She felt certain that he had been flirting with her for the past few days while he painted her house. It was really nothing much more than warm friendliness, when she really thought about it, but there was always a slight glint in his eye when he was addressing her. And if she was honest with herself, she had flirted back a tiny bit, enjoying a little attention from the young, cute worker. It was all harmless fun. She hadn't even thought that much about him. True, she had come around a corner once or twice to find him up a ladder, and had taken an extra moment or two to enjoy a glance at his ass from below. But that was just a natural reaction to a situation she had no control over. And there was a moment in the kitchen where she felt sure she had caught him peeking down her tank top while he painted above the cabinets, but it was possible that was just her imagination.
It was not like she had been scantily clad or anything. Perhaps that tank top did show a bit of cleavage, if she was being honest with herself, but she hadn't worn it on purpose. She had not even thought about him when she got dressed that morning - or at very least, for nothing more than a passing moment or two. She had not made her decision to wear a revealing top solely based on the painter's presence. That she knew. Of course, she had known he would be in the house that day, so she was aware that he would see her in whatever she happened to put on...but in any case she felt fairly certain that she had not bent over the counter underneath him with the expressed goal of teasing him. Not consciously, anyway. And even if she had, she reasoned with herself, it wasn't really a big deal. It was all harmless fun. He probably hadn't even been peeking.
Not that she wasn't peek-able, she thought to herself. She knew she was still an attractive woman who garnered attention from men fairly regularly. Even with her husband seeming to have lost all interest in her as a sexual being, she still managed to have a fair amount of confidence in her appearance. At the moment she was dressed to go downtown to do some shopping, and the skirt and blouse she was wearing highlighted her curves in a far from unflattering way. But the painter was young, and even though his eye contact with her lingered in a way that felt intimate and made her feel flushed, she just assumed that he had an equally young girlfriend to occupy his mind...and any other parts of him.
He was upstairs, working in the hallway when she called out to him, "I'm heading out for a couple of hours - see you later!" "Ok", came the reply down the stairs. She opened the front door, her keys jingling in her hand, when she realized that she had left her wallet upstairs in the bathroom. She closed the front door again, and for a moment second guessed herself, spending some time rooting around in her purse for the wallet. Not finding it in there, she climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor, passing her bedroom on the way to the bathroom.
Her bedroom door was 3/4s of the way shut, a position that she took note of immediately because she never left it that way. Just before she passed the doorway, she caught a glimpse of the full length mirror through the crack in the door, and stopped in her tracks at the sight of the painter in her room.
For a brief moment she was flushed with confusion and anger, thinking perhaps he was rooting around on her dresser for money or something to steal. Her husband had at least 3 expensive watches on his side table, but from her vantage point, hidden behind the doorframe and looking at the mirror, she couldn't see his side of the bed. But before she could even fully form the thought that the painter might be trying to rip her off, she saw him gingerly open her lingerie drawer... and she started to feel something different than anger.
She knew she should still be angry. She suddenly imagined telling her girlfriends about what was happening in front of her, and she figured all of them would be disgusted and incensed. But as she watched him running his fingers through her silky and frilly underthings, she was feeling something she didn't even want to admit to herself. She was feeling aroused.
She stood perfectly silent and still as she watched him carefully touching her lingerie, totally absorbed by it. Despite the fact that her husband never even seemed to notice what she was wearing, she had a real fondness for fine lingerie, and she indulged herself by buying whatever she fancied. The drawer that the young man was peeking in contained a fine collection of lacy bras and panties, silk stockings, garter belts and other alluring garments.
She knew what was happening was wrong. She knew that the right thing to do was to throw the door open and kick him out of the house, but her mind and her body seemed to be at odds. At the moment she could barely breathe she was so excited, while the rational part of her brain was trying to ignore the tingling between her legs.
The painter delicately pulled a garment out of the drawer and held it up in front of him. It was a beautifully detailed corset with embroidered lace and ties up the back. She had bought it over a year ago with the hope of re-sparking some sexual flame with her husband, but he had barely taken notice when she wore it one evening. He had not even made love to her that night, if memory served. The corset had had no effect on him at all.
The same could not be said of the painter. He studied it intently, turning it over in his hands. He was holding it out in front of him as he stared at it, and she realized he was imagining her in it. He was thinking about her, standing in front of him... wearing it for him, and suddenly she wished she was. While she was imagining modelling it for him - perhaps getting his help doing up the string in the back - he let go of the corset with one of his hands. For a moment she thought he was grabbing his phone, but instead he rubbed himself through his pants. She took in a quick - and she hoped silent - breath. It felt like he had just run his hand over her pussy. The tingling she had been feeling was quickly intensifying, and she pushed her hand against the front of her skirt almost without thinking, needing at least some stimulation.