Blue House Blowout

The scent of sawdust and damp earth hung heavy in the air as I approached the blue house, its skeletal frame still raw and unfinished. It was a strange place, this construction site, a collection of exposed studs and half-installed windows against the darkening backdrop of the encroaching dusk. My wife, bless her independent spirit, had insisted on accompanying me, a silent, supportive presence by my side as I surveyed the scene. She wore a loose-fitting summer dress, a deliberate choice, I suspected, to emphasize the lack of modesty in this burgeoning project. And, as I soon discovered, a lack of clothing altogether.

“Just a sec, I have to change and then I’ll be ready to go with you,” she said from the bedroom, her voice laced with a playful challenge. It was an invitation, one I couldn’t resist. I’d extended the offer of assistance on numerous occasions, framing it as a civic duty, emphasizing the importance of our community’s future, and conveniently highlighting her value in this endeavor. But she'd always brushed me off, offering excuses about helping her daughter with homework. Tonight, however, she’d relented, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I hitched up the dog, a scruffy terrier mix named Buster, and waited outside for my lovely assistant. An hour or so crawled by, punctuated by the distant rumble of construction equipment, gradually fading as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. As I turned the corner onto the street, the stillness of the evening settled over us, broken only by the rhythmic panting of Buster. And then, she emerged, clad in a pale blue dress, a confident smile gracing her lips.

“I thought I might assist you with your appointed duties tonight, Inspector,” she grinned, taking my hand. Her touch sent a jolt through me, a familiar thrill that always accompanied her presence. I noticed a slight lack of structural integrity in her upper carriage, a subtle indication of her readiness for pleasure. As we walked alongside each other, my hand instinctively moved, its grip tightening on her waist.

“I’m not wearing anything under this dress,” she whispered, her voice a husky invitation. The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken desire. My arousal intensified, my senses heightened by the anticipation of what was to come. A wave of heat washed over me, my member growing taut and demanding. I knew then that this inspection would be unlike any other.

“Well…that will definitely help the inspection process immensely,” I stammered, trying to regain my composure. My initial shock quickly morphed into a wave of overwhelming lust, an urgent need to explore the limits of our shared pleasure. I looked around quickly, ensuring that we were alone, unseen by any prying eyes. Then, with a decisive movement, I unbuckled my tool belt, my shorts falling to the floor as I slipped out of my briefs, straining under the weight of my eagerness.

As I lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the smooth expanse of her skin beneath, I confirmed her words. There was no need for priming, no need for hesitation. Her surface was perfectly receptive, ready for my touch. Reaching up, I gently cupped her breasts, feeling the firm swell of her nipples against my fingertips. It was a potent signal, a clear invitation to proceed. The still night air felt suddenly hot and charged, the scent of pine and damp wood mingling with the primal scent of arousal.

My member surged forward, plunging into her eager embrace. She arched her back, her hips swinging as she welcomed my entry, her body trembling with anticipation. I held her firmly, feeling the powerful rhythm of her breathing against my chest. The world narrowed, focusing solely on the exquisite sensation between our bodies.

“My father always told me to make sure that all your nails are pounded in securely,” she murmured, her voice laced with playful challenge. The thought of her father, a man of steel and unwavering principles, added another layer of intrigue to the moment. I responded with a primal groan, letting out the raw desire that had been building within me.

As if I needed any further encouragement, I leaned in, tracing the curve of her entrance with my middle finger. Her soft, silky cornice responded with a shiver of pleasure, confirming my suspicions. Looking over her shoulder, I noticed a slight hesitation in her gaze, a flicker of vulnerability that only intensified my desire.

“Just pound me,” she commanded, her voice low and insistent. The words were a release, a permission slip for the unrestrained pleasure that awaited us. The remaining protocols were instantly discarded, replaced by an overwhelming urge to explore every inch of her body.

I gripped her hips, pulling her closer, her scent intoxicating, her touch electrifying. As I pushed deeper, she arched her back further, her muscles tensing with pleasure. Her hand instinctively reached up, grasping a vertical 2x4 and bracing herself against the wall, her feet spread wide for balance. The exposed studs and unfinished walls provided a stark contrast to the raw passion unfolding before me.

With my legs weakened by the exertion, I leaned heavily on her, our bodies locked in a desperate embrace. She responded by arching her back even further, pushing her rear end into my grasp, her breathing ragged and rapid. The feeling was exquisite, a symphony of sensations that left me breathless.

As I withdrew most of my timber, pulling it back into my tool belt, she moaned, her body trembling with pleasure. Reinserting the 2x8, she arched her back again, her hips thrusting against my thighs, creating an even more intense sensation. The creaking of the 2x4s served as a soundtrack to our shared delight, a testament to the power of our connection.

She looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. "I think we nailed this inspection," she whispered, her voice barely audible. The words were a declaration of victory, a confirmation that we had successfully completed our task.

Without being prompted, I unwrapped my arms from around her, my member popping out as I shifted my weight. A single bead of cum dripped from my tool, a salty testament to the intensity of the moment. My assistant quickly turned, kneeling down, and took my slippery tool into her mouth. Her lips and tongue worked with practiced efficiency, removing all remaining fluids with swift, decisive movements.

She straightened, her body radiating heat and pleasure. As I planted a hungry kiss on her salty lips, she said, “I think we nailed this inspection.”

The scent of sawdust and damp earth still hung in the air, but now it was mingled with the intoxicating aroma of arousal, a reminder of the passionate encounter we had just shared. The blue house, once a collection of raw materials and unfinished dreams, now stood as a monument to our lust, desire, and explicit pleasure.

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