Horny Hot Wife and the Plumber

Brigitte had been pacing her kitchen since breakfast, restless in a way that had nothing to do with the drip under the sink. Thirty-two, soft and full through the hips and breasts, she was the kind of woman neighbors noticed and her husband forgot once the airport shuttle pulled away. He was gone for another week of meetings, and the house felt too quiet, too clean, too unused. When the faucet gave a wet cough and water sheeted across the cabinet floor, she almost smiled. An excuse. A phone call. A man who would have to come inside.

She wiped the spill, tied her short robe a little looser than manners required, and waited. At twenty past ten the doorbell rang. Cyrus filled the frame when she opened it: twenty-eight, tall, work shirt stretched over shoulders and arms that looked like they actually lifted things for a living. Dark hair, a faint scrape of stubble, gray eyes that dropped once down the open V of her robe and came back up slower than a professional should allow.

"Kitchen sink?" His voice was low, already a little rough.

"Right through here." She turned and walked ahead of him, bare feet quiet on the tile, the hem of the robe brushing the tops of her thighs. She felt his attention like heat between her shoulder blades. At the cabinet she crouched, robe gaping, and pointed at the joint that wept every time the tap ran. "It started this morning. I don't know a thing about pipes."

He set his toolbox down and crouched beside her. Close enough that she smelled soap and sun-warmed cotton. "I'll get under there and take a look." His eyes flicked to the swell of her cleavage, then to her mouth, then away, as if he'd caught himself. The corner of his mouth still twitched. "You always answer the door like that for repair calls?"

"Only when the man on the other side looks like he could fix more than a leak." She held his gaze, bold and bright, and watched color rise under his stubble. The air between them tightened. She didn't step back. Neither did he.

Cyrus slid onto his back and worked his shoulders under the sink, wrench in hand, forearms flexing as he tested the fitting. Brigitte stayed where she was, then shifted closer on purpose, planting her palms on the counter and bending at the waist as if she needed a better view. The robe rode up. Cool air kissed the backs of her bare thighs. She knew what he could see from that angle: the lace edge of pale panties, the soft curve of her ass, the damp spot already darkening the fabric because she had been thinking about a stranger's hands since she hung up the phone.

"Tight down here," he said, and the double meaning sat between them like a dare.

"I've heard that before." She let her voice go husky. "You going to loosen it, or just stare?"

He huffed a laugh that wasn't quite steady. Metal clicked. Water dripped into the pan he'd set. "Hard to concentrate when the homeowner keeps bending over like she wants to be caught."

"Maybe I do." She straightened only enough to look down at him, robe still open at the chest. "My husband's been gone six days. I haven't had a real man's hands on me in longer than that. I ache, Cyrus. Right here." She slid one palm over the front of her panties, slow, shameless. "I called a plumber. I was hoping for more than a quote."

He went still under the cabinet. Then he rolled out, sat up, and stood in one smooth motion that put him inches from her. The front of his work pants was tented hard, thick and unmistakable. His jaw worked. "You sure about that? Because if I put this wrench down, I'm not pretending this is a service call anymore."

"I'm sure." She reached out and cupped him through the fabric, stroking the heavy length of his cock with an open palm, feeling it jump against her fingers. Heat flooded her. "I want you. Right here. Right now. Tell me you want it too."

His hand closed over her wrist, not to stop her, just to feel her keep moving. "I want to fuck you until you can't stand," he said, plain and rough. "Been hard since you opened the door. Say yes again."

"Yes." She squeezed him. "God, yes."

Brigitte sank to her knees on the kitchen tile before he could reach for his belt. She undid it herself, popped the button, dragged the zipper down, and freed him. His cock sprang out thick and flushed, heavy in her hand, the head already slick. She moaned at the sight of it and didn't tease. Her mouth opened around him, wet and hungry, tongue flattening as she took him deep on the first slow slide. Salt and skin. She hollowed her cheeks and bobbed, spit shining on her lips, one hand working what she couldn't swallow yet while the other gripped his thigh for balance.

"Fuck," Cyrus groaned. His fingers threaded into her hair, not cruel, just firm, guiding the rhythm she was already chasing. "That's it. Messy. Let me hear it."

She did. Sloppy sounds filled the kitchen as she worked him, drool slicking her chin, throat relaxing until she could sink farther, nose brushing the trimmed hair at his base. She gagged once, pulled back with a wet gasp, and went down again, eyes watering, determined, sucking hard on the upstroke. His hips twitched. She loved the way his stomach tightened, the way his grip in her hair tightened with it.

"Enough," he rasped, though his voice shook. "I want inside you. Stand up."

She rose on shaky legs. He spun her toward the counter, bent her over it, and yanked the robe open so it fell off her shoulders and pooled at her elbows. Cool granite met her breasts. He hooked her panties and dragged them down her thighs, not even bothering to step her out of them. Two fingers slid through her folds and came away soaked.

"Jesus, you're dripping." He lined himself up and pushed in, one long, thick stroke that stretched her open and knocked a broken cry out of her. He didn't pause. He fucked her hard from the first thrust, hips snapping, the slap of skin loud in the bright kitchen. Deep. Pounding. Each drive shoved her forward until her palms squeaked on the counter and her ass bounced against him.

"Yes—harder—don't stop—" She pushed back to meet him, robe hanging useless, panties tangled at her knees. He gripped her hips and gave her exactly that, grinding deep on every stroke, the head of his cock kissing the end of her again and again. Pleasure coiled fast and mean. She was loud and didn't care. The neighbor's fence was a world away. All that existed was the stretch, the heat, the filthy wet sound of him taking her.

He pulled out suddenly, leaving her empty and whimpering. Before she could protest he turned her, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and set her on the kitchen table. Plates rattled. He shoved her knees apart, wide, and dropped between them.

"Hold them," he ordered.

She did, hands behind her knees, spread open and shaking. Cyrus buried his face in her pussy and ate her like he'd been starving. Tongue broad and filthy, licking from her entrance up to her clit, then sealing his mouth there and sucking. Two fingers pushed back inside and curled. Brigitte's head fell back. The orgasm hit her without warning, sharp and rolling, her thighs trying to clamp around his ears while she came on his tongue, crying his name, soaking his mouth. He didn't stop until the shakes eased and she was panting, oversensitive and still greedy.

"Up," he said, voice wrecked. He sat on the edge of a chair he'd kicked clear and pulled her with him. She straddled his lap, robe gone somewhere on the floor, and sank down onto his cock in one desperate drop. Full again. Perfect. She braced her hands on his shoulders and rode him frantically, bouncing, grinding, chasing the second crest already building. Her breasts swayed. He thrust up to meet her, hands spanning her ass, pulling her down harder each time she rose.

"Come with me," she gasped. "I want to feel it. Fill me up."

"Then take it." He drove up into her, relentless, and she broke. The climax tore through her, tighter than the first, her pussy clenching around him in helpless pulses. He groaned, buried deep, and came with her, thick spurts flooding her as he held her down on his cock and kept thrusting through it, both of them shaking, moaning, locked together until the last wave faded.

Cyrus pulled her close and kissed her, deep and slow, still buried inside her while their breathing wrecked the quiet. She tasted herself on his mouth and smiled against his lips, glowing, thighs trembling around his hips.

"Whenever he's gone," Cyrus murmured, forehead against hers, "you call. I'll come fix whatever you break."

Brigitte laughed, soft and already eager, and kissed him again.