The postal book, the size of a major city's phone directory, does not exist in the eyes of the federal authorities. It's existence is hotly denied — but it does, covertly, in every post office in America, and every day it's used by postal clerks like Steve Samuels. It is a private, insidious invasion of each citizen's rights, a direct refutation of the first amendment to the Constitution, and a callous disregard by the government for the right of legal hearing. It lists the names and addresses of whoever the government considers a pornographer or a user of pornography, as well as of other "anti-state" dangers.
The terror, the horror of such a book is the fact that the government authorities who carefully compile this ever-expanding list decide themselves on what is pornography and dangerous and immoral for the public to read. It has no bearing as to court decisions, on the law's definition of what's good or bad, but on some narrow-minded, blue-nosed bureaucrat bent on stamping out his own prejudiced views of prurience. This is why it is kept a secret, for it is highly illegal.
Yet it's there, sitting on some shelf.
And it's used. Used as a powerful stranglehold over the freedom of the individual to live in his own "pursuit of happiness".
It is a prime example how the incompetent, sometimes dishonest and oftentimes ignorant public servants, in Washington D.C. have covertly expanded their power so that we, the PEOPLE, now serve THEM.
It served the weaselly postal clerk, Steve Samuels' evil purposes now. For in it was listed the name and address of the Polaroid Club in Chicago. He slapped the package Cindy had mailed against his thigh and scrambled back on his stool. He fondled it, feeling the hard squares of the pictures, and grinned. Then he slipped the package into his coat pocket and wished it was time to go home.
He could have opened the package then and there — the post office has the power, granted by the Congress of course, to open and search any piece of mail it so desires. It can read the most secret letters an American citizen wishes to write; do so, and without fear of legal action against it. Even the police cannot infringe on the private lives and possessions to this extent — they require a search warrant to enter a house, and a damned good reason for doing so beforehand. But the post office can, at will, invade this privacy, for whatever reason they choose to fabricate.
But the clerk didn't open the package then. He was going to wait until he got home that night, for he had his own, dark plans for the contents…
He didn't bother with dinner that night, but hurried to his dingy, weed-choked clapboard house set in the industrial section of town. He set out food and water for his German Shepherd named Ringo, patting the large animal's head at the thought of what might be in store for the dog as well as for himself, then went inside the house, his thoughts constantly on the package which was burning its way through his pocket. And now he was ready to act. Carefully he slit the paper and withdrew the pictures with palsied, talon-like fingers.
Yes, yes… he drooled as he thumbed through them. God yes, they were every bit as obscene, as lust-provoking as he had thought they might be. He snickered loudly to himself. In just a few days, that lovely girl who now writhed in sexual abandon in the pictures he held would be doing the same for him. Yes, yes, he could hardly wait… and he mentally put himself in the place of her husband in the photos, spearing the sweet, tender cunt of Mrs. Cindy Jamison with all his perverted desires. Ohhhhh, his testicles already ached with the steam of wanting to fuck her! To fuck Cindy Jamison… and more! Other, exciting and lascivious things which weren't shown in the pictures!
Feverishly, he took the set of photos into the bathroom. He pulled the black colored window shade down, then drew the curtains closed. Then he opened a cupboard near the toilet and took out his photography equipment, set a piece of plywood across the bathtub, turned off the regular light and the small red one on instead, and set to work. He soon had a duplicate set of the pictures.
He examined each one meticulously, poring over the details of the naked young Cindy Jamison and her husband fucking until each pose was imprinted on his brain. His bulging eyes followed the contours of her smooth firm buttocks and the soft rounded spheres of her beautiful breasts, their turgid nipples rising high with excitement. He trembled, his thin, venous penis turning to a rock hard rigidity. He could hardly wait to get his hands and mouth on that snooty little bitch who had obviously dismissed him as so much dirt today. He had forced many a woman to be fucked by him, but never anything like her… never anything so pure, so innocent, so sheltered.
He groveled at one picture after another, staring at the sweet, unsuspecting wife's nude reclining figure. One photo which held him particularly was where she had drawn one knee up even with her hip, the smooth white flesh of her inner thigh gleaming faintly in contrast to her husband's darker body. The soft blond hairs of her vagina were plainly visible around the outer lips, and he involuntarily drew in a shuddering breath at the lovely sight. The thought of her helplessly mewling under him in the same position goaded his organ into greater throbbings. He silently opened the fly of his pants, easing the pain slightly. He slowly massaged the heavy thick foreskin back and forth over its jerking head, tiny droplets of white seminal fluid already seeping from its tip.
The rod he held in his hand was his great equalizer for his shriveled, ugly body and short stump of a leg. He'd soon be seeing if this Mrs. Jamison would treat him like a dog when he rammed deep between her open thighs and buried it far up inside her aristocratic little belly…
He stood there, staring at the second set of pictures, stroking himself into a hardness which threatened to explode into streaming torrents of hot spurts at any moment. For a second, he considered it, but then thought of a better idea. He stopped his manipulations, not wanting to risk losing the building load of sperm, and went into the living room and the telephone.
He dialed the number of a nearby garage. The head mechanic answered, and the now wildly excited postal clerk asked for Jack Reagan, another of the mechanics. There was a pause, and then a young, firm voice came on the line. "This is Reagan."
"Hello, Jack," the clerk replied. "This is Steve Samuels."
There was utter silence for a moment. Then: "What do you want?" Reagan said in contemptuous tones.
"Now, you shouldn't talk like that, Jack," the clerk said, grinning. "After all, I'm only trying to help you, you know."
"The hell you are, you son of a bitch."
The clerk suddenly flared up in anger, his face a hot red. "Don't call me names, Jack. You hear me? Never!" He calmed down after the outburst, knowing he controlled the situation. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be fired by now, and that would be terrible, what with a six-month-old baby and everything. Think about it, Jack."
"I am," came the trembling response.
"You wouldn't find another good job so easy, either, Jack. The postal authorities would see to that… They don't like men like you; men sick and dirty of mind who are helping destroy the moral fibre of our country."
"Save the lecture. What do you want?"
"Your wife."
"No!" came the horrified gasp. "Not Sally, not again!"
"Yes. Sally, and again!"
"But… but you promised!"
"That was before, Jack."
"Before what?"
"Before the authorities raided a pornographer's house over on the south side of town. Before they found a letter of yours…"
"God! No!" Reagan moaned.
"I went to bat for you again, Jack. All they had was the envelope actually with your address on it. I told them that it must have been a mistake, that I know you and that you're a good, clean, all-American patriot, the pillar of the community. They aren't going to do anything to you… yet! But if I should say something…" he left the threat of what the postal authorities might do to Reagan unsaid, only snickering triumphantly into the mouthpiece.