It's Wonderful He's Wonderful

I have two daughters under ten; I'm married and run a small graphics design business from my home. I'm the typical chauffer, housekeeper, errand runner, chef, and confidant too. What the family wants I do or get. My life has grown to be an endless series of standard tasks that I can do with my eyes closed. My work keeps me busy when nothing else is pressing me for time. I'm beginning to feel like a frump.

This morning I got up, showered and dressed, put a load of clothing into the washing machine, fixed breakfast, got the girls and hubby up and fed, saw hubby off to work, drove the girls to my sister's for an all day birthday party for one of her kids and now I've parked at the supermarket. I'm dressed in a loose fitting white blouse, tan starched shorts with cuffs, white socks and athletic shoes as I get out of the car. I'm careful as I get out because there is something sharp in the opening for the door. I don't know where it came from but I've asked my hubby to fix it because I've already nicked myself on it. He hasn't found the time.

I have a fixed routine at the store where I shop. I start at the produce area for fruits and veggies, and then walk through the aisles in sequence. Up one aisle and down the next until I get to the meat department where I always study the specials. After meat, I continue my trip along the aisles stopping for bread, soft drinks, milk, hotdogs some cheese and then through the snack aisle for the kids lunches. It usually takes me about twenty minutes and then another ten waiting in line at the checkout.

Today as I'm studying the frozen stuff in those large glass-doored freezers I almost bump into another shopper doing the same thing. As I look up I notice a man that I've seen here many times before. His cart is full too, but not heaped like mine is. Apparently he does the shopping for his family. I smile at him and say hello as I pass. A few more items and I head to the checkout area.

He is standing in the next line, but mine is moving slightly faster. The checker is half way through my cart before they start on his, but we finish at almost the same time. I notice him a bit more closely now. He's a nice looking man, quiet and reserved it seems, taller than I and dressed casually. A guy like him probably has a beautiful wife at home that adores him. For some reason I begin to think about my appearance.

When I was in high school I was kind of thin and athletic. My arms were strings; my walk was awkward, my breasts were small and my hips too wide. My face was gaunt and my hair always stringy. Today I find myself a bit more attractive. I took a course in martial arts and corrected some of my awkwardness, learned how to take care of my hair and use makeup, I've added about twenty pounds and it looks good on me, and my breasts have filled out after two pregnancies. As a designer meeting my public and customers, I've learned to dress well.

As I push my cart toward the door he starts out also. He pauses and lets me go ahead and I hear his cart rolling behind me. When I get to the car I turn and notice he has stopped at the black van next to my car. The van is pretty new and has darkened windows. I've always wanted a van like that for my work and to haul the kids around. It isn't an SUV but it isn't a contractor's van either.

He opens the sliding door of his van and starts loading it immediately. I walk up to open my door and put my purse inside but he is blocking my way. As he puts the last package in he turns and sees me waiting. Embarrassed, he apologizes and pulls the cart forward to let me in. I thank him and after throwing the purse and a candy bar inside, I pop the latch to my trunk and shut the door. I walk back to the trunk and reach for the first grocery bag when I hear him apologize again and reach around me for the bag. As he puts it into the trunk space I listen to him say that it's the least he can do after making me wait.

I try to tell him that it isn't necessary to apologize and that I can put the groceries inside easily. He ignores me and continues to transfer my stuff. With the last package inside he closes the trunk and I say thank you Mr . . ., waiting for him to introduce himself. He introduces himself and then points to the magnetic sign mounted on the door of the van. He is a cabinet maker. I thank him again and smile as I congratulate him on his talents as a box boy. Now he smiles and says that it's his pleasure.

I think of him as I drove home. He is a very nice man, well-mannered, handsome, strong, and apparently has a good business of his own. I even think of my own cabinets and cupboards at home. I wonder how much he charges and if he does kitchen stuff. I noticed from his sign that his business is only a couple of blocks away in a residential area. I wonder if he works out of his home.

The next two weeks seem to fly as I continue with my ordinary life. It isn't that my life is drab, just that it has nothing to perk me up. I even attend PTA meetings and student-teacher conferences. I begin to think of myself as frumpy, but don't know what to do to change.

As I return to do my next week's grocery shopping, I've forgotten about Mr. Cabinetmaker. I'm hurrying through the store for no apparent reason other than I want fresh air and then as I turn a corner I actually run right into him with the cart. Flustered, I apologize profusely and he says that it's fine and he isn't hurt. I feel like a fool as we continue around the store. I'm behind him as he takes my same route, and I watch him walk. I wish my hubbie walked like that.

My husband is a good man and a hard worker, but he is awkward the way I was in high school. I've thought many times of dragging him out to my martial arts class, but I think he'd be embarrassed and so I haven't. He works long hours but is a good provider and a loving man. We have been married almost ten years and the first five were romantic, but as we settled in we got boring.

When we come down the last aisle, he stops to look at something and I go ahead to the checkout. A moment later he is in line behind me. I say hello again and he explains that this is the shorter line. We talk a bit while we stand and wait. As the checker and box-girl are finishing my order, he bends over and whispers that if I wait that he'll help me with the groceries.

I feel that I owe him after running him down with the cart earlier and so I wait. We push our carts out side-by-side and chat idly. His van is parked next to mine again. He helps me with my groceries and I thank him, but as I open my door, turn and start to climb in I slide down the edge of the doorway and feel my leg hurt and my shorts rip apart as the thread bursts at the seam. That thing in the doorway has bitten me again and ripped my seam.

My shorts are black, not cuffed, and longer than two weeks ago, but the weather is still warm enough to appreciate them. In my eagerness to thank him, I've forgotten about that thing in the doorway of my car. It has not only torn my shorts to the waist, but has torn me as well. Actually it cut me more than tear me, and it hurst. I'm bleeding profusely and very embarrassed.

He looks concerned and removes a handkerchief from his pocket and applies it to the cut on my thigh. He seems to think for a moment and asks me to get up and sit in the sliding doorway of his van. I try to explain that it isn't bad, but he insists. He helps me to the van and I'm afraid for a moment that he's going to call a 911 emergency. Instead, he hurries to the rear of his van and returns with a first-aid kit.

He opens the kit and removes several alcohol pads and rips two of them open. He takes the handkerchief back and kneels down to wash the cut. It isn't deep but is several inches long and continues to bleed. The alcohol stings slightly but it's cool and his gentle hands feel good on my exposed thigh. I'm bleeding while my thoughts are about him. After holding pressure against it for a minute, the cut still bleeds in several spots.

He says that he has a couple of items that might help stop the bleeding and holds up Iodine pads and a small bottle of liquid bandage. I shake my head okay and grit my teeth as he swabs it with iodine. It helps but the cut continues to bleed slightly. Again he holds up his hand and I say yes to the liquid bandage. The bandage burns worse than the alcohol or iodine. He bends over as I look away and bite my lip. He actually blows on the liquid to both cool and dry it. This time the blood has stopped, and my blood inside is racing. I want him to kiss my leg.

He uses some gauze and tape to cover the wound in case it starts leaking again. His hands rest on my leg and I'm getting wet. He smiles up at me and says that I have nice legs and he doesn't think it will scar but feels that I should see a doctor anyway. He said that I have nice legs I think. He lifts the tear on my shorts and I'm glad that I've shaved this morning. It seems to me that he may have lifted the cloth a bit higher than is necessary but I don't mind. I thank him for all his care and assure him that I don't scar easily.

As he helps me up, he examines the edge where I'd been cut and finds a piece of punched metal that he says must have been there since they made the car. He asks me to wait and returns again to the van and gets a file. The file makes short work of that jagged edge, and then he helps me into the car.

I reach for my purse to get some safety pins that I always carry for an emergency. As I start to pin the cloth together, he takes the pins and kneels again. I want to turn and face hom, bit restrain myself. Before they'd ripped, my shorts were tight around the leg, and now he reaches inside my thigh to compress it and force the cloth together. My mind is racing as I imagine him raising his hand just another inch or two, but I just smile as he attempts to pin it for me.

My ride home is hazy as my mind races about the experience I've just had. Was I crazy to be having these thoughts? I'm a happily married woman with a family. Well, I'm happy except for the plainness in my sex life. I wonder if he's had any fantasies about me. His finger seemed to indicate that he is married, and his attitude bespoke domestication. Today he'd been wearing jeans and a tee-shirt. His body was nice, and I couldn't be certain but I thought I might have detected a slight bulging in his groin. His groin -- did he have a hard-on for me? That would be nice I decide.

It is another two weeks before I notice him again as he comes out of the store. This time he's dressed very nicely and it's mid-afternoon. As I walk by and he's putting groceries in the van, he asks how the leg is. The leg? Oh, yes the leg! It's fine I tell him and he asks if I think it will scar. I tell him that I'm sure that it won't even be noticeable in another thirty or forty years and he laughs. He has a nice laugh. I notice the name of his cabinetry business and continue into the store.

It seems a strange coincidence that night when my husband comes out to the kitchen after dinner and comments on how bad the cupboards are. They're clean I tell him, but he reminds me that it's an old house and that even some of the hinges are bad. Several of the latches are broken, and three of the cabinet doors are discolored from kitchen cooking. The veneer is starting to come off on one top and one bottom door, he adds, and says that he's never liked their layout.

My heart leaps and I ask myself if I should mention the man at the store. I decide and tell him that I know of a man that does cabinets, but don't know how expensive they are. My husband just smiles and asks me to contact the man for an estimate. I tell him that I'm sure that the guy only makes custom cabinets, but he insists that it's okay and that I should call the guy.

The next morning I send the girls off to school and then I look him up in the directory and call him. I tell him that my husband insists on new kitchen cabinets and ask if doing kitchens is a problem for him, or if he even has the time. He assures me that it isn't a problem, although apparently kitchens are not his normal line. He says that he makes items like specialty desks, wall cabinets, gun cabinets, and cabinets for wet bars, but that in our case he'll be happy to give me an estimate. When I ask when he'll be free he insists that he can come over now. I give him the address and thank him.

I hurry to spruce up a bit. I've already taken a shower and dressed before I called, so it only takes a minute to finish. The only problem I'm having is deciding exactly what to wear. Finally I decide on the same pair of shorts that had come apart that day. I'd sewn them back and they are stronger than the first time. Besides, they might remind him of what he'd seen that day I think.

He arrives within fifteen minutes and is wearing Dockers, a Polo shirt and loafers. He parks in the driveway and I invite him in. I show him the kitchen and he spends some time measuring and looking them over. Finally, he says that the cabinets are in good shape and that if I only want new cabinet fronts it will be far cheaper and faster. I tell him about what my husband had said about the cabinet layout and he smiles and agrees. However, he said, he'll sketch out some changes that will use as much of the old cabinets as possible to keep the cost down and then give us an estimate.

The estimate arrives the next day and my husband is delighted with the sketches and the price and tells me to order them. He also says that he wants to supervise the job but his employer is starting a new project and he'll be working long hours to get it done. He thinks it might mean a promotion, so he asks me to handle the cabinets.

The next morning I drive over to his house and as I walk up to his front door he comes around the side and greets me. I ask how he knew that I was here and he just smiles and motions me into the garage. Inside he shows me a set of computer monitors, or I think they are computer monitors. One of the monitors shows the front of the house through a video camera he must have mounted somewhere in the yard. Then he tells me that he was an electrical engineer by profession, but enjoys woodworking and the challenge of creating beauty from wood. He's actually built a hobby into a business.

He also says that he does his electronics as a hobby now. The garage is a modified three car unit and he shows me where his wife parks her car on one side, he's converted the center for his woodshop, and the section closest to the house is the computer room we started in. He says that he's installed vacuum equipment on all of the wood machines to keep dust and flammability down and then built partitions in the garage. The lack of dust allows him to have the computers close by.

When I ask about his hobby he tells me that he enjoys remotely controlled small airplanes and robots. He designs and builds his own. I'm wearing a full skirt that ends just above my knees, a pair of sandals and a peasant style lace blouse that I know accentuates my breasts. I hear a high-pitched sound at my left side and look down to see a small machine moving at me. He laughs at my surprise and tells me to hold very still.

I do as I'm told and watch him moving something at his computer. I continue to hear different high-pitched whines and he explains that they are merely small servo motors that the robot uses. I feel something at the edge of my skirt and as I looked down something happens. My skirt flies up and there's a bright flash of light in the garage. I almost fall from the surprise, but reach down and smooth my skirt and ask what had just happened.

He smiles again and says that he's wondered how my wound has healed. I respond by telling him that it's fine, but . . . He laughs and says that he knows. Confused I ask him how and he again surprises me by asking if I really want to know. I say yes, and he asks if I'll be upset if he tells me. Now I'm becoming more than a little concerned and interested and so I tell him that I will not be upset.

He tells me that he also knows that I'm not wearing panties. I 'm probably red faced but maintain enough decorum to state that it's a hot day and I frequently don't wear panties on hot days and then demand to know how he knows. I ask him if he's been spying on the house and he just points at the machine on the floor. He invites me over to the monitor and slowly I edge away from the machine and over to the monitor. The monitor he's staring at is located beneath a clear glass or plastic cover under the tabletop and at an angle. As I bend over to see it, I see my cleavage opening in the monitor. When I finally realize what it is I stand quickly. He is smiling ear to ear and having fun. He points at a small black dot on the shelf above the monitor and tells me that it's a miniature video camera lens.

This time I bend only slightly and see my image again and accuse him of tricking me. This is some adventure I think to myself and ask again about his previous remark. This time he pushes a button on the keyboard and there is a full color picture of my upper thigh and only a slight redness remains from the cut. I point at the machine and ask if that is a camera too. Again he smiles and shakes his head yes, but he says, it is more than one.

It turns out that there are three cameras pointing up my skirt from that 'robot' and the robot had released a huge puff of compressed air that had raised my skirt and flash units had illuminated what was beneath. I'm very embarrassed, and ask where the other pictures are. Again he presses a button and four separate image windows open on the monitor. I forget about the camera above on the shelf as I bend forward to study the other three. He's captured a picture that shows my thighs, pussy, and stomach from the front, one that shows the full cheeks of my ass with the hint of my pussy from the rear, and the side image that shows where the cut in my leg had been as well as the profile of my ass, thighs and stomach.

Now I'm really embarrassed and start to complain, but his smile disarms me and finally I just grin. I tell him that now he knows more about me than my husband does. He seems to think that is very funny, just as I finally notice my breasts hanging beneath the blouse and the blouse fully away from them in the fourth window. My nipples and partial areoles are plainly visible. I stand up and turn around with my ass against the monitor's table and find him inches away on his work stool. He leans forward and kisses my cheek. I'm surprised and more surprised that I really like it. He is on a roll as he places his hands on my hips and kisses me again, but this time on the lips.

I can't help myself as I return his kiss and feel his arms go under and raise my skirt as he places both hands on my bare hips. He pulls me hard against him as he stands and I can feel his arousal through the jeans against me. I'm lost in his kiss but find my hands roving his body looking for his ass and then his cock. For a moment I explore and then find my way inside the simple white tee-shirt he's wearing and place my hand flat against his muscled abdomen.

Now his hand is actually spreading my thighs as the palm of my hand slides down the warm skin inside the front of his jeans and find him waiting for me. For a moment we explore and I'm wet. I fiddle with the button at the top of the jeans, manage to clear it and then unzip him. He is clear in a flash and my hands find him and I climax. He feels so good in my hands that I almost sit on his hand. Soon I feel his hands lifting me and as I spread my thighs, he lowers me onto him and settles back onto the stool.

At first it hurts, I'm afraid that I'm not lubricated enough and that he might be too large. But after a moment I relax and know that he's perfect for me. I feel him fill me like I've never been filled in my life. He easily picks me up and lowers me again and again and I busy myself rotating and squirming and trying to make sure that I have all of him. We poke and prod and explore with our tongues and then his hand goes to my clit and he begins the most sensual massage I've experienced. It is only a moment before I experience a rolling series of climaxes that I don't want to end.