The Electrician’s Compensation
My husband and I had just moved into our dream home, a spacious property that required a significant amount of modernization. Among the contractors we hired was Julian, the electrician. He was everything my husband wasn’t in the bedroom: rugged, tanned, with broad shoulders and a quiet, commanding presence. Every time he came over to finalize the automated lighting systems, I found myself flirting with him, my gaze lingering a little too long on the way his work shirt strained against his chest.
Julian was divorced and single, and the tension between us had become an electric current of its own. I craved him, desiring the raw power I sensed beneath his professional demeanor. I feared he might finish the job and vanish before I could taste him, but fate intervened when a payment dispute arose regarding the expensive automated components we had ordered.
My husband was trapped in a business meeting, so I rushed home to handle the situation. Julian explained that the payment for the custom devices was overdue and he would have to uninstall them if the balance wasn’t settled. Desperate to keep the installation and eager to finally have Julian to myself, I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper. I promised him that if he covered the cost from his own account for just one day, I would compensate him in a way he would never forget.
He didn’t hesitate. Once the transaction was handled, the professional facade crumbled. I dropped to my knees right there in the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I freed his massive, thick member from his trousers, marveling at its size before taking him into my mouth. I worshipped him with a hunger that had been building for weeks, my tongue swirling around him while he groaned, his hands gripping my hair.
The heat in the room spiked. I stripped off my clothes, exposing my body to his hungry gaze. Despite being a mother, I had kept my curves tight and provocative, and Julian looked at me as if I were a feast. We collided in a blur of desperate kisses and frantic touching. He pushed me against the central kitchen island, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin of my thighs and clitoris until I was sobbing with need, begging him to fill me.
When he finally entered me, it was a revelation. He drove deep, hitting the back of my womb with powerful, rhythmic thrusts that left me breathless. He lifted me onto the counter, wrapping my legs around his shoulders to gain even deeper access. I screamed into the quiet house, my walls clamping around him in a series of crashing orgasms.
As he reached his peak, I remembered my cycle and whispered a frantic request. I guided him toward my backside, using some hand cream as a makeshift lubricant. He slid into my tight heat, dilating me completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a different kind of intensity that pushed me over the edge once more. He groaned loudly, emptying himself deep inside me, a flood of warmth that left us both trembling and spent.
We lay there for a moment, sweating and breathless, the silence of the house returning. He tenderly cleaned me up with some paper towels, a small gesture of intimacy after such a primal encounter. As we dressed, he told me I was the most intense woman he had ever met. Though our schedules eventually pulled us apart, I will always remember that afternoon—the day I truly inaugurated our new home.