from Worcester," he 
said. "But I might just have clinched the deal. A coffee 
would do me the world of good!"

As he entered the cottage, he kissed Heather shyly on the 
cheek and followed her to the kitchen. He sat down on a 
stool and glanced at a photograph of Paula. 

"Your daughter's at school today?" he asked with a kindly 
smile.

Heather nodded as she poured a cup of coffee, put in the 
milk and three sugars that Gerry liked, and handed it to 
him. "It's not the school holidays, as you know."

"No, of course not. I'd know if my two girls were off 
school," he laughed.

Heather leant against the washing machine, her long legs 
stockinged from her high-heeled shoes to the top of her 
thigh, and a bright square of Spring sun shining on her 
bare midriff. She sipped her coffee and studied Gerry 
with trepidation. Although she'd known him for well over 
a year and had got to know him very intimately indeed, 
perhaps more so than his wife or colleagues, she knew 
there were huge parts of him that were barred from her 
forever. He was a very ordinary looking man in many 
ways. Only just in his forties, filling out around the waist, 
and with a hair-line that was receding quite noticeably. 

He took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped a sliver of 
sweat off his forehead. 

"It's very hot driving, you know," he said apologetically.

Heather smiled. "Especially all that way! Was the 
motorway bad?"

As Gerry proceeded to give an account of his drive from 
Worcester and the tortuous A and B roads he'd navigated, 
Heather gathered her wits about her. Gerry always 
perspired when he visited. Heather knew that it was more 
his nerves than the temperature. He was worried about his 
wife discovering that he was seeing someone else, even 
someone who lived so far away. And he also felt very 
guilty. What would his daughters think?

When Heather had judged that both she and Gerry were 
sufficiently relaxed, she strode seductively across the 
kitchen, one impossibly long leg in front of the other, and 
smiled as Gerry became visibly more aroused by her 
presence. And it wasn't just that he perspired the more 
heavily: sweat trickling down his high temple and onto 
his reddened cheeks. He was getting more excited in 
another area that in a sense mattered much more.

She placed a hand on the front of his trousers. His penis 
was rock hard and a splendid seven inches of manhood it 
was too. He flinched slightly as Heather squeezed his 
testicles through the loose fabric of his trousers and the 
boxer shorts she knew he wore underneath. She kissed 
him tenderly on the forehead, which smelt quite 
distinctively of some Indian curry he'd no doubt been 
feasting on the night before. 

"You seem ready for action," Heather remarked.

"It's your outfit!" Gerry protested. "You know how much 
I like silk and lace. And red as well! I love you, you 
know. No one else understands me so well."

Heather had heard his protestations of love many times 
before, but words were worthless with a family in tow. 
She pretended not to hear him, although it sometimes 
occurred to her that although Gerry was a sales rep and 
all that often implied, he probably wasn't that bad a 
father. And one who would probably get on quite well 
with Paula.

"Shush!" said Heather, placing a finger gently but firmly 
on Gerry's lips. "You probably don't have much time. 
Shall we go upstairs and make as much of the time we've 
got together as we can?"

"Yes. Yes, of course," said Gerry, taking off his jacket in 
preparation. He then folded it over his shoulder and 
loosened his tie as he followed Heather up the familiar 
staircase to her well-lit bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Heather was aware that the disrobing was often the most 
awkward part of her meetings with Gerry, so she put 
especial effort into making the ceremony as erotic and 
natural as possible. Thankfully, she didn't have to remove 
any of her own clothes. The split crotch of the panties 
ensured that this was not necessary, though she usually 
liked to throw them to one side at some point or other. 
She was able to concentrate her attention on Gerry's shirt, 
trousers and underpants. She was unhurried and sensual 
as she spread her fingers open on his hair-tangled 
stomach and eased his boxer shorts down his upper 
thighs, kissing his erect penis as she did so. 

Soon he was naked and on his back on the bed, while 
Heather returned her mouth to his penis, not only her lips, 
but also her tongue and teeth, busy at keeping his penis 
erect, while her fingers, with their sensibly manicured 
nails, ensured that it didn't spend itself too soon in the 
process. The advice given in the women's magazines 
about suppressing premature ejaculation had proven their 
worth many times over, although nothing was as good as 
actual practice. 

Gerry was well blessed. His penis was straight and stiff, 
no kink in it and the skin pulled off the glans completely 
and easily. His testicles were like eggs in size and shape, 
much like those in the fridge, but much more tender. 
Gerry would gasp whenever Heather squeezed them, but 
as he expected her to do it she did this every time. Just as 
she would also take each testicle into her mouth, closing 
her lips around it, while her hand continued to grip his 
penis, and run her tongue through the long scrotum hairs 
and over the strange tubes that would channel his seed to 
his member. But not yet. And not while he was still 
unprotected.

It was a very explicitly illustrated book that Heather 
managed to trace on the internet that taught her the skill 
she had now perfected of taking a condom out of its 
wrapper, putting it onto her partly opened mouth where 
she kept it in place by sucking the rubber in, and then 
with her mouth, sliding the condom down the length of 
Gerry's erect penis, using a single hand to secure it in 
place. Heather had learnt that there were different size 
condoms appropriate for different men, and that Gerry 
required a very average sized condom for a good fit. She 
wondered whether there actually were many men who 
required the larger sized condoms, but she had learnt that 
there was certainly a need for the smaller models. A good 
fit was a necessity and any looseness was very dangerous 
indeed.

Once protected, Gerry could now enter her. For reasons 
of comfort more than anything else, Heather slipped off 
her lacy red panties and dropped them to the floor. Gerry 
had once complained that a condom made him less 
sensitive and wondered whether he could make love 
without it, but Heather was very strict on such matters. 
Whatever his protestations of love, what would they be 
worth if something unpleasant or unexpected happened as 
a result of their conjoining?

Although very different in most other ways, Gerry was 
much like Roger in his lovemaking. He preferred making 
love from the front so that he could look down at 
Heather's face beneath his outstretched supporting arms. 
He liked to thrust in slowly and steadily at first, pulling 
his penis almost free from her vagina and then plunging it 
deep inside again. He liked to gradually build up his 
thrusts into a faster and more urgent rhythm, which was 
Heather's cue to vent forth those urgent whimpering 
gasps for which she was so grateful there were no party 
walls between her and her neighbours' cottages. 

Heather wasn't sure that she was actually faking it. She 
certainly faked the orgasm, but then she did that with 
Roger as well. Orgasms came rarely for her and most 
often when she was pleasuring herself. The cries of 
ecstasy and joy, however, that signified orgasm had 
become such a routine part of her lovemaking, Heather 
wondered whether they had just become something as 
natural as the thrusts she found herself reciprocating 
without ever planning to do so.

Another feature Gerry had in common with Roger was 
his love of anal intercourse, but this was a privilege 
Heather rarely granted. It was something best kept for 
special occasions. She worried about it ever since she 
read that article in Cosmopolitan about the long-term 
health risks of too frequent penetration. Perhaps if Gerry 
were less well-endowed and the risk less great, she might 
have thought differently.

So when Gerry's finger probed her anus from behind, his 
penis thrusting vigorously at the front, Heather let the 
finger enter as far as the second joint, but squeezed her 
buttocks tight to make further penetration impossibly 
difficult. She then orchestrated her thrusts and her ecstatic 
cries to the climax she could see Gerry was pretty much 
on the verge of achieving.

As he did with his own grunts and gasps. And like all 
men, the moment of release was fairly obvious, although 
his penis didn't automatically collapse after releasing 
semen into the condom's nipple.

Afterwards, Heather and Gerry lay together on the sweat-
sodden sheets, soon to be changed, Gerry's arm around 
Heather's shoulders, while the sales rep talked about his 
wife, his daughters, and the deal he was hoping to close 
in Shrewsbury. This was different to Roger, who'd 
normally doze after they'd made love, but then Gerry 
would soon have to get back into his Mazda and onto the 
road again.

Heather kissed Gerry quite tenderly on the cheek before 
she opened the front door to the cottage to let him out. He 
made his usual protestations that he'd be back as soon as 
he could and that he loved her.

"Well, just ring when you can," said Heather with a 
smile.

"I will. I will. It's been? it's been wonderful seeing you 
again. I can hardly wait till next time!"

Heather wandered to the living room to watch Gerry 
drive off in his Mazda. She still wore her scarlet outfit 
with the panties back on, but she'd soon change into 
something else. It carried rather too obviously the smell 
of recent sex.

Heather returned to the kitchen and looked out at the 
garden where a goldfinch was perched on the bird table 
and a host of sparrows were pecking at the seeds on the 
ground. No pheasants this time.

She looked at the notes in her hand. As always, Gerry had 
been more generous than he needed to be. And even 
though they'd not had anal sex, he insisted on paying for 
it. Heather put the money in a jar in the kitchen and 
glanced at her desk diary. Three more appointments this 
afternoon: two regulars and a new one. As always, it was 
the new one she was most anxious about, but Phil and 
Jeremy would be just as demanding as Gerry.

Heather sipped her coffee. She'd have to change the 
sheets and put on a fresh outfit, perhaps a black or a white 
number from Scarlet Dream's catalogue. And then back 
to work.

Heather glanced at the school photograph of her daughter 
in the frame by the kitchen window. She sighed.

Oh, the sacrifices the single working mother has to make!


