The Gas Man’s Visit
The autumn air in my small town was biting, the kind of damp cold that seeped into your bones. For weeks, the streets had been torn open, a chaotic symphony of jackhammers and orange cones as the utility company installed new gas lines. I had watched the crews from my window, but it wasn’t until they reached my house that my curiosity turned into something more visceral.
When the doorbell rang, I opened it to find an engineer and a laborer. The worker was a striking man—tall, olive-skinned, with a rugged physique that strained against his blue company shirt and worn denim jeans. After the engineer finished the inspection and departed, leaving us alone, the air in the house seemed to thicken with an unspoken tension.
The laborer spent some time in the kitchen, crouching beneath the sink to secure the piping. As he worked, he looked up at me with a smirk. “This town is freezing,” he remarked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “I’m more used to the heat.” I replied that the rain here was relentless, but our conversation was merely a prelude. As he stood up, he instinctively adjusted himself, and the heavy outline of his manhood was unmistakable against the fabric of his jeans.
I couldn’t help but stare, my breath hitching in my throat. He caught my gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You like what you see?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave. Before I could answer, he stepped closer, taking my hand and guiding it firmly against the heat of his bulge. “I can give you exactly what you’re looking for,” he whispered.
The heat between us ignited instantly. With a swift motion, he lowered his zipper and released himself, revealing a thick, impressive length that left me breathless. He didn’t waste time, commanding me to kneel. I obeyed without hesitation, my lips closing around him, savoring the salt and musk of his skin. He groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding my rhythm with an intensity that pushed me to my limits.
Driven by a sudden, desperate need, I stripped off my clothes and pressed my chest against the cool surface of the kitchen table, arching my back. He lubricated himself with a finger, teasing my entrance until I was whimpering for more. Then, with one powerful thrust, he filled me completely. I let out a sharp cry, a mixture of shock and pure pleasure, as he began to drive into me with a violent, rhythmic passion.
“You’re so tight,” he gasped, his breath hot against my neck. He shifted my position, lifting one of my legs high and pinning me to the table. The friction was electric, building toward an inevitable peak. With a final, guttural roar, he surged deep inside me, filling me with a warmth that seemed to radiate through my entire body.
He remained still for a moment, savoring the afterglow, before slowly withdrawing. He watched with a smirk as his seed escaped me, trailing down my thighs. After a brief, silent moment of shared intimacy, he cleaned himself and me with a cloth, dressed quickly, and finished his work. He left without leaving a name, disappearing back into the cold autumn mist, leaving me breathless and longing for a ghost.