In the meantime, the handyman would no doubt be sneaking back for his toolbox…
Steve contemplated throwing a sickie and lying in wait for the bastard. He was feeling pretty fucking rough and so would not be lying if he did call in sick…but, deadlines were looming in his office and there had been gossip in the canteen recently about a possible restructure.
Restructure.
The one ‘R’ word which inevitably led to another -
Redundancies!
Steve was still weighing up the pros and cons of taking the day off when his thoughts were interupted by a knock at the door.
The fucker!
Steve yanked open the door, right fist already swinging, but instead of the maintenance man, it was the woman from the sales office who nearly got her nose broken.
“Shit!” He quickly pulled his punch. “I’m so sorry – I was expecting someone else.”
The sales woman took a step back, her initial shock at the incoming ball of knuckles quickly subsiding as she took in the sight of Steve standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his white boxers.
“Oh…hi, Steve, “ her face flushed beneath her make-up, “sorry to call so early. Umm…did Jonny – the handyman - come round and sort your floorboard out yesterday?”
“Oh, he came round alright. Did fuck-all about the floorboard - but cracked the shit out of my bedroom wall as he fucked my slut-wife senseless!”
Jonny? The man was approaching retirement age and wasn’t exactly Casanova – even she wouldn’t go there to fulfill her needs…
“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Jonny.”
“All I know is that when I got home from work yesterday, my whore-wife was in bed, the wall behind the headboard was cracked to shit, the squeaky floorboard still fucking squeaked and ‘Jonny’s’ toolbox was dumped on the bedroom floor - as if he had left in a fucking hurry.”
Slut-wife. Whore-wife.
Clearly ‘trouble in paradise’ - the words were like music to her ears.
“Well…the funny thing is – nobody’s seen hide nor hair of Jonny since yesterday morning. You say he left his toolbox here but didn’t do the job?”
She gently pushed through the doorway, desperate to know if the slut-whore-wife was in residence.
“Perhaps Sam knows what time he left? Is she…here?”
“Nope, the cheating bitch has left for work already.”
The sales woman’s eyes lit at the confirmation that she was alone with Steve, swallowing hard as she steeled herself to take the opportunity presented to her. “Well…I can’t do the job with the squeaky floorboard-“ she took a step closer to Steve, looking him in the eyes as she spoke, “but there is another job I can do for you…”
She grabbed his crotch, skilfully unbuttoning his fly while dropping to her knees.
What the fuck is she doing?
Steve’s initial shock was immediately quashed as he felt her warm, wet mouth wrap around his flaccid penis, the woman retracting his foreskin, her tongue expertly working at his exposed glans.
Oh, Christ…she is good!
Sam was useless at blow-jobs, only ever taking him in her mouth if he begged her to – never volunteering to pleasure him of her own accord. Even then, he could tell she wasn’t into it, her lack of enthusiasm, quite literally (or not), sucking all the enjoyment out of it. The sales woman, on the other hand, was slurping away for all she was worth, moaning her pleasure as she slid her lips up and down his rock-hard shaft.
Fuck it! , he thought, if his wife could fuck the janitor, he could fuck this middle-aged trout.
Momentarily slipping himself from her hot maw, he led her through to the bedroom, lying back on the end of the dishevelled bed, directing the woman to kneel between his legs to continue her ministrations. With his eyes closed, he tried to remember the last time he’d had a blow-job as good as this…
*
Sam’s car indicators flashed orange as she pressed the ‘lock’ button on her key-fob.
Driving to work, her head pounding as bad as ever and the memories of Steve’s behaviour the previous evening tumbling over and over in her brain, her levels of concentration were poor. Several times her vehicle had wandered across the white lines in the centre of the road, oncoming traffic blaring at her, and, after a near miss with a truck, she had pulled sharply into a lay-by to calm herself down.
Despite the important meeting she had scheduled, she decided to phone in sick – in her current state she would be of no practical use anyway – and turned the car around, heading back home. Hopefully, the handyman would call in to finish fixing the squeaky floorboard and she could persuade him to call in again, after Steve got home, to explain why he had left his toolbox behind the day before, and why the wall was all cracked.
Entering Chillingworth Mews, the door closing smoothly behind her, she headed up the stairs to her apartment. As she approached, she noticed the front door was ajar.
Perhaps the handyman had turned up, she thought. Now she could try and get to the bottom of what happened yesterday and hopefully be able to straighten things out with Steve.
As she stepped into the hallway, expecting to hear sounds of hammering or other tools, her ears instead picked up the sounds of sexual pleasure: female moans and deeper, male groans.
Groans that she recognised.
Bastard!
She was immediatley gripped by an intense rage, storming into the bedroom, her anger filled eyes greeted by the sight of the sales woman’s head bobbing up and down on Steve’s crotch. The sight sickened her to the core but it was the noises the pair were making that finally tipped her over the edge: her husband’s gutteral groans of unadulderated pleasure tearing out any sense of rationality from her
