Free The Autumn Diaries by Lexi Maxxwell

the Quickie Mart. But for me, it’s a powderkeg situation.  
    The line at the post office is never short. There are always at least a few people in line, and the workers are walking cliches. They don’t give the slightest of shits about you or what you might be up to, or that normal people have places they’d rather be than the post office. Thus, they are always intolerably slow. They aren’t paid by the customer. They’re paid by the hour. And they work for the fucking government.  
    If I walked into a supermarket and saw three people in front of me, I would think nothing of it, confident that it would only be a few minutes before I was out of there. Not so at our post office. I have to mentally prepare for at least twenty minutes, even if there are only two people in line.  
    Right in front of me in line was this guy with a shaved head and blue eyes. I know he had blue eyes because when I came up behind him, he glanced at me in the casual way anyone will glance back at someone approaching them. Then after that, he turned and took a much better, much longer second look. Because here’s the thing — and I can be immodest here because this is MY diary, dammit — even when I’m casual, I look really fucking hot. I had my light pulled back in a loose knot, with a few wavy strands hanging down and sticking out from the top. I was wearing my reading glasses, which I only do when I’m super tired — cute little black cat’s eye frames. I wasn’t wearing makeup. But because I’m a girl, I of course checked myself out in the mirror even though I was in a rush, and totally thought that, yeah, I’d fuck me. I look way cute when disheveled, and honestly, the glasses are awesome enough that I should probably wear them more. I had on a strappy top without a bra and jeans, and everything was tight. I was carrying my shoulder bag with me, and I learned a little trick — if you wear a bag (or even a purse) across your body instead of hanging at your side so that the strap is between your tits, guys love it. It’s like drawing a giant arrow pointing at your fun bags.  
    Anyway, this guy in front of me takes this nice, long look. Totally unashamed. Then he smiles. It wasn’t a lecherous look or smile, but it was the kind of thing where he was waving a flag letting me know I’d raised his dick, and it would be up to me whether or not I responded. He turned back to the front, probably because he didn’t want to seem like a creep, but there was something about his look that   turned me on, and so even though I’m with Sam, I couldn’t resist initiating conversation. I wanted to see those baby blues some more.  
    “It’s always like this in here,” I said to him. Very casually, I shifted my weight so my tits would stick out more, and nudged my sexy secretary glasses into place.  
    The bald guy turned, and there were those eyes again. My jeans felt too tight, and my panties too confining. Blue eyes wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I could totally nail him. We could go behind the post office — I’d driven around the building dozens of times and even mentally had a spot picked out. I do that all the time. It would be quick and dirty and anonymous. We’d have just enough time beforehand, posting our packages, to build up plenty of nasty anticipation. I’d whisper to him where to meet me, then I’d find him and he’d pull my pants and panties down to my ankles and fuck me against a wall. Five minutes tops, and everyone goes home from the post office happy (and sticky) for a change.  
    But that couldn’t happen. Because I love Sam.  
    He smiled. “Are you in a hurry? You can go ahead of me.”  
    Oh holy shit, he had the sexiest Australian accent. I’m a sucker for accents. I wanted him to plow me down under. NOW.
    “Oh, no, that’s fine. It’s just so…” I didn’t finish the sentence. We both knew this was small talk, and that the real talking was happening with our bodies. I shifted my weight again.