The dishwasher had been leaking for weeks and I finally gave in and called someone to fix it. He showed up earlier than expected, tall, quiet, maybe late thirties, with rough hands and that mechanic smell—sweat, metal, and a little smoke. I let him in wearing a thin tank top and loose shorts with nothing underneath. Didn’t even pretend to put on a bra.
I watched him work from the kitchen stool, legs crossed but not really trying to hide anything. He kept glancing over when he thought I wasn’t looking. When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and told me the price. I just froze. I hadn’t taken out cash and my card reader was acting up. I laughed nervously and said I didn’t have it right now.
He looked me up and down, slow, then asked if there was another way I could settle it. I bit my lip, pretending to hesitate, but I was already soaked just from the way he was staring at me. I said, “Maybe,” and hopped up on the counter without waiting for a real answer.
He stepped between my legs and slid his hand up my thigh like he owned it. I leaned back on my elbows and let him push my shorts aside. His fingers dipped inside me once, twice, then he pulled his cock out and shoved it in like he’d done this with girls like me before.
I wrapped my ankles around his waist and let him use me. His toolbelt kept smacking my hip. The counter was cold under my bare ass. Every thrust pushed me back against the cabinet, making the dishes inside rattle. He didn’t talk. Just grunted low and kept fucking me harder until my legs were shaking and I was clenching around him like I couldn’t help it.
He came deep inside me, filled me to the brim, then pulled out and zipped up without even wiping me down. I sat there, messy, still pulsing, shorts halfway off, while he packed up his tools like it was any other day.
He looked at me once before he left and said, “It shouldn’t leak again.”
