I. Rebecca Needs Some DIY
An unaccountable Friday morning was rare, although becoming less so, with my eldest son at college, my middle son at work, and my youngest finishing high school. No time to sleep late, home projects took precedent.
The kitchen was clean and the first load of laundry was in the washing machine--churning. The to-do list wasn't long: beds, bathrooms, vacuuming and trash. Eyeing the list, it was clear the job most in need of attention wasn't on it. I was avoiding. Two weeks ago, I installed a new towel rack, leaving two holes in the wall where the old rack resided.
I was confident, but also self-aware. My do-it-yourself skills were minimal. After talking with one of the consultants at Home Warehouse and buying a drywall repair patch kit, I went home to watch a couple of online videos. The process seemed straightforward.
I followed the directions from the videos and those printed on the patch kit insert. I was creating a perfectly good mess: clumpy spackle, poorly filled holes, and an ever-growing white splotch. Damn. I knew what was next. I swallowed my pride and called my ex-father-in-law, Jim.
Jim was a retired contractor. Years in the business, knew everyone local, built most of their houses. His skills were learned on the job, no college, but he was licensed, insured, and recommended. A nice man. No, that's not true. He was nice if you were male, but a loud, crass, sexist if you were female. He stopped trying to hide that he was staring at my tits ages ago and I was able to dissuade him from grabbing my ass during the divorce; now he just gawked freely.
I explained the situation. He agreed to stop by after lunch.
I took out the trash and was vacuuming, dressed in a dirty, worn, and mostly see-through T-shirt. Work mode. The sound of his truck was particular. I heard him in the driveway. It wasn't quite 10 am.
I opened the front door and told him I'd just be a minute. Entering the bedroom, I shed my clothes as if they were toxic, and replaced them with a clean LSU jersey and sweatpants. No bra, no time. An oversized jersey was every large-breasted woman's best friend.
Back in the living room, Jim was rather pleased with himself, almost giddy. If his early arrival was designed to irritate me, it worked. But he was doing me a favor, so I shouldn't complain. Still, arriving early had disrupted my flow, my cleaning chi.
I was also on edge, which was typical when around Jim. I was waiting for an inappropriate and sexist exchange. He was never overtly rude to me, but I saw him treat other women poorly, so I waited my turn.
"Shouldn't take no time," said Jim. "Patch it up; sand and paint it later. Easy as fallin' off a log."
I followed him toward the bathroom. The side window came into view and the reason for his smugness became apparent. The sun was rising. The window had turned reflective. He could see directly into my bedroom.
"Let's see them holes," he said with a pompous smile, examining my less-than-handy work. "No problem, I can take care of you. Fix ya right up. Don't worry, first time through is always a challenge." He pushed his fingers into each hole and removed some debris.
Jim reached behind me for the spackle and rubbed his body against mine. Grrrrr...whoa! What was that? He moved back to the patch and, fuck, the old man had...things were going on down there in his pants that shouldn't be. Retreating, I stepped out the bathroom, down the hallway to the laundry room, and moved some clothes from the washer to the dryer.
I returned to the bathroom, ready for the repair. He indicated it would only take a few minutes.
"Holy fuck," I said. "What the hell?"
Jim said, "Junior ain't got one of these, missy." He was groping himself. "As his old man, I'd know."
He was standing naked in the bathroom, waving his cock at me. He had a long fatty. My ex had nothing like that--just the opposite. My ex would make me cum every now and then, but almost by accident (it always surprised us both). It was in my second year of marriage that I discovered rabbit vibrators. What a night that was; I damn near destroyed my clit.
"Both of my son's ain't got much between their legs. Skipped a generation, I guess."
I froze, my mind catching up. "What the fuck are you doing?" His cock was almost fully hard and dangerously large. He showed no embarrassment or reticence at being naked, on the contrary, what I saw was pure conceit and sleaze.
"Just following your lead. You showed me your tits and ass, least I could do is return the favor."
"I did not." I took a step back to the bathroom door. He matched my step, his cock swaying. "I never--"
"Changing in your bedroom where you knew I could see you. You ran back there just to show me. No need to be embarrassed. We all got needs. I'm sure I can meet yours."
I said, "I've got no needs," taking another step back. "That was a mistake." My voice shook. His head was oversized and his shaft was hefty and hard. Damn near perfect; just how I like them. "I don't tease."
"We'll see about that. You got some knockers, honey." Jim closed the distance and squeezed my tits. "Big ol' titties. Look at these things." He shook them from side to side.
I was watching a movie. Distant and separate. "You shouldn't be doing that." Words were slow. His audacity and cock mesmerizing me. "Stop playing with my tits." Fucking hell, my nipples hardened. My speech was rote, automatic. I was saying what I was supposed to say, but there was strange detachment, no intensity or urgency.
"My son ever satisfy you? Of course not. You'd think a firefighter'd know better." He pushed his hands under my jersey, cupped my free-floating tits. "So, fucking soft. A girl with hooters like these, I'm sure you've been banged by some good ol' Christian boys over the years, eh?"
He kneaded and pulled on me. He was right. His son never did satisfy, but other men, some of his son's friends, had me screaming. Since our divorce, I was making up for lost time, but not all men knew how to handle that.
Jim's big cock and dirty talk had me angry and aroused. Fight or flight... or fuck. He tapped into a deep-seated river of emotion and insecurity. I loved men gawking and groping my body. It was mischievous and improper, and made me feel wanted--I was a bit warped that way.
"I think I need to..." Brain freeze. My mind was indignant. My body was on fire.
"Feel that sweet cheeks?" He took my hand and wrapped it around his cock. "That's what a real man feels like." He made sure I gripped his cock. "That's what you need."
Definitely not right. Just wrong, plain wrong. My pussy dampened. Everything was moving so fast, too fast. He only arrived a few minutes ago and now he had me holding his cock, which was hard and thick and inviting. He was twice the size of his son, maybe more.
"If you don't mind me sayin'," said Jim, "you look like you need some country boy to bend you over," he pinched my nipples, hard, "and drive you to church."
"Ouch!" His mauling felt better than it should. He pushed me back, off balance, ripping my jersey up and over her head. "Not so fast," I said. "Good lord." My tits bounced uncontrollably, much to his pleasure.
He said, "These are ripe." Renewing his assault. "You know you got 'fuck me' written all over you, right?" He slapped each tit.
"Ouch!" I said, again.
"Men must be steppin' all over their dicks to get in your pants."
