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It was 5.30pm, and still no sign of the delivery boy with the groceries that I ordered, and needed, for the evening's meal I had planned to cook for my husband. Then 10 minutes later, there came a ring at the front door, and upon opening it up I saw the delivery boy struggling with my items. "You're late!" I scolded him. "I needed these 20 minutes ago," I continued. "Sorry, Mrs Adams," he apologetically said. "Okay, but don't expect a tip," I insisted upon him. Then, and having him place the items on the table, I now check them to see that he's brought everything I ordered. "What are these?" I firmly enquire, holding one of the somewhat hard melons. "I would have to say it's a melon," he stoically replies. "Yes! But it's hard," I vent. "I take it you wanted riper ones then?" he dully suggests. "I would say that's a gimme," I declare. "How soft did you want them, Mrs Adams?" he enquires, and taking his right hand I place it on my left breast and say: "feel that?" "Emm," he rejoins. "As supple as that, young man," I insist. Placing his other hand on the melon, as a comparison, he continues to caress my breast.

Moments later I exclaim: "Hey! Ease up there. My husband will be home soon." "And if he wasn't," he speculates, putting the melon down so that he can fondle my other breast. "What are you suggesting?" I retort. "That you're a cock tease, Mrs Adams," he chides. "And what if I am, are you man enough to handle me?" I adamantly beseech him. "My hands seem to be doing allright so far," he assures me. "It's not your hands I am concerned about, young man," I say, as I remove them, and ...

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