My First Time with the Plumber: A Steamy Awakening in the New Bathroom
In the half-built bathroom of our overcrowded house, that May Wednesday changed everything. Kids at school, husband at work, workers gone. Just me and him, the plumber with the broad shoulders and quick smile. I’d tossed all night, dreams tangled with pipes, hot jets, wrenches. Him upstairs, alone, muscles flexing under his shirt. Heart pounding like a drum. I slipped on that short sundress without thinking. Sun begging for bare skin. Made tea. Offered him a cup. Innocent, right? No ambiguity. He accepted, mentioned dropping his kid at school. We chatted. Normal.
I climbed the stairs in a fog, tray dodging paint cans, tools everywhere. No table, no chair. Just the sink ledge. He lay on his back, tinkering below. ‘Set it down, one minute,’ he said, eyes up from below. I gestured helplessly. Then, playground dare: I straddled his chest, dress pinned to my thighs with my free hand. Heart slamming ribs. His face flushed crimson. ‘Don’t fuss, I’ve seen panties before.’ His hand grazed my calf, slid up my thigh. ‘Even taken a few off…’
The Approach
I jumped back, tea spilling. Burned like fire. ‘Sorry, can’t help it. Skirt that short, you’re teasing.’ Blame shifted, but my pulse raced wilder. ‘Not the intent, just the order…’ He laughed. ‘Right, let’s do it proper. Great tea—what’s left.’ He wiped the spill. ‘I always give a quick sweep before leaving. Broom, I mean.’ I giggled, nerves cracking. His hand brushed my waist. ‘Light fabric. For the sun?’ Fingers tugged. ‘This okay now? In order?’
No retreat. He pulled me close, lips brushing soft, then hungry, tongue invading. Lifted me like nothing onto the sink edge. ‘Better here. No bending—except for these.’ Straps down, pink nipples hardening under his tongue’s swirl. Thighs parted around him, his rough hands kneading inner flesh, stopping at panty line. Breath ragged, mind screaming: dream? Joke? What am I doing? One arm scooped me up, other yanked panties down. ‘No fabric bullshit. I know my way.’ Kneeling now, my feet on his shoulders, thighs splayed wide. First tongue flick: shock, then bloom. Open, blooming like sun-warmed petals. Fingers joined, probing new depths. I cried out, electric.
The Instant
‘Take me,’ I whispered. Ignored. ‘Take me!’ Louder. He rose, fished condom from pocket. ‘Always prepared?’ ‘Gut feeling.’ Belt unbuckled slow—torture. I popped buttons, grinned at his wet boxer stain. Real want. Rolled it on, stroking firm velvet shaft. Wanted to taste, but ache too deep. He thrust in—unfamiliar angle, situation. Vertigo hit, limbs tingling, body hijacked. Waves crashing, cries echoing off bare walls. Clit throbbing, slap of skin. Heat built, familiar crest: yes, YES. He sped, groaned, synced. Collapsed together, joined, panting. He ditched the condom in the new toilet he’d hooked up yesterday.
The Trace lingered like smoke. Innocence shattered, adult world unlocked. No regret, just electric hum. Skin alive, secrets mine. He zipped up, casual: ‘So, the faucet—thermostatic or mixer?’ I laughed, breathless. New horizons gleamed, plumbing forgotten.
