There was no doubt in Sara Bastin's mind that the arrival of the person she called 'the man', had saved her marriage. Too often her times alone in their large house had her worrying over what had been two years of frustration with her husband Gordon.
Gordon was handsome, sturdily built, great company, and she only discovered after a few weeks of chaste courtship, that he was very rich. Gordon Bastin had his own thriving financial business in the city. After a luxurious wedding, they had honeymooned in Paris, where Sara had her first insights into Gordon's inability to rise to the occasion. Having had only two drab affairs before her marriage she had been looking forward to real fulfilment. No such luck.
He had purchased their beautiful six bed-roomed house, set in its own grounds, which Sara sometimes felt was really too large for just the two of them. They had a wide circle of friends, were invited to lavish dinners, but, sometimes she had to check herself from thinking how she would prefer a two up, one down, if only Gordon could stoke her fires.
So many evenings in those early months, they had retired to bed, had kissed, touched, and brought themselves to that ultimate moment of entry. That was when Gordon's penis, never fully charged, inevitably went totally limp, or, as Sara guided it in its semi hard state towards her entry, he would gasp, and shoot white streaks into her bush.
On one occasion, hoping that a blowjob might help him, she had found her face and hair liberally spattered before his penis was no nearer than six inches from her mouth. Gordon was so devastated himself, and she could never tell him how utterly frustrating it was for her. But he knew.
So often their sessions ended with him getting her to climax by using his fingers on her tender parts. He became quite good at it, but it could never recompense for the full sexual joy of having him inside her.
They were twenty one months into their married life when Gordon declared that he was going to see a sex therapist to try to resolve his problem. Sara felt so sorry to see him in the depths of despair at his own inadequacy. In spite of everything, Sara loved him dearly, and hated to see his impotence, dragging him down from the vital character he had once been..
Apparently the therapist had been helpful, he had thought it was probably a psychological problem, and he had made some suggestions that they might try to improve their sex life. But after a further three months, no notable improvement was apparent.
They had been married for exactly two years when, what Sara was later to call, 'that special Monday', came along. It was a bright July day. Sara had prepared Gordon's breakfast as usual. She had watched him, in his smart grey suit and blue shirt, go through his daily ritual, of sipping a last mouthful of coffee, giving her a quick kiss, before, brief case in his left hand he marched to the front door.
On this particular Monday, when he had opened the door, he had looked back at her. His smile was broad as he asked, "You going to wear some clothes today?" His eye wandered up and down her body, semi exposed in her loosely belted robe.
"What would you suggest?"
Gordon glanced outside at the weather, "Looks like being a scorcher. You'd be better in something summery."
With that, he was gone, and she waited, as she always did, until she'd heard his Jaguar start up, and drive away. Then, with an unspecified excitement rising inside her she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. Something summery?
In no time, she'd dressed in a thin, silken, button up dress, thin panties, and no bra. Sara was just a little proud of the firm standing of her breasts. She scampered downstairs and went into the kitchen, picked out one of her cookery books and began selecting a meal she could prepare for Gordon when he got home that evening.
Having chosen a recipe, she was checking that she had the necessary ingredients, when there was a rather loud knock on the door. She glanced at the clock, which showed just after ten. As she hurried through the hall, she wondered why she should feel slightly nervous. Being alone in the house never usually worried her.
Opening the door, she drew a deep breath at the sight of the tall, good looking man standing there, a warm smile on his face. He was wearing blue jeans, with a red checked shirt, sleeves rolled up tight over muscular arms, and Sara was quite taken by the utter masculinity of him. Her heart was beating just a little faster, as she asked what he wanted.
The man's eyes regarded her coolly, as he replied, "Excuse me for the intrusion, madam, I'm from pest control," And he held up what looked like an identity card, which Sara had little time to inspect as her eyes took in his imposing figure. "We've had reports of a rat infestation in the area, and I'm being charged with ensuring all houses are clear."
"A rat infestation?" Sara asked, wondering about this feeling she was having, this mixture of hope and fear."We've had no rats."
"No, madam, but we're just playing safe. Would you allow me to inspect your downstairs regions." Sara wasn't sure whether a smirk crossed his face at the way he had phrased the question, but he went on. "You do have a cellar?"
Sara nodded, and when he asked if she could show him, she stepped to one side to let him in. His body squeezed along her side as he entered. Hadn't she left enough space for him?
Leading him to the cellar door, she was asking herself 'would I normally allow a man into the house so easily?' She opened the cellar door and reached for the light switch, as he attempted to squeeze past her, and for a second time his body was pressed against hers, so briefly, yet so tellingly. She was beginning to feel worryingly warm in her lower body.
The man went quickly down the stairs, and took, what Sara thought was a cursory look around the edges of the walls. "Yes," he called, "if you could just take a look at this."
Uncertainly, Sara moved down the stairs, very aware that he was below her, looking up her skirt, she was sure. Once down she followed him to one corner, "I always look for a place where an entry can be made. A place like this, feel."
Sara bent and held out a hand to where he was pointing, where there was a slight crack between wall and floor. As she groped, he leaned over, took her wrist and guided her fingers to a small fissure.
"There, feel it? I like to fill all cracks." And as she stood up, he did not immediately release her wrist so that, momentarily he had it trailing up his sturdy thigh.
Her face red, and her blood pounding, Sara stood up as the man thanked her for her cooperation, and then said, "Could I trouble you for a drink of water?"
Sara led the way upstairs, wondering if that was genuine moisture she could feel between her thighs, and she was also wondering where his eyes were looking as he climbed the stairs close behind her.
She led him into the kitchen, and knowing she was entering dangerous territory, she asked, "Would you prefer a cool beer?"
"That would be very kind of you." He seemed to be standing unnecessarily close behind her as she opened the fridge door. Nervously placing two cans of beer on the bench, she stretched up to the cupboard for two glasses.
"You have a husband?" the man asked, and now he was standing really close.
"Of course," she said, her hands frozen at the cupboard door, as she added, "And I love him very much."
"Good," he said, and the next moment she felt him pressed against her back, as he added, "But--," and his hands wrapped around her to spread wide over her belly. "-- does he fuck you?"
That word hung in the air, as Sara desperately asked herself why she wasn't struggling. Why should breathing be so difficult? She just couldn't concentrate on anything. Something was going to happen, and she couldn't duck away from the idea that she wanted it to happen soon.
All she could manage was the breathless statement, "You're no pest controller, are you?" Something hard was pressed against her buttocks, something she feared, or something she longed for. The time was near. Time to challenge or time to scream? But she knew very well that she wasn't going to scream, knew well that the moistening between her thighs was real. The man behind her had an erection---for her.
"What time does he get home?" his voice was barely a whisper.
"Why are you here?"she asked, ignoring his question, almost stupefied by the emotions that were running through her whole body. The man's hand had undone one of the buttons on her dress and was now sliding over the bare skin of her belly. Did her skin actually tingle under his touch? Could she keep any kind of control? Why wasn't she stopping him? Her breathing became even more irregular, as though she'd run a mile race.
"I've been observing you for a long while. Call me a stalker if you like." And his chuckle beside her ear wasn't at all frightening. "I think you know why I'm here. I'm here to satisfy you."
Yes, she did know why he was there. It was like something preordained. But, God, how she wanted it to start. Twisting her body round so that she was facing him, she cried, "Prove it!" And her mouth mashed against his. Instantly, his tongue was searching for hers, and he was clutching her tight against him, half lifting her so that she could feel the bulge in his jeans, pushing into that part of her where she needed it so much.
