The refrigerator was a simple fix after all. It turned out that the water line to the icemaker was blocked with algae and once I blew it out, the device worked like a boss. Who was next on the schedule?

I stared incredulously at the contact that popped up on my tablet: Mrs. Claire Blaylock, 10011 Windy Wood Lane. It seemed that the pilot on Mrs. Blaylock’s gas water heater would not stay lit.

Oh, I’d heard about Mrs. Blaylock, alright. According to the stories, she called for a technician every few months, supposedly to service a balky appliance but actually in need of a little servicing herself. I had thought the wild tales farfetched and privately doubted that Mrs. Blaylock even existed, but here she was, next on my list. I chuckled as I clambered back into the van and the thought occurred to me that no matter what sort of servicing Mrs. Blaylock required, I had the right tool for the job.

Dirty sex was what the guys said Mrs. Blaylock liked. She’d pretend to be shy and reluctant when what she really wanted was a guy to tell her what to do, to make her do nasty things, things a respectable lady would never do.

I was a little fuzzy on what those things were, though. What was dirty sex, exactly? I certainly had no experience with it – not because I wasn’t interested, but because my wife was a prig with a broomstick up her butt that thought anything other than missionary position was disgusting and that sex itself was something to be tolerated, not enjoyed. We had been virgins when we met and, at first, I thought her inhibitions would fade with experience. But they had, if anything, become more rigid. So rigid that she would only allow sex on Sunday mornings between 7:45 am and 8 am.

Any earlier and I, “wasn’t letting her sleep.” Any later, and there wasn’t time before getting ready for church. If something interfered, I had to wait another week. If I approached her any other time, it was, “All you think about is sex!”

She wasn’t wrong about that. Bitterness rose in my gorge like acrid choking smoke. I had tried everything to turn her on, anything to excite her, but always – always – her response was the same: Leave me alone! Something had to change.

10011 Windy Wood turned out to be a beautiful little stone-façade Victorian two-story with green trim perched among limestone boulders on the edge of a steep hillside in one of the trendier new subdivisions in Huntsville. I slung my tool bag over my shoulder and navigated the winding narrow walk to the front door. Not bad. The Blaylocks obviously had a comfortable lifestyle and maybe Mr. Blaylock never even questioned why his appliances needed such frequent attention. Perhaps if he paid a bit more attention to his wife his repair bills wouldn’t be so high.

I was taken aback by the lady that answered the door. According to the talk around the shop, dirty sex was what the lady on Windy Wood liked, but this pleasant, friendly woman seemed far from the type that got off doing nasty things. It just goes to show you that appearances can be deceptive. Now, me - I’m a sweetie. I never talk rough to any woman and always treat them with the utmost respect, but if this lady liked to walk on the wild side, I could be accommodating.

I pulled the burner assembly out of the water heater and, as I suspected, the thermocouple was corroded and needed to be replaced. It was no more than a ten-minute job.

Mrs. Blaylock was full of praise at the speed of the repair and made my head swell with compliments as she wrote out the check. If the guys in the shop were right, I was pretty sure what was coming next. Something like, Could you stay for just a few minutes more? I have something else that I would like you to help me with! My dick stirred in my pants. Maybe I could speed this along a little. I looked her directly in the eye.

“You know, women are a lot like water heaters, Mrs. Blaylock. They need their pilot lit to warm them up gradual, but when it’s time for the shower you have to kick up the gas!”

She looked up startled. “I… I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, Mrs. Blaylock. Let’s not beat around the bush. Why don’t we try your shower now? I guarantee you – it’s going to be hot!”

“My shower?”

Her mouth was goggling like a fish. Oh, she was good at acting all innocent and naive, all right, just like the guys said. If I hadn’t known better, dirty sex would have been the furthest thing from my mind, but as it was my prick was getting stiff. Before she could say a word, I firmly propelled her down the hall with my palm in the small of her back. She was squawking something in half-hearted protest, but I didn’t pay attention because I knew it was all part of the game.

We went directly to her master bath. “Turn the shower on, Mrs. Blaylock, and let’s make sure things get hot and wet!”

She was about to say something, but turned obediently and started the water running. She bent over the tub, pointing her nicely toned rump right at me. I immediately grabbed her hips and pressed the swollen lump in my pants into her crack. Mrs. Blaylock squeaked and tried to turn, but I had too firm a grip. She was trapped between me and the bathtub.

“What are you doing?! Stop it right now! Let me go!”

I was warming to my role. “Do you know how pretty you are, Mrs. Blaylock? Can you tell how horny you make me? I’ve been thinking about this all day, about making you cry out with pleasure.”

“What!?” she sputtered. Then, quieter, “What are you talking about? I’m not pretty.”

“Not pretty? Mrs. Blaylock. You are gorgeous! What a body you have! Slender and firm with perfect tits and - this ass!” I gave her bottom a smack. “When I saw you bent over just now poking out that bootie, I almost came in my pants!”

I grinned to myself. This dirty talk thing was fun. I hoped I was doing it right because, Lord knows, I didn’t have much practice.

A range of emotions seemed to flash across Mrs. Blaylock’s face. At first, I thought she was disgusted, then furious, then it seemed like longing tugged at her eyes. She had gone very still. Was it my imagination or was she pushing her butt back tighter on my cock? Her voice was small.

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I cupped my hands over her breasts and sought the hard pearls of her nipples, like tiny secrets she’d hidden away, and rolled them between the thumb and forefinger of my calloused workman’s hands. Then I followed the curve of her waist and around the delightful swell of her butt and trailed the backs of my hands up the inside of her thighs, over her crotch and up the crevice dividing her buttocks. “This is what I’m talking about, Mrs. Blaylock. Exploring you. Discovering your hidden delights. Uncovering the you that’s really you. I need it. I need you.”

“I don’t even know you!”

I chuckled knowingly. “Oh, you know me alright, Mrs. Blaylock. How long have you dreamed of me while you sat in this big house all alone and wished – prayed – for a real man to come and sweep you off your feet? A man that appreciates the care you take of your body and knows exactly how to lead you to ecstasy. Someone to break into the suffocating humdrum of your life and whisk you off on a magic carpet ride of sensual adventure. Someone who can free the dirty girl that lies trapped inside that cocoon of respectability!”

She stood frozen and I thought I heard a soft choking sob. God, she was good. Time to ramp it up.

“Or, maybe I’ve misread you, Mrs. Blaylock. Maybe you’re happy with your life. Maybe you enjoy the stifling sameness of ironing clothes and cleaning toilets and cooking supper and taking care of everyone else’s needs without a second thought for your own. Maybe your husband is supportive and attentive and blows your mind in bed. Maybe your family is appreciative of the sacrifices you make to be a homemaker instead of pursuing your own dreams and ambitions, your own fulfillment, your own pleasure. Maybe you don’t need an adventure. Maybe I should just pack my tools and leave.” With that, I straightened my clothes a bit and made as if to walk out the door and out of her life.

“Please don’t!” Mrs. Blaylock pleaded in a weak little voice.

“What’s that? Speak up, Mrs. Blaylock. What do you want?”

“I… I… don’t know what I want.”

I wondered if she practiced this little fantasy in front of the mirror, she was so convincing.

“I know what you want, Mrs. Blaylock. You want someone to pay attention to you. You want someone to set you free. You want to feel alive. Isn’t that right? Say it, Mrs. Blaylock. Say, ‘I want to feel alive.’”

With such quiet fervor that I knew it came from the depths of her soul, Mrs. Blaylock whispered, “I want to feel alive.”

“Say, ‘I don’t want you to go.’”

She hesitated for a long moment, then, as if crossing a final line, said, “I don’t want you to go.”

“Say, ‘I want you to fuck me!’”

She looked at me full of fear. “I... I can’t say that!”

“You can’t say what, Mrs. Blaylock? You can’t say that you want me to fuck you?”

“I can’t say that word. I’ve never said that word. Not out loud.”

“If you want me to stay, Mrs. Blaylock, you will say that word. You will say, “I. Want. You. To. Fuck. Me.”

She hung her head and I could tell she was struggling mightily. Finally, she whispered, “I want you to... fuck me.”

I relaxed. “Well, then, Mrs. Blaylock. What happens next? How should we start your great adventure?” I steered her out of the bathroom into her bedroom where we fetched up next to the bed.

“Not here,” she pleaded. “I sleep with husband here. My children were conceived here. I can’t do it in our bed.”

“You can and you will, Mrs. Blaylock. And afterwards, when you’re lying in this bed and that husband of yours tries to worm his pathetic noodle into your reluctant cunt, you’ll remember what it’s like to be well-and-truly fucked by a real man, and the memory will make your pussy drool. A nice girl would never fuck a strange man in her husband’s bed, but you’re not a nice girl, are you Mrs. Blaylock? Oh, sure, that’s the mask you wear for the world to see, but beneath the mask is a dirty girl eager to escape, longing to be free. It’s time to stop pretending. Now- strip!”

With a spark of something in her eye, she slowly began unbuttoning her blouse. When she was naked, I stood her before me for examination.

I gasped. Lots of women have blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, but she had azure eyes so crystal clear that you could see rivers, oceans, the world through them. Chestnut hair, radiant and shining, swished with every move she made. My eyes locked on full, round breasts that had clearly been sculpted by God and not a cosmetic surgeon. The tips swept saucily upwards, topped by rosy nipples begging to be kissed.

They were perfectly proportioned to her slender body, soft but firm. Her tummy was trim and her skin clear and unblemished, a perfect canvas for the neatly trimmed brown tuft at her groin sparse enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of a pink furrow cleaving puffy lower lips.

She shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes. “I shouldn’t be doing this. My husband...”

Immediately I swatted her naked butt. “Forget your husband. It’s much too late for that. Undress me.”

She timidly unbuckled my belt, opened my jeans, pulled them down my legs then grasped the waistband of my boxers and tugged them down over my rigid shaft. It sprang free and snapped up to slap my belly.

Now, I’m not the biggest guy around, but I’ve never had cause to be ashamed in the locker room either. Mrs. Blaylock was transfixed, staring at my manhood.

“Oh, my,” was all she mustered, “It’s so big!”

God, this woman did wonders for my ego! I flicked my erection, making it bounce. “This is Mr. Johnson,” I announced solemnly, then cupped my balls. “And these are the Twins.” I held out my right nut. “This is Danger.” Then my left. “And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly.”

She smirked. “You named your testicles?”

I shrugged. “I named my prostate, too, but it doesn’t get out much.”

She guffawed, and the tension was broken. She melted into my arms and I stooped to kiss her. At first, her lips didn’t move, but suddenly she kissed me back so hungrily that I nearly stumbled backwards. My tongue dueled hers, exploring her mouth and hers mine until finally, gasping for air, I pushed Mrs. Blaylock to her knees and smacked her face with Mr. Johnson. She recoiled reflexively, but I grabbed her jaw and thrust my cock at her mouth.

“Suck it,” I commanded.

She kneeled on the bedroom floor before me, body tense and eyes closed.

“I... I don’t do things like that.”

“Suck it!” I ordered again more firmly, and nudged her lips with the tip of my cock. She was too far gone to refuse and opened her lips the tiniest bit. My cock was rigidly, throbbingly, astonishingly hard. With a groan, I slipped the swollen, bulbous head smoothly into her wet, warm mouth.

She held it there, as if unsure what to do.

“Haven’t you ever sucked a cock, dirty girl?” in my best imitation of a snarl.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. So, the game was, she was a poor, naïve innocent girl ravaged by a powerful, aggressive man. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she wasn’t even acting except that back in the shop the guys had all marveled at how this woman could suck cock.

“Use your tongue!” I demanded. “Lick the furrow under my head. And do it like you mean it!”

She tightened her lips and her tongue flicked the underside of my erection. I twisted my fingers in her hair, guiding her this way and that, hitting all the right spots. God, I never imagined being sucked off felt so good.

“You dirty girl,” I growled, and thrust hard into her mouth, making her gag. “Stroke my shaft and play with my balls. Do it!”

She complied, and the sight of her hand pumping my erection stirred my loins. She gained confidence and soon the pressure in my groin began to crescendo. I was close. She knelt on the floor with her legs spread, and I was standing between them. I pushed deep into her throat, then deeper until she began to sputter and fall back. I continued to push, gently knocking her over until she had to prop herself up with her arms. I had to withdraw before I burst, because I wasn’t through with Mrs. Blaylock yet.

She had the most gorgeous pussy, hair neatly trimmed, symmetrical lips open like a flower, her furrow glistening with arousal. I moved my foot forward until my toes grazed her labia, then pushed my big toe as deep as I could into her slick sheath. If once I had doubted that Mrs. Blaylock liked it dirty, I became a believer when she began thrusting her pelvis, impaling herself on my clenched toe and moaning loudly. I don’t think anything has ever turned me on so much.

“You like to pretend you’re respectable, don’t you Mrs. Blaylock? But that’s not who you really are - just once you’d like to be a slut, nasty and daring. What do you fantasize about when you play with yourself? You do play with yourself, don’t you Mrs. Blaylock? Don’t you?”

“No! Of course not! I… I mean…”

“Say it, Mrs. Blaylock. Out loud. Say that you masturbate while pictures of strange men doing dirty things to you flash through your mind, things like putting their big toe in your cunt. And don’t act like that word shocks you. You don’t have a vag, or a honeypot, or a hoo-ha. You have a cunt. Say, 'When I play with my cunt, I think of men doing dirty things to me.' Say it!”

It was barely a whisper. “When I play with my cunt, I think of men doing dirty things to me.”

I pushed my toe further into her, causing her to moan in humiliation and arousal. God, she was wet. “Why do you do such things, Mrs. Blaylock? Tell me why!”

“I’m a dirty girl,” she mumbled

“What? Say it louder so I can hear!” I nudged her again.

“I’m a dirty girl.”

“Spread your legs, dirty girl, and let me watch you rub your clit.”

Her fingers tentatively strummed her engorged nubbin, until finally she sighed and began to rub in earnest. I moved my toe in circles around her entrance, thrusting as far as I could into her while she grunted and moaned.

"Get on your knees, dirty girl. On the bed, face down and ass up.” I almost shot off at the sight of her puffy swollen lips, moisture running in rivulets down her thighs. I wondered if she had ever before been so aroused.

Then I don’t know what came over me. I was going to lick her pussy from behind, but the sight of her crinkled pink anus winking open and shut as tremors coursed through her body stirred a secret desire of mine and I just went for it. When my tongue touched her butthole she jerked but did not resist while I ravished her bottom and lapped fiercely at the dark orifice hidden within. Soon she was squirming and arching her back, pushing back onto my questing tongue. Sex surely didn’t get dirtier than this!

Finally, I wormed my middle finger deep into her rectum and began to thrust in and out. She gasped, “Oh!” but made no move to stop me. “Do you like my finger in your butt, dirty girl?” I whispered in her ear.

“I’ve never... never let my husband... do that to me,” she said between grunts.

“But you’ve wondered about it, haven’t you, Mrs. Blaylock? Maybe you’ve stuck your own finger into your asshole just to feel what it was like. Have you done that, dirty girl?” A crimson blush bloomed on her cheeks. “And you liked it. Admit it, dirty girl. Tell me that you like my finger in your ass. Say it! “

“I... I like your finger in my ass.”

“Tell me how good it feels. Beg me to push it deeper!”

“Oh, please. Deeper. Push it deeper.”

I pushed until my knuckles rested on her crinkled sphincter. Her fingers danced nimbly over her clit.

My wife had never let me touch her back there. I savored the power. Had the other guys done this to her? If so, she was making a good show of it being her first time.

My cock was so rigid it felt like it might burst. I pushed the rubbery mushroom of my glans into her vagina and began to thrust in time with my finger in her rectum. I could feel her reaching her climax and I almost stopped because I didn’t want it to end.

I whispered in her ear, “You’re hungry, aren’t you Mrs. Blaylock? Hungry down to the core. Craving for rescue from this life-sucking hell. You long for passion, romance, for someone that will take you places you’ve always been scared to go.”

I thrust hard, slow, and deep with every phrase. I don’t know what made the change, but suddenly Mrs. Blaylock gushed wetness and she shuddered. I could feel the muscles of her vagina ripple and flow and still the liquid came. I tangled my fingers in her hair, pressed a palm to her neck. When she pushed back, hard, I thrust again, and was gone, off into a careening nowhere.

Maybe we were striving for the same thing, pursuing a soaring, agonizing fulfillment that had eluded us for our whole lives, but now it was close, so close, almost within our grasp. I gasped in wonder, lost in myself, soaring with Mrs. Blaylock towards bursting oblivion.

"I’m going to come in you, Mrs. Blaylock. I’m going to shoot my sperm deep in your womb. Are you ready? Here it comes!”

I gave one more thrust, as deeply as I could push, and held frozen, striving to hold on longer. Then with a guttural groan, I released a flood at the gateway to her womb. As she felt the warm wetness of my spurting sperm, she began to quake all over and came and came and came until we both collapsed on the bed, my slowly shrinking dick still deep in her body.

God, what a fuck!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“How did it go today, Charlie?”

Scott was about my best friend around the shop. We’d hunted and fished together, and he was the one who’d told me the wild tales about the lady on Windy Wood Lane.

“Dude, I had a service call on Windy Wood Lane today. A lady out there needed some help getting her fire lit.”

Scott guffawed and clapped me on the back. “I told you that lady was hot for it, didn’t I? Give me the low down!”

“I ain’t that kinda guy, Scott, old buddy. Let’s just say that the next time Mrs. Blaylock needs some service work, she’ll know who to call!”

Scott frowned. “Blaylock? Who’s she? The lady I’m talking about has the name of Brock. 9729 Windy Wood, right?”

Oh. My. God.