Mira's husband was an inherently calm and tidy man, and he got a great deal of satisfaction from his work. He could relax fully when he was at home or on vacation -- oh, how the man could tune out the rest of the world, the noises, the little voices, the household tasks -- but in general, he worked long, hard, important hours in the city. And so, Mira "chose" to work part-time from home at her small supplemental job and make sure she was there to bring the children to school, pick them up, get them where they needed to go, and generally meet their needs all day every day.
Then there was the housework. Though she cleaned and organized and put away and washed and dried and sorted and threw away as much as she could every day, actually, the house still was never really clean. He never said so directly (he never said anything directly), but she could tell he was impatient about the clutter and disarray, that despite his mellow demeanor, he judged her harshly for not being able to keep a neat house.
Just this morning, he had sighed, quietly but unmistakably, when he had to move a stack of library books to get to his commuter case. "Babe, do we have to keep these here? Maybe you could find another spot for them?" he said, waving a copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" in her general direction. He was also inherently passive aggressive. "You know, when you have the time? Okay, see you later... Oh, hey, no red meat for dinner, remember? Trying to avoid it. Love you."
Ugh, she really did need to clean, and she hated that the needed to clean. Mira looked around at the chaos, the endless piles that sprouted up like weeds without her even noticing, the dishes piled up in the sink. This had been a particularly busy week at her little job, and the children had been irritable and unruly and fighting on the way to and from soccer and all the time, and she hadn't been sleeping well so was a bit extra dreamy, and then, of course, of course, the dishwasher had broken on Monday and she had avoided washing the dishes for three days. She despised washing dishes by hand, the endless soapy boring repetition of it. It was her least favorite task, and always made her feel depressed.
Looking around at the mess, shame motivated her, as it often did. So, after she made the lunches, got the kids to school and picked up some chicken to marinate for dinner, Mira worked all morning to fold and put away the laundry, vacuum the downstairs, sweep the piles of seeping clutter into the catch all drawers, and yes, move the library books. It was past noon when she glanced at the clock and realized she could no longer put off doing the dishes. She put on an apron over her sundress and slogged her way through this boring job, her mind wandering and whirling around as she worked.
She thought of the list of things she still needed to do... thought of the afternoon's schedule: pick up the kids, take them to soccer, help them with their homework, make dinner, slog through bedtime and rinse, repeat... she wondered if the cute little sundress she was wearing would be suitable taking the kids to their soccer game, or if it was it too revealing, too sexy for soccer mom duties... She put it on this morning, with no bra and her silkiest underwear, along with a frilly apron, to help motivate her to clean. She loved feeling sexy and subservient if she had to do domestic chores. It made the task easier, somehow... the feeling of her nipples brushing against the fabric, the way the silky undies brushed her pussy as she moved through the house, the way the apron contained her. It made her feel... servile, focused and somehow vibrant and alive, despite her boring tasks.
She recalled how earlier in the morning, while folding her husband's clothes and putting them into his drawers she saw again the neat stack of well-worn porn magazines stored there beneath his boxer briefs -- he didn't watch videos of porn on principle, something about privacy and exploitation, but these almost vintage magazines were his go-to if he needed something to get him going. She usually didn't give them much thought, but this time on impulse, she had pulled one out and began to page through it. ...A beautiful, curvy women lying naked on her back. Legs spread to show her glistening pussy. A young man with his hands on his enormous erection watching two women kissing, touching, licking each other. Then, several pages featuring a fully clothed man and a short haired woman sporting a strap-on forcing a long haired, blindfolded woman onto her knees before them. Tying her up at the wrists and ankles. Forcing her mouth open and taking turns easing and then cramming their dicks, one flesh and one silicone, down her throat...
Mira swallowed hard. The thought of being that helpless, that vulnerable, legs and arms bound, doing whatever her captors wished to do to her made her head swim. She felt her gut stir with want, her pussy pulse and contract, her face flush... Burning with desire and shame, she had hastily shut the magazine, thrown it back in the drawer and gotten back to her morning chores.
Remembering those images, over the dishes, she started to feel her pussy pulsing again. She shook her head to focus on the repetitive task at hand, but her mind continued to wander... She thought of the last time she had sex with her husband (speaking of repetition). She appreciated her husband's cock, an elegant and reliable instrument, but their sex rarely varied from the usual - what she thought of as The Old Faithful routine. After a year or two of youthful enthusiasm, her marital sex life had gotten predictable, dull, monotonous. Now, after 12 years together, it was down to once a week every Sunday night, after she put the kids to bed and showered and shaved her pussy the way he preferred it.
He liked Mira to initiate, call the shots in bed. He didn't want to overstep or make her uncomfortable, he once said, and though his underwear drawer magazines were full of kink, he never, ever tried to bring that into the marital bedroom. If anything, she suspected he might want to be dominated, the way he sometimes responded when she took control, but he never spoke of it to Mira. He never spoke during sex at all. They each knew what would make them cum, and they did that, without talking, the same way in the same order, every time. Sometimes she faked her orgasm, just to cut to the chase. Their sex life wasn't terrible, but she wanted something... More? Deeper? More intense? She didn't have enough experience to articulate or even know what she really wanted, but if she had to put words to it, she might say that she craved being fucked so profoundly that she became both fully herself and someone she didn't recognize at all.
As she vigorously scrubbed the children's little plastic breakfast cups and plates, her nipples brushed against her dress, tightening into sensitive points... she let her mind wander into another fantasy ... she was on her knees, her hands tied tightly behind her back, a tall, dark figure standing above her. The figure grabbed her hair with one strong insistent hand, and pried open her mouth with the other, forcing a giant cock down her throat deeper and deeper. Mmmff. She struggled to take it all, tears streaming down her cheeks...
Standing at the sink, she wiped her soapy hand on her apron, reached up under the skirt of her sundress, pushed the crotch of her undies aside and dipped one, then two fingers into her slippery pussy. She used her juices to slicken up her hard little clit and rubbed circles around the enflamed knot, feeling herself unspool with pleasure. Her legs shaking, she braced against the sink with her free hand, closed her eyes and imagined...those strong hands pulling her head deeper onto that cock until it was all the way in, and she had no choice but to be a little slut and submit to her mouth and throat being fucked. Fucked hard. She rubbed hard and fast, circled harder and faster, feeling the waves of the biggest cum she'd felt in years begin to crash over her, whimpering in anticipation of the release - when the doorbell rang.
Shit.
Reflexively, she pulled her dripping hand out of her pants, surprise and guilt interrupting her impending orgasm. Shit. Shitshitshit. It was 1pm. She forgot (she forgot!) that her husband had made an appointment with the handyman to come fix the dishwasher today. Shit. Sighing, she wiped her pussy drenched hand on her apron, put on her pleasant smiling face, adjusted her dress and rushed to the front door. Her clit ached and her sex oozed with each step, soaking her undies, feeling the near miss of the interrupted release; she could feel her nipples hard under her dress and hoped they weren't too noticeable. She took a deep breath and opened the door for the handyman.
There, standing tall and wide-legged in a patch of sun at her doorstep, stood the most stunning woman Mira had ever seen. She was broad shouldered and muscular, wearing a plain white tshirt, jeans, workboots and sunglass, with tan, smooth skin and powerful hands. She put down her toolbags, one black and one red, ran her strong hand through a short cropped tangle of black hair, and raised her sunglasses to reveal big brown eyes fringed with long lashes, eyes that looked both warm and fierce at the same time. A trickle of sweat ran down the woman's sinewy neck as she locked those beautiful, wicked eyes on Mira's for more than a moment, then said with a half smile, "I'm Jaz from MsFix. I'm here to fix your problem."
Mira stepped back, her face flushing with the heat and with the powerful presence of the handywoman at her front door. Why had her husband chosen this company, Ms.Fix, obviously a niche business with only female identifying workers? Maybe, she mused, he worried about a handyman coming over while he was at work, and thought a woman would be a safer choice? Mira's first impression of Jaz didn't include anything resembling safety. Her eyes lingered on Jaz's hands, powerful, strong, with short nails and long fingers. They were the most exquisite things Mira had ever seen. Her mind flashed to those fingers filling her mouth, her wet pussy, her tight little asshole. She blushed and shook her head. What the fuck was wrong with her?? She was really losing it. She snapped back to reality.
"... Nice to meet you, Jaz. I'm Mira. Please, come in. Forgive the mess."
Jaz shrugged, picking up her toolbags, one red and one black, and entered the house with a swagger.
"Messes don't bother me. I've seen it all."
"I bet."
"Mmmhmm." Jaz stopped, facing Mira, a little too close. "So, what are we doing here? What needs fixing?"
"Um," Mira swallowed. "The... dishwasher? Is broken. Here...let me... um, show you the... Kitchen."
Mira led Jaz into the kitchen, past the fridge covered with the children's drawings and family pictures, and the dishes in progress by the sink, towards the broken dishwasher. The handywoman followed slowly and deliberately behind Mira, who had the distinct sense that she was being looked at, inspected-- a thought that sent a jolt to her pussy. She turned around and briefly met the tall woman's gaze before gesturing to the dishwasher.
"Here it is."
"Ooh, that's a fancy model."
