Dressed only in a gown Sophia Shelton answered the door and looked at the thickset guy in white overalls who said, "You have some internal plaster cracks requiring attention?"
She flared, "You were supposed to be here ten days ago."
"So you want me to leave and smack myself for being a bad boy and go to a household requiring interior plastering remedial work where the lady of the house welcomes me with open arms?"
"Oh god no," Sophia said almost clawing at the man to capture him, except Sophia refrained from completing that movement. Like most women she was rather loath to touch men, including her own husband. It just seemed to be so unwholesome.
This one smelt of a mix of garlic, BO and skin rot. She would have added ammonia but considered because the plaster embedded in his fingernails and every wrinkle in his hands and chin was dry, that offensive smell would have evaporated by now. She didn't dare sniff to test her theory because of fear that would have brought to her nose other odors of unspeakable disgust.
God she'd be prepared to wager this one only washed when his wife declared no sex until he soaked in the bath for half a day.
Sophia dabbed oil of eucalyptus on to her handkerchief and held it against her nose during the six hours while Mr Stink, or Mike as he called himself, worked on the ceiling crack across the lounge ceiling and crack lines along all the cornices. Sophia was a woman conditioned by her mother to keep up appearances and knew that every woman who stepped into her house would judge general tidiness, surreptitiously run finger tests for dust and then peer to detect ceiling cracks or stare horrified at fissures should they exist through poor maintenance.
"Any good?" Mr Stink asked, arriving back inside after carrying away his gear and resenting being told to don't bang the trestles and plank against the doorways. The scowl was because he hadn't been offered a beer or asked if he wanted fellatio or whatever description desperately bored housewives used.
"Yes your work passes my appraisal," Sophia said and handed him her check. He stood waiting for folding money.
"I don't tip professional artisans," she smiled for the first time and that turned into a grin when the bum looked pleased and left whistling.
The follow-up guy was marginally more acceptable.
He stood at the door and smiled, looking washed and brushed, obviously the product of a house-proud wife.
"I'm Archie the painter here to repaint your lounge ceiling including cornices."
He carried in two air extractors and was so careful that Sophia felt obliged to make him mid-morning sandwiches and lunch. Archie said his wife had packed him lunch but she said surely he'd prefer freshly made chicken salad and his grin split wide across his face. Sophia of course knew it didn't matter how good the plastering was, it was the painter who performed the icing on the cake, metaphorically speaking.
She was critical of him, however. He expelled wind at both ends without apologies as she hovered watching to ensure he didn't souvenir anything and whenever he stepped down on to the drop sheets to look up and admire his work he would scratch his genitals. The horrified Sophia assumed he had some hideous flesh-eating disease and she almost cried thinking of his poor dear wife who'd face cross-infection.
Needless to say, Archie missed out on a tip and left scowling, scratching.
Hubert got sex that night after he soaked in a bath of mild disinfectant for thirty minutes. The fool kept mashing her breasts and licking the nipples despite Sophia having told him ten thousand times such gross mauling did nothing for her. She simply assumed it did nothing for Hubert either.
"Pull my cock," he'd groan and the reply as usual was, "Wait a minute while I pull on my latex glove. Play with my vagina while you're waiting but remember, no more than two fingers."
Hubert's pals assumed he went without sex because when they bragged about their wives or girlfriends gobbling them until their lips were buried in groin hair or they were awakened to a demand for anal, he'd turn morose and would never talk about his sex life and knew the guys didn't want to hear about self-masturbation.
Of course the guy's weren't to know that Hubert's wife was an unbelievably good cock-sucker, the only downside being he had to bath in disinfectant water for half an hour immediately prior and had to don a condom before her lips closed over it.
Vaginal sex was somewhat muted because it always had to be missionary and she inserted a female pouch and he had to wear a tickler condom. She did allow him to insert a butt plug and if she were in a good mood she'd twist the plug with great timing and Hubert would fly into his ejaculation, eyes bulging.
A year after their marriage, when Sophia finally agreed to try sex for the first time, she'd found some of the sensations delivered were to her liking and during the next eight years had finally become used to the smells of sex and no longer wore a nose clip.
Sophia's female friends assumed Hubert was gay and she was celibate out of necessity and some had offered their husbands, much to Sophia's disgust, not that she showed that. She listened to their talk and wondered why her Hubert had not been inflicted with a small dick like the husbands her friends complained about.
On one memorable occasion, sick of these same old complaints, Sophia's comment that if they didn't engage in sex so often their vaginas wouldn't become so stretched that a small penis would satisfy them created quite a hush, going down like a lead balloon. The conversation changed abruptly to discussion Myra Livingston's pretentious new car.
* * *
Finally something happened that allowed Sophia to really enjoy sex. In October the day after she and Hubert entertained three couples for dinner on Columbus Day.
After the guests had left and Hubert had weaved off drunkenly to bed Sophia had packed the dishwasher and started it, only to hastily turn off the switch when alarmed by an internal bang and uncharacteristic wild whirring.
She did all the dishes by hand, reinforcing her dormant belief that the dishwasher really was the housewife's friend. Next morning she rang the supplier and was told a serviceman would call within the next couple of days or so.
"I want that serviceman here this morning," Sophia said icily and the owner's wife said, "Very well Mrs Shelton, I shall send my son from sales."
"I don't want anyone trying to sell me a new washer, I want my washer fixed."
"Ant was taking dishwashers and washing machines to pieces when kids his age were learning to ride two-wheelers. If Ant can't fix your machine to your satisfaction Mrs Shelton I shall have a new one installed for you free of charge."
"Who did you say?"
"Ant, everyone calls him that. It's short for Anthony."
"Well please tell your Ant I await his call."
"Thank you. You're so kind Mrs Shelton."
Sophia smiled, cutting the call and saying, "You lying bitch."
The guy standing at the door was too young to have fallen into the slovenly ways of men."
"God Ant, how old are you?"
"Eighteen Mrs Shelton," Ant said, eyeing Sophia's impressive bosom. "Could you be gentle with me? Mom described you as the terror of English Oak Avenue when it comes to anyone demanding service."
"Oh your mother remembers me. How lovely. Please give her my kind regards."
God he looks so clean-cut and smells so wholesome, Sophia thought, standing aside and telling the young suited blond to enter. She pushed forward involuntary and his arm scraped over her breasts, bouncing.
"Oh I do apologize for bumping you."
"It's fine Ant. You have a lovely touch."
"Huh?"
