$name1 bends over her broken washing machine for the handyman and takes his load while her husband is away.
The washing machine had been broken for a week. $name1’s husband was away on a site job in Bristol until Friday. The handyman — Callum, according to the van — arrived at ten on a Tuesday with a toolbox and a smile that lingered a second too long on the neckline of her vest.
She was thirty-four, bored, lonely, and wearing very little because the radiator was stuck on full. Callum was maybe thirty, freckled, strong forearms, the kind of working-class handsome that made her cunt sit up and take notice when he crouched to look at the machine’s hose.
“Belt’s gone,” he said. “I’ve got a spare in the van. Twenty minutes.”
“Tea while you wait?” she offered.
He took the tea. He also took the way she bent to get milk from the fridge, vest riding up over the curve of her bare arse — no knickers, because she’d decided somewhere between the kettle boiling and his knock that she was done being a good wife for the morning.
When he came back with the belt, she was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, vest the only thing between him and everything. “How much do I owe you?”
Callum’s eyes flicked down, then up. “Call it forty. Or…” He swallowed. “You tell me.”
$name1 uncrossed her legs and let him see the glistening pink of her cunt. “Or you fuck the lonely wife over the broken machine and we call it even. My husband’s in Bristol. The neighbours are at work. Lock the back door.”
He locked it. The toolbox hit the floor with a clatter. Callum crossed the kitchen, shoved her thighs apart, and buried his face between them like a man who’d been offered water in a desert. His tongue was rough and eager, licking her open, sucking her clit, fucking into her with wet filthy sounds. $name1 gripped the cupboard handles above her head and rolled her hips against his mouth.
“Yes — eat it — fucking eat the housewife’s cunt—”
He made her come in minutes, thighs shaking around his ears. Then he stood, shoved his work trousers down, and the thick cock that sprang free was already leaking. He rubbed the head through her folds, then pushed in hard. $name1 cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, as he fucked her on her own kitchen counter with the washing machine still half-open beside them.
“Christ, you’re tight,” he grunted. “Does he fuck you like this? Or does he leave you aching while he’s away?”
“He leaves me aching,” she gasped. “So you fill the ache. Harder. I want to feel you when I sit down for lunch.”
Callum hauled her off the counter, spun her, and bent her over the washing machine itself. Cold metal kissed her nipples through the vest. He slammed back into her from behind and pounded, hands on her soft hips, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tiles. $name1 came again with a sob, cunt clamping, and he fucked her through it without mercy.
“Inside,” she demanded. “Don’t you dare pull out. Cream the cheating wife. I want to drip while I hang his shirts later.”
Callum buried himself and came with a groan that sounded like surrender, pulsing hot into her, forehead against her spine. $name1 squeezed around him until every drop was hers, then laughed softly when he slipped free and a thick trail of cum slid down toward her knee.
He fixed the belt with shaking hands while she watched from the doorway, vest back on, his seed drying sticky between her thighs. She paid him the forty anyway, pressed into his palm with a folded note that had her number on it.
“Next time the dishwasher floods,” she said, “you know where I live. And you know what else needs fixing.”
Callum looked at her like a man rewriting his whole week. “$name1 — if your husband—”
“My husband can stay in Bristol,” she said, and kissed him once, tasting herself on his mouth. “Tuesday mornings work for me. Bring the big toolbox.”
She closed the door on his van and went upstairs to shower — slowly, fingers in her cum-slick cunt, already planning which appliance she’d sabotage next so the freckled handyman would come back and fuck the ache out of her all over again.
That night she FaceTimed her husband from Bristol with a sweet smile and a robe tied tight. She told him the washing machine was fixed. She did not tell him by whom, or how, or that she could still feel the ghost of a thick cock when she sat down to dinner. After the call she lay back on their bed, pushed two fingers into her still-tender cunt, and came whispering Callum’s name into the empty room.
Wednesday she “noticed” the dishwasher making a strange noise. Thursday she texted the number on the invoice. Friday morning, before her husband’s train got in, Callum was back — toolbox in one hand, hard already in his trousers — and $name1 met him at the door in nothing but an apron.
“Dishwasher’s fine,” she said. “I’m not. Fix me before he gets home.”
He bent her over the sofa this time and fucked her stupid in twenty stolen minutes, filling her again, leaving her glowing and guilty and already scheduling next week’s emergency. When her husband’s key turned in the lock an hour later, $name1 kissed him hello with a handyman’s cum still warming her insides, and smiled like a perfect wife.
