I guess I must have grunted involuntarily, when I banged my head for the third time, on the waste-disposal unit under the sink. I wasn't aware of it, but I guess she was, coming into the kitchen to ask if I was okay?
I couldn't move easily, my right arm stuck up between the sink-bowl and the back of the cabinet, as I tried to fix the new faucet. Actually, I had fixed it, but it had been a bitch to complete, and now I'd cut my thumb on the bracket holding the waste-disposal as I tightened the last connector. The kitchen was only about ten years old, but the faucet had rusted into the steel bowls -- a double-unit -- which had caused me all sorts of trouble.
Of course, the suggestions on the instructions leaflet for the new faucet mentioned, in passing, that undoing the old one
"Might be a problem!"
No shit Sherlock! Of course, the schmuck who'd written this 'advice' possibly didn't know how correct he'd been; and, two hours lying on my back, under the sink, with a bunch of towels hopefully cushioning me, and taking some of the pressure off my aching back, had really told me that I was getting too old for this shit!
The Lady of the house had called me three times over the last few months to come and "repair" something that had gone wrong with her house-plumbing. It wasn't a hard thing to contemplate. Not only was she quite good eye-candy but she didn't seem to mind paying the charges, which, I must admit had been 'slightly' loaded. I guess she was about forty-ish, but, although not pretty in the accepted, glamorous, sense, she had an air of being in control of herself and -- to my mind -- oozed a latent sensuality which I'm sure she knew was effective.
My little head certainly thought so and I was right there behind him!
I'd met her husband Stan, about a year ago, when he'd called my then-employer to 'fix' some leaks in the female toilets of his company; although the offices were leased, the landlords took -- seemingly -- very little responsibility for their renters' problems, and he'd grown tired of his girls complaining about "stuffed up toilets" though, to some extent, it was their fault, as they threw god-knows what down the pans... After I'd cleared up their mess, he was apologetic and asked for my card. Since then. I had been called privately into his home, initially by him, and then subsequently, by his wife.
And, for seemingly random reasons.
The first time had been when he needed a water-line run into his 3-car garage; seemed he was an amateur photographer and had decided to use the third garage space as his studio for developing and printing his "art prints" as he called them. In my stupidity, I thought he was out shooting scenery or such-like! Hah! But that discovery was for later. The job was quite involved, and, subsequently, I ended up installing a complete dark-room, with framing walls, power lines, plasterboard sheeting, and running-water sinks and the various knick-knacks that photographers need.
What had started off as a small job earned me a few thousand bucks, which was a very pleasant surprise! Money didn't seem to be a problem and I got to know the house fairly well.
Oh.
AND
the housewife!
As I said, not glamorous in the accepted sense, she did have that subtle air about her; there's a French phrase --
Je ne sais quoi
-- basically
'I don't know what"
-- but, I often caught her smiling at me, seemingly for no apparent reason, but also bringing me coffee and soft drinks in the course of these various 'works' that I was undertaking. I guess -- actually hoped -- there was something more behind the friendliness, and with that, possibilities flew through my mind as we both went about our separate days. Of course, I also knew this was playing with fire. But, shit!
(
Well, you've been there, haven't you?)
Now, here I was, almost trapped under this damned sink, cursing and trying not to bleed all over the inside of the cabinet. I heard her come into the kitchen and vaguely was aware of her standing by my feet. "Are you okay, Matt?" I was beginning to wriggle out of the space, and ended up on my back, free of the cabinet, on the floor, and 'Oh Christ', looking right up her skirt. This, I thought, was fairly obvious, but she showed no sign of either recognizing this fact, or possibly she was even enjoying my discomfort!
I answered as I remained lying flat out. "Uhm. Yep. No problem here, though I've cut myself, but I've got some Band-aids in my tool-chest." I started to haul myself up, but she didn't move out of the way. Shit! The only way to move was outwards, slithering on my back between her legs, and further into looking up at her. She was smiling. Damn! She
KNEW
what I could see, and Damn again! She didn't have any underwear on! The lightweight summer dress consisted of material that you could almost see through -- now that I was looking -- and that was all she wore!
She leaned down. "Here. Let me give you a hand." And, she reached down to grasp my right wrist and assist me getting to my feet, which I did, but I have to say, more slowly than was needed. As I stood, we were inches apart.
Had I mentioned that she had this sensuousness about her? Well, gotta tell ya; this was coming through in spades! I had almost backed up against the sink cabinet in a stupid attempt to get away from her, but she stood firm and her breasts suddenly were "right there". Shit! What to do?
But she took things into her own hands. No decorous stepping back either. "C'mon Matt, you know you want to touch, don't you?" She paused as I gulped. "Well, I want you to touch them." Seemingly, her breasts thrust themselves at me, and I'm no bloody saint. You don't offer a man this kind of temptation without him reacting. I could see trouble on the horizon but, well, shit, what would
you
do?
