There's something rather lovely about having a man about the house, isn't there? Not permanently, of course, they do have a tendency to get in the way. But every now and then, I appreciate the presence of a nice, strong, musky-smelling man. Ideally the silent type. And ideally working for me.
In fact, I love these kinds of men so much that I've had bathroom work done twice in the last few years, just so I can get my builder around. I won't tell you his name, that would be uncouth. And besides - I'm not a fan of sharing.
We'll give him a pseudonym: Alex.
Now Alex is exactly what I picture a builder to look like: strong, wiry, tanned in that rugged way that you can tell comes from working outdoors. Forearms you just want to run your tongue down and nipples that are visible through a thin cotton vest. Lovely. The first time he attended me, I genuinely needed his help: there was a leak in the roof and half the plasterboard had collapsed while I'd been out on the town. I came home to find sodden plaster and a good quantity of the attic dumped in the bathtub. I found his number online, gave him a ring, and he dutifully arrived the next day ready to clear up, fix, carry, repair, and generally rescue me from having to deal with the horror.
He was terribly shy when he arrived, and I remember he called me 'missus', which I liked. I thought 'missus' had gone out of fashion along with landline telephones and video-tape pornography, but there you go.
On that first visit, he was almost entirely silent throughout. Just a grunted 'no thanks missus' when I offered tea, and the occasional muttered comment on how things were progressing when I popped my head round the bathroom door.
He did all of his talking with his eyes: watching me as I walked round the house. Dropping his gaze to the open neck of my dressing gown then looking away again quickly. Standard fare, of course, but he was either not confident enough, or too polite, to actually doanything about it.
Lucky for him I'm more proactive. I asked him one evening if he'd like to join me for a drink once he'd downed tools and he grunted out a 'yes.' So we sat together in the conservatory – him sweaty and dusty and smelling just ripe enough that I knew he'd done a hard days' work, me fragrant as ever, wearing an incredibly tight skirt cut so far up my thigh he could be under no illusions that I wanted him to look.
Some might have thought it awkward: just the two of us sitting side by side, sipping our drinks in silence. But awkwardness only ever rears its ugly head if you let it. I was having a wonderful time: drinking in the sexual tension and shifting in my seat so he could get a look at just how wonderfully tight my clothes were, clinging to every ripple and bump that he wanted to run his big, rough hands all over. I took the time to get a good look at him, and in that understood that he was allowed to look at me: let his eyes roam up to that v-shape at the top of my skirt, and the opening of my shirt... and wonder if he was allowed to touch.
I won't bore you with too much of this one – it's not really the headline story. Suffice to say that by the end of the evening he realised he was allowed to touch, but by that point, time was getting on and I had to be elsewhere. I left him to pack up his kit and let himself out, nurturing quite possibly the thickest erection I'd seen so far that month. Events conspired to prevent me from being available the next day, and by then sadly he'd finished his work. So I paid him his fee, plus a hefty tip, and immediately started browsing catalogues for a new bathroom suite so we could finish what we'd started.
I am not one to waste time.
He was slightly less shy when he arrived for the second round – still called me 'missus', which was delightful, but this time he went so far as to accept my offers of tea and stare openly at the way my nipples pressed against the fabric of my blouse. Once he even stuck his head around the door of my bedroom while I was having tea in bed – asking if it was OK to turn the boiler off or something, but clearly after something a little more. I could see his cock pressing firmly against the crotch of his jeans, almost fully hard and clearly hoping to be invited in.
So I decided to set a little scene.
The reason I like men about the house is that I like to watch them: I want to sit back in a comfortable chair and just soak in the way he moves. The way he lugs boxes of tiles or smooths cement. I like hearing the way he grunts when lifting heavy things, or the occasional expletive if he hurts himself while doing something I've asked him to do.
Oh, sex is fine of course, but I get most of my thrills from observing. You can call me a voyeur if you like, and even a pervert if you must, but don't forget what they say about people in glass houses throwing stones. Whatever you choose to call it, you should know that there's no greater thrill for a voyeur like myself than the joy of watching someone masturbate.
I left something erotic playing on the TV in the bedroom – shortly after he'd popped in to see me that morning with an erection so hard I wanted to squeeze it tightly in my hand. I thought he looked like he was in the mood, and I didn't give a fuck about how quickly the bathroom got re-tiled, so I thought I'd see if he'd be interested in a little fun.
I left the video file running, with the sound just loud enough that he'd hear muffled moans from where he was working and come in to take a look. Then I dressed in my tightest skirt, complete with latex top so clingy it pressed my breasts up almost to my chin and sat on the armchair just inside the bedroom door.
Then I waited.
I'm very good at waiting.
He walked past the room once before he got up the courage to come inside. Just a peek through the doorway, then a blush and a quick grab at his crotch – I could tell his dick had twitched at the sight of me sitting there wrapped tight like a special gift, passively and calmly watching porn.
The second time he passed by he wasn't so shy. Perhaps five minutes had gone by since he'd had the first glimpse, but this time he strode into the room as if he'd swallowed a pint of Dutch courage just outside in the hallway. He walked in, looked at me with those eager, nervous eyes, and said 'can I join you, missus?'
I didn't want to ruin the atmosphere by starting a conversation. After all, we'd made it to this point without the need for too much chat. I pointed at the bed, and he sat down on it, eyes flicking between me and the porn … me and the porn … me and the porn.
He practically licked his lips, poor lad.
He started off just sitting opposite me on the bed, one hand pawing at his crotch like an animal at the zoo – rubbing the head of it through the denim of his jeans, positively aching to unleash it. I sat still, and watched him, smiling encouragingly every time he rubbed it harder. He stared mesmerised at the way the creamy flesh of my tits pressed against the hem of my top, and occasionally flicking his eyes back to the scene that was playing on the screen. I don't remember what it was – a threesome, probably. One of those typical porny films with two young, bouncy women and one grunting gentleman whose face you rarely see – only his cock looming into the scene to be sucked or licked, or to spear a squirming, squealing woman. Not my kind of thing, of course, but I've found it's a safe enough bet for seduction when I'm working with a man I don't know. The actors on screen were moaning, and I knew he was ready and eager enough when he let out an involuntary moan of his own.
'Ahhh' he murmured – shy as ever. Trying to choke back the desperation in his tone. I indicated that he should unzip, and then I pointed at the screen.
He got the message.
As he turned slightly to start watching the porn, I got the most delicious view of him in profile – the way he was biting his lip and swallowing out of a combination of nerves and desperate lust, as well as the beautiful image of his cock springing free when he unzipped his jeans.
He wasted no time in going at it – the muscles on his bicep swelled as he gripped his cock tight in his fist, and rubbed at it as he took in all that was happening on the screen. He paused every now and then to adjust – leaning back a little to show off the full length of it, or swapping hands briefly so he could use the other to pull his jeans down further and give himself more room.
At one point, after a swift two minutes that made me wonder if he was close to coming, he took his hand away from himself and took two steady breaths, squeezing his balls with the other hand as if to try and hold back the inevitable.
Once or twice he looked back at me, so I maintained eye contact and my 'go on you filthy boy' smile. I didn't want him to think I wasn't watching, but equally, I didn't want to get too involved just yet. As I say, the pleasure for me is mostly in the observation, and here I was busy trying to drink in every detail so I could remember it all for later...
The way his knuckles turned slightly lighter as he adopted a firmer grip on himself. The sound of rapid shuffling – shick shick shick – as he increased his speed to push himself to come. The way his Adam's apple would bob slightly as he swallowed just before he let out each little moan. The beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The sight of the head of his cock, dark and wet against the white of the bedspread. And – oh – his face. That delightfully masculine part-gurn part-sneer, the expression of one who is both urgently desperate to come yet slightly ashamed of himself for wanting it so badly.
Chasing that look is my addiction. I hope that face – or something quite close to it - is the very last thing I'll see before I die.
I didn't want to torture the poor boy for too long: once I'd captured the memory of his fucklust writ large upon his eager face, I could see he was in a bit of pain now. I'd been torturing and teasing him for too long, and all he wanted now was to spit his come somewhere pleasant – and quickly! He was rubbing at himself so hard now that I suspected the end was near, and the porn I'd thoughtfully put on the TV was coming up to the first of many climaxes.
So I thought to round it off I'd give him something extra to remember me by.
When he was fully engrossed in the screen, I slipped quietly off my chair and onto my knees on the floor. Soft and silent. I enjoyed the sensation of being enclosed tightly in my latex top, and the pressure against my breasts as I leaned over and started moving towards him. Soft carpet beneath my hands and knees, pressure restricting my breathing and emphasising the pounding of my pervy, voyeuristic heart... I crawled over to where he sat wanking frantically. He must have sensed some movement, but he acted almost entirely oblivious to what I was doing. Perhaps he had some notion of what was coming next.
And as he beat himself into a veritable fury of desperation, I crawled into his eyeline and made my final move.
I slipped my wet lips around his cock.
As my mouth closed silkily around the head, he stared down into my eyes with startled – and embarrassed – surprise. I kept my lips tight and sucked gently as he pumped five squirts of exquisite spunk right onto the tip of my tongue, blushing with embarrassment and satisfaction even before the final squirt was done.
He tasted like salt and sweat and dust and hard work. His face – I will never forget his face – was a mixture of shame and satisfaction, with a tiny hint of surprise. The kind of surprise that shows this has never happened before. Surprise that can't quite believe its luck.
When his balls were totally empty, and the blush had bloomed right down over his neck and chest, I stood up. I towered over him – for some reason he looked so small now, sitting down there on the bed. Like a lost little boy. I gave him what I hope was a reassuring smile, and – remembering my manners - I offered him a cup of tea.
“No thanks, missus,” he said. Then afterwards “I mean... thanks missus. For... you know.”
I do like a man who remembers his manners too.
I was thinking about him yesterday as I drew myself a nice, deep bath. Lots of foam and salts to make it smell heavenly. As I soaked in the water I remembered his face. And his eagerly-rubbing hands. And his 'thanks, missus.'
The new bathroom looks lovely, by the way...
Girl on the Net is a sex blogger and author who writes filth, feminism and funny stuff over at http://girlonthenet.com . She also makes audio porn – turning sexy stories into audio recordings to help make erotica more accessible to people with visual impairments (and also just because so many of us love a dirty bedtime story).
GOTN is also one of the co-organisers of Eroticon – a conference for sex bloggers, erotic writers and other sexily creative types held in London in March every year.
GOTN is a particular fan of powerful sex toys, BDSM, and anything that gives her that kick-in-the-gut of lust that she got the first time she ever snogged a boy.