Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories)

by Aria Hawthorne

  “Yes, and you fixed my furnace. Thank you.” It was the nicest thing Susan had said all morning.

  “But still you are not happy?” Cozma watched as she lowered her eyes and her ice queen guard. He continued to stare at her, his blue eyes tracking her frown.

  Susan shrugged. She wasn’t happy, and there was no point in lying about it anymore, not even to Slavic Sir Speedy.

  “I can make you happy,” Cozma said, lowering his voice. “Just once. If you want.”

  Susan heard his offer like an echo murmuring through her mind, and she was simply unable to react fast enough. Before Susan knew it, he was there, in front of her, close enough for Susan to smell the scent of aftershave on his neck.

  “I’m getting married, tomorrow,” Susan uttered, like it was a request for mercy. “Really, I think you should go…” she managed to say without conviction.

  “Tell me to stop, if you want me to stop,” Cozma said, softening his hard accent, his hand slowly traveling down the back of her skirt. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the touch of his forearm encircling her waist.

  Susan didn’t tell him to stop, even though she was certain that it was a bad, bad, bad, bad idea. A horribly bad idea that really, really, really, uuu-hhhhhhh… really felt good. He was petting her now, stroking her backside with the force of his palm, his nostrils exhaling hot breath against her string of pearls.

  God, why did he have to have such strong hands? Susan imagined his veins bulging as he worked on loosening her backside—the same way he worked on loosening the humidifier nozzle nut. For christsake. He was a furnace repair man. She was a six-figure pharmaceutical sales associate.

  “I’m getting married tomorrow…” she repeated, attempting to resist how good his fingers felt pressed against her ass. But Susan wasn’t resisting. She was relaxing with every breath. He could feel her giving in. “Don’t you care that I’m getting married? I mean, doesn’t that make you think less of me?”

  Susan was always worrying about whether or not people were thinking less of her, and she was worrying about it now, just as Slavic Sir Speedy slipped his hand up her corduroy skirt.

  “Yes, I care very much,” he said, dropping his mouth down her neck. “And it’s probably the reason why you are driving me so crazy.” His hand whisked up the smooth texture of her nylon stockings.

  “Oh, my…oh, myyyyy-igh…” Susan exclaimed. His fingertips had burrowed deep between her legs, and they began rubbing the soft pouch of her panties. She had never driven any man “so crazy” before, and she was having a hard time denying Cozma the pleasure.

  He continued to massage her bulge, circling over the sensitive part of her crotch. Her nylon stockings stretched tight over the protected crevice he wanted most. She pressed her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, and he dropped to his knees, his chin snaking down between her breasts. Cozma unfastened the first three buttons, then kissed the silky exposed cups of her padded bra. He was breathing hard now, harder than before, and his fingers were moist with her excitement. Susan thought about the fact that she hadn’t had time to get a bikini wax in over a month, and now, Cozma was fondling the pillow of her public hair bunched under her satin panties. She was driving him crazy, her nylon stockings preventing him from entering her.

  “You’re teasing me…” he whispered, consuming her padded bra with full-mouthed kisses. But really, he was the one teasing her. She clenched both his shoulders, hard and firm, and dropped her head forward, trembling.

  “Oh. My. God,” she exhaled, spreading her legs wider, letting him rub deeper between her nylon lips.

  “Please, just a little bit,” he begged. “I must feel you, just a little.”

  Susan shuttered with anticipation as he flipped up her skirt, like a corduroy umbrella, and embraced her right nylon buttock with his rough palm. His left hand moved to the front of her belly and stripped down the waistband of her stockings, slowly, deliberately, towing them down her thighs. Her stockings clung above her knees, and her smooth pink panties were now exposed. Cozma kissed the dark bulging shadow, trapped underneath the wet satin, and savored her scent. Susan glanced down, waiting, hoping, praying for him to remove her panties. But he didn’t, even though it was what she wanted, and he knew it. She tugged him forward, her thighs quivering, desiring the bare touch of his fingertips. She needed him, wanted him, expected him to slip his fingers inside her, but Cozma held back. He was making her wait for it.

  “Tell me how to fix all your problems,” he said.

  Susan could barely speak. She gushed with excitement. She needed him to relieve the tingling, throbbing sensation between her slit. “I want your fingers…deep inside.”

  Cozma obeyed, and inched the tips of his fingers between her lips.

  “Deeper,” Susan quivered.

  His fingers entered her—deeper. Susan moaned with relief as he stroked her pink satin backside with his other hand.

  Oh, god, yes… Susan dangled her arms along her thighs. “More,” she whispered.

  Cozma obeyed. This time, he penetrated her with two fingers, and Susan’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, god. Oh, god, yeeeeeeesssssssssssssssss.”

  Tremors vibrated inside her. They were tremors that sex with Stan never produced. Cozma could feel her changing, and he wanted more from her.

  “I want to hear you make noises,” he insisted. “I want to hear you whistle.”

  Cozma’s fingers probed a pleasurable spot inside; it made Susan gyrate.

  “Ahhhhhh-hhh—” The vibrations grew stronger and stronger. “Ahhhh-ahhhhh-yeeeeeeeeeeesssss!” Susan dug her fingernails into his shoulders, and spread her stance wider apart, allowing Cozma to push even deeper inside with his fingers. There was no holding back.

  “Oh, god, god, god. Y-E-S!” Susan wanted the neighbors to hear how much she loved her furnace repairman.

  Cozma shifted his other hand down her buttocks, drawing back the pink elastic liner over her left cheek. He slid his palm under her panties and slipped his hand into the crevice of her backside. It was a naughty maneuver, but one that seemed so natural, so necessary. He explored her anus. She had never let anyone stimulate that part of her before, and with every taboo caress, her muscles contracted, then relaxed with a sharp thrill.

  “I want you to feel it,” Cozma coaxed her. “I want you to feel it, and I want you to whistle for me.”

  Susan was always an overachiever and she could not disappoint Sir Speedy now. She wanted to whistle for him, she would do anything for him.

  “A whistle,” Cozma encouraged with a whisper. “A whistle.”

  Susan pushed his head down towards her crotch, letting go of everything. She felt his tongue replacing his fingers. He was tasting her now, tasting her juicy nectar, tasting how much he had pleasured her. She clenched her jaw and exhaled through her teeth, raising her arms up with an uninhibited squeal.

  ZZZZZZZeeeeeWWWWWeeeeeeeeeeet! ZZZZZZeeeeeeWWeeeeeet! Susan sang out as her whole body convulsed with ecstasy.

  And there it was. Susan was whistling—just like her furnace. And indeed, Slavic Sir Speedy had fixed two problems for the price of one.

  Tommy

  Chloe Patterson was the devoted wife of a physician and the mother of two beautiful children. She lived in Rolling Meadow Hills, the newest development within her affluent suburb. She carpooled her two children in her silver jaguar to their private schools. She went to the hair salon for a professional manicure and pedicure every week. And her husband, Mel, bought her two dozen red roses every month to celebrate their loving marriage of eleven years. Chloe had the perfect husband, the perfect children, and the perfect home. There was little more any woman could have wanted, except perhaps a new leather sofa and a designer alligator skin hand bag. And even those things, Chloe could buy herself without having to ask permission from her husband. It was an ideal life, except for one thing—Chloe was unhappy. And unlike her friends who recited their problems to their psychologists after their Tuesday morning massages, Chloe
knew no amount of therapy was going to change her disillusionment with her vacuous, idle routine. She was trapped in a role that no longer gave her satisfaction: she was a stay-at-home mother who had grown bored with staying at home.

  It wasn’t a boredom that rushed into Chloe’s life one night and strangled her without warning. It was a dull, polluting sensation of apathy that smothered her like a blanket, suffocating her emotions and numbing her mind. She had grown bored with making school lunches in the morning and cooking family dinners in the evening. She had grown bored with folding laundry to the white-noise drone of mundane day-time TV. She had grown bored with her children’s elementary school homework and ironing her husband’s suit shirts. She had grown bored with the predictability of her role as wife and mother, and the predictability of her future. And she had begun to resent the fact that everyone around her assumed that she was happy with her mundane life because she smiled more than she complained.

  Her friends and family assumed that because Chloe was a studio art major in college, she would be happy as a stay-at-home mother. It wasn’t as if she had a real major or gave up a real career, so why would she have aspirations beyond car-pooling her children and redecorating her newly-purchased suburban home? No one suspected that Chloe secretly yearned for even more in her life. Instead, there was only the assumption that she should feel nothing but gratitude. Before she married Mel, Chloe was hopelessly broke. In fact, they met her husband while working as a night shift waitress at the local Stake ‘n Shake and putting herself through art school. Mel was a medical school student from a wealthy family who loved chocolate malts, especially the ones made by the sassy waitress from Buffalo, New York. He never had much aspiration in his life—except to marry Chloe—who cracked her gum when she smiled and made his shakes extra-malty. Growing up rich meant that Mel had never gone without. But Chloe had grown up without; she knew what it was like to yearn for something that she couldn’t have. And although Chloe didn’t marry Mel because took her on beach resort vacations in Hawaii and wine-tasting getaways in Napa, she certainly didn’t mind being treated to the finer things in life. But Chloe was almost forty now. Splurging on designer shoes and lavish jewelry was certainly an entertaining distraction from the banality of her housewife routine. But Chloe wanted more from life than shopping sprees.

  Now, as an affluent housewife and suburban mother, Chloe rarely felt motivated to achieve goals beyond laundry and grocery shopping, parent-teacher meetings and neighborhood play-dates. At least when she was young, she had been driven to obtain the unobtainable. When she was poor, every day offered Chloe a new challenge that she had to overcome—whether it was scraping together enough spare change for the bus ride to school, or washing her clothes in her bathtub because it saved her two dollars at the laundry mat. Every day offered a new way to test her resourcefulness and prove to herself that she could have anything she wanted—not because she could afford it—but because she had worked harder than anyone else to earn it. There was no possibility of returning to her industrious youth—life as a single, struggling studio artist, never knowing what tomorrow would bring. She loved her husband and children, but she knew she had lost herself somewhere along the way. She had chosen her comfortable roles as wife and mother, trapped within a lifestyle of luxury. And no matter how much money Mel made from his pediatrician practice, it would never fill the void that Chloe was yearning to fill now. Amid her meaningless routine of housework and errands, Chloe felt trapped.

  Trapped, trapped, trapped, she thought as she tapped the spoon against her coffee mug, and then began mindlessly stirring it again. Chloe was still in her robe, struggling to muster up the motivation to take a shower and face the day, which like her house, promised to be empty and lonely and wearisome. It was the neighbor’s turn to drive the children to school, and Mel had early morning patient appointments. Suddenly, the sonorous doorbell echoed off the cathedral ceilings of her foyer. Her spoon clattered against her mug. Chloe had forgotten that she had arranged for carpet delivery and installation for her daughter’s playroom. It was the last thing that Chloe would forget about that day.

  Chloe rushed to the foyer. She briefly peered into the mirror. She was a wreck. It didn’t matter. It was just carpet installation, not a job interview. But she was still in her robe. Chloe hesitated. The doorbell rang again. Chloe started up the stairs, as if she thought she could change and make it back downstairs in warp speed. Instead, she simply whisked open the door, and suddenly felt regret when she was seized by his gaze. Sharp. Strong. Steady. Attractive.

  “Hello. Delivery for a Mrs. Patterson?”

  The delivery man reference a pink work order while balancing a two-hundred pound roll of carpet across one shoulder. Mel could barely even carry their daughter slung across his shoulder, Chloe thought. It was fleeting observation, petty and unrelated. Chloe felt ashamed, then insecure. She closed the folds of her robe, tighter. He was staring at her, unwavering, unflinching, waiting for her to welcome him inside.

  “Oh, of course, of course, come in, come in…” Chloe pushed open the door and swept herself across the foyer. “The bedroom is upstairs.”

  He nodded and accepted. “I’m Tommy. I’ll be installing your new carpet today.”

  He was young, younger than Chloe. She suddenly caught herself staring at Tommy’s chest, specifically the two loose buttons on his workman shirt, which exposed his smooth bare skin.

  “We should go up to the bedroom,” Chloe said, assessing his blue eyes and strong hands. “I mean, the room for the carpet, of course. It’s upstairs.”

  Tommy stopped to wipe his feet on their place mat. “Should I take my shoes off?”

  Chloe glanced at him, disarmed by his politeness and his boundless ocean eyes. She looked away, replaying his question in her mind.

  “No, of course not. But thank you…”

  But Tommy wasn’t convinced. He surveyed the plush white carpet that flowed up the staircase like snow drifts, and immediately kicked off his sneakers. He wore no socks. His bare feet were sunbathed and pristine. Later that evening, while she was making dinner for her family, Chloe reflected on the fact that Tommy’s manners—and his manicured feet—were likely the reasons why she agreed to let him seduce her.

  “The room is upstairs. I’m sorry you have to lug that thing all the way up there.”

  “No problem.” His gentle blue eyes told her there was no need to apologize. With an upwards shrug, Tommy shifted the carpet roll, redistributing its weight. Chloe was certain he could stand there—balancing two-hundred pounds across his shoulder—for hours.

  Then his gaze settled onto her face. He scanned her nose and cheekbones, as if he was noticing how beautiful she was. Chloe had always been naturally pretty—her own mother’s Swedish profile mixed with her father’s Mediterranean complexion. But after the kids were born, the men had stopped noticing. Even Mel had forgotten to mention how nice she looked whenever she took the time to put on make-up and wear something other than yoga pants. It was one of the many reasons why she always wore the same sweat shirt every day and rarely bothered to put on lip gloss.

  “I’ll show you the room,” she said, suddenly wishing she had taken a shower.

  Chloe started up the staircase, then peered down at Tommy as he jetted up the staircase with ease. She noticed how the muscles in his neck and arms flexed, and how his white cotton shirt stretched tighter across his back. He followed her to her daughter’s playroom, where he flung down the roll of carpet and waited for instructions. Her daughter’s toys had been boxed up, and removed the night before. Only the old carpet remained—a stained history of the last six years of her daughter’s life, a greasy chronicle of Lucy’s affinity for splattering apple sauce onto the carpet in a temper tantrum and smashing wax crayons deep into its fibers. Tommy noticed the stains.

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

  Chloe nodded. “Two kids. Two too many,” she forced a laugh.

  “You don’t look old enou
gh to have two kids.” His serene blue eyes lingered on her face a little longer than usual.

  “Some days, I prefer to pretend that I’m not…” She said it with a nervous laugh, which formulated an awkward moment of silence between them. They were alone in the house. The emptiness confirmed it.

  “And you? Kids?”

  “Nah,” Tommy said, kneeling down to measure the room’s dimensions. “Not even a cat or a dog. Too busy to be committed like that.” Tommy jotted down a few measurements.

  There’s no girlfriend, Chloe thought, then felt her own cheeks flush.

  “I’m putting myself through night school,” he offered, unclipping his tool belt from his hips. His wore blue uniform service pants, but his blonde hair, white shirt and bare feet made him look more like a beach resort bartender.

  “Oh, really? What are you studying?”

  “Art History,” he noticed the surprise in her face. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just because I was an art major, too,” Chloe adjusted her ponytail, letting her long black hair fall to her shoulders before swiping it back up again. “French Impressionism.”

  “Monet, Renoir, Cézanne, Pissarro,” Tommy confirmed.

  “Yeah, Pissarro. He’s my favorite.”

  Tommy nodded. “I noticed your Pissarro in the hallway.”

  ‘That’s funny. Most people just think it’s something my oldest son painted. What about you?”

  “Twentieth-Century American Realism.”

  “Oh no! That means we can’t be friends,” Chloe joked.

  “But we can respect each other…mildly,” he smirked.

  Chloe relaxed the folds of her robe. For a brief moment, her bare neckline hinted at the fact that she was naked, and she felt certain Tommy noticed it too.

  “This just pays the bills and gets me out of the house. Plus, I get to meet a few interesting people.” He flashed a confident smile.

  “I tried to put myself through school way back when,” Chloe offered, attempting to be more interesting. “I worked at a diner as a waitress during my first year of college. Night shift. But then I got married.” Chloe fiddled with her wedding band. “I never finished college. I wish I had.”