The Handyman

She called me for a leak under the sink, her voice on the phone steady but edged with something sharper—curiosity, maybe, or the kind of boredom that makes a woman test boundaries. “The Handyman,” her friend had said. “You won’t regret it.”

I showed up on a warm spring afternoon, toolbox in hand, the sun hitting her porch like it knew what was coming. She answered the door in cutoff shorts and a tank top that clung to her athletic frame—strong thighs from hikes, toned arms from life lived hard, soft curves that said she didn’t pose for anyone. Blonde hair wild, skin glowing with that outdoor tan, eyes green and mischievous, like she was already three steps ahead.

“Upstairs,” she said, pointing, her smile quick but loaded. I nodded, voice low. “Show me.” She did, hips swaying just enough to pull my gaze, the air between us humming from the start. I got to work under the sink, on my back, tools torqueing in my scarred hands, the kind of grip that had rebuilt more than pipes.

She lingered in the doorway, pretending to fold laundry, but I felt her eyes—watching the flex of my arms, the way my jeans pulled tight. I caught her staring, biting her lip, mind wandering to what those hands could do besides fix leaks.

I slid out, wiping sweat from my brow, meeting her gaze. “Like what you see?” I asked, voice gravel, a grin tugging. She flushed red, disappearing into the bedroom with a laugh that said she wasn’t done playing.

Minutes later, the shower started. Door cracked, steam curling out like an invitation. I finished the sink, but the pull was stronger. A beautiful blonde, dripping wet, caught my eye through the gap—curves slick, head thrown back under the spray. She left it open on purpose. I knew it.

No thinking. Shirt off, pants dropped, my thick cock springing free, hard from the tease. I stepped in, water hot on my skin, her eyes widening but not shying. Grace and authority in every move, I stared her down. “I’m going to have my way with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she breathed, voice thick.

Hand in her hair, spin her, press her to the tile—ass out, sexy and ready. Palm cracked against bare cheek. Again. Again. Again. Each smack drew a moan, desperate, craving, her body arching for more. She begged to be fucked, whimpers turning to pleas.

I reminded her: I’m in charge.

She pleaded harder, body shaking. Spun her to knees, massive dick in her hands, lips struggling to wrap, tongue swirling, hands pumping faster as she gagged, wanting me inside. Felt her pull me deeper, body buckling, thick strings of cum filling her mouth, salty jizz she swallowed, tasting every drop, eyes locked on mine.

Pulled her up, her beg louder—”Fuck me, please”—body soaking, desires screaming. Led her wet to the bed, threw her down, legs spread wide. Lined up, lubed with her dripping sweetness, plunged deep as she moaned anticipation, pulling her closer, growing harder inside.
She gasped, fantasies made real. Flipped her, mounted, building to explode—harder rides, electricity surging, pushing down lost control, juices squirting, body electricity-overtook, falling to my chest in relief.

Shaking, forbidden smile, mischievous grin—she didn’t want to move. Rolled on top, slid in bigger, eyes meeting: this was just the beginning, sheets tangled for the unexpected night.