Home Economics Lesson

Sarah Cleary frequently wondered how she'd wound up just like her mother. At least, that is, according to outward appearances.

Sarah's latest existential crisis arrived, as usual, during the quiet moments of the day. She was alone, sipping coffee in her kitchen and staring absent-mindedly out the window into the backyard. Her kids were at school and she'd returned home from the gym, the same as any morning.

One moment she was thinking about the onset of spring, buds on the trees out back already although it was only the last week of March.

The next moment she found herself contemplating how her life had turned out nothing like she'd planned.

It was all so cliché. She'd gone to college and had big plans for her life. She was going to write, travel the world, and have adventures with interesting men.

Somewhere it all went off track. A few weeks shy of her thirty-fifth birthday and there she was, living in the suburbs with two elementary age boys and a CPA husband who was always at the office. She was a full-time mom married to a workaholic. Just like her own mom.

No, she corrected herself, there were ways she wasn't at all like Mom. For one, Sarah had ways of dealing with the frustration and boredom she was certain Mom would've never considered.

Sarah finished the coffee and left the mug on the counter. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she went upstairs to shower and get dressed. She was a creature of routine, every morning the same sequence of events. She'd rise early, get the boys ready for school, drop them off, and then hit the gym. She'd return home from her workout, sweaty and restless, then it was upstairs to masturbate before showering. It was the favorite part of her day. Alone with her imagination and her vibrator, she could be anything she wanted.

Sarah was a highly sexual woman; too sexual, according to her husband. She'd be happy to fuck every day, whereas Donald's libido was barely an afterthought. It'd always been that way. Even when they were first going out, he was content screwing once every few weeks.

At the time, Sarah thought there was something wrong with her. To reject a man over something as trivial as his sex drive seemed shallow, she reasoned. Now, of course, she knew better. Sex was anything but trivial.

The last few years it'd gotten even worse. Donald was even less interested in sex than when he was younger, whereas Sarah was ever more preoccupied with it. She thought about leaving him, and came close to doing so a few times. In the end it was the same old story, staying together for the sake of the kids.

Sarah coped, day by day, in her own manner. Masturbation was one of her means.

There'd be no time for masturbation this morning, though, at least not yet. A contractor was coming at eleven to give an estimate on the cost of removing the oak tree leaning ominously over the shed. That last nor'easter was particularly violent and the old oak a casualty of its frightening power.

Sarah showered and dressed. She blew-dry her hair and did her make-up. Slipping on a pair of jeans and a white sweater, she stopped in front of the mirror for a few moments of self-assessment.

Growing up, Sarah never thought of herself as a great beauty. She'd always considered herself pretty, but no knockout. Only in recent years did she realize how attractive she'd become. She'd transitioned into her thirties with considerable grace and, like many women her age, was more gorgeous than ever.

Sarah flexed her muscles in the mirror, feeling her biceps tighten under the sweater. She was as fit and toned as ever, the result of years of intense daily workouts. Her face, too, retained a youthful glow. Sure, no one would mistake her for a twenty year-old. Nevertheless, her appearance grew more striking with the passage of years. Youthful awkwardness morphed into the easy confidence of maturity.

Studying her features, Sarah focused upon her dark blue eyes. They were deep and expressive, capable of beguiling men with their smoldering intensity. She was also proud of her long, ash blonde hair. Still, she acknowledged, she was far from perfect. Her nose was longer than average and her lips perhaps too-plump. She shrugged, long ago making peace with her lack of perfection. She liked her face.

Sarah turned sideways, inspecting her physique. She had full breasts, c-cups, and a rear end built for tight jeans.

Sarah knew there were plenty of men out there she drove crazy with her ass. There was this guy at the gym most mornings, for one. He looked twenty-five, blonde and well-muscled. Sarah caught him glancing her way more than once while she was on the treadmill. She couldn't be sure how she'd react if he ever came on to her, though. She doubted very much she'd be able to turn him down.

Sarah heard a car door shutting out front, interrupting her daydreaming. She peeked out the window. A white pick-up was parked at the bottom of the driveway, lettering on the door spelling-out "Randall's Tree Service."

A tall black man with a smooth bald head started up the driveway, clipboard in hand. He paused halfway to the door, noticing the tilting oak on the side of the house, and changed direction. He headed towards the oak and passed out of Sarah's sight.

Sarah went down the hall to her oldest son's room and watched the man through a window affording a good view of the side yard. He approached the tree, glancing at the ground. He produced a tape measurer from his jacket pocket and measured the circumference of the trunk, pausing to note it on his clipboard. Then he stepped back, walking all the way around it. He stopped, gazing upwards and scanning his surroundings for a long time, jotting down notes again. Sarah sensed he was a methodical sort of man.

He was also exceedingly handsome, at least from a distance.

Sarah went downstairs, pouring herself another cup of coffee and waiting for the doorbell. She'd thoroughly researched tree removal costs and this was the third estimate she was getting. She believed in not paying a penny more to any contractor than was absolutely necessary.

The doorbell rang and she answered. The tree guy was even handsomer up close, with sculptured features and a broad smile. Sarah could tell by his build he was a lean, muscular man. He looked thirty, if she had to guess.

"Good morning," he said, voice deep but friendly. "Mrs. Cleary, I presume? I'm Randall, from Randall's Tree Service."

"Come on in," Sarah said.

Randall scraped his feet on the welcome mat and stepped inside, handing her his card.

"Please sit down," Sarah said, leading him into the kitchen. "May I offer you some coffee?"

"Thanks, yes," Randall said. He sat down at the island, putting his clipboard down in front of him.

"How do you take it?"

"Black, thank you," Randall said.

"Good man." Sarah smiled. "That's the only civilized way."

"I agree," he laughed.

Sarah selected a mug at random from the cabinet and filled it. She topped off her own mug and brought the cups over to the island.

"Thanks," Randall said. He brought the coffee to his mouth and took a sip.

Sarah studied his hands. They were big, with long fingers. He wore a wedding ring.

"Oh, nice and strong," he said, smiling. "Just how I like it. I developed a taste for strong coffee in the military."

"Is that so? How does that happen?"

"I had the luck to be stationed in Italy for a year. They like their coffee strong over there."

"They do indeed. I take it you are the Randall in 'Randall's Tree Service'?"

"I am," Randall said.

"How'd you get into such a line of work?"

"I worked for a guy before I went into the service and knew the business." Randall took another sip. "When I got out, I decided to work for myself. Now I've got three crews out there."

"Your online reviews are stellar."

"I try to do the best job I can," Randall said. "The customer must always be satisfied."

Sarah suppressed a quip about how she was sure Randall could satisfy her. Adolescent remarks of that nature were constantly popping into her head, though she rarely vocalized them.

Randall took another long sip of coffee and put the mug aside, studying his clipboard. Sarah's eyes wandered over his smooth, dark skin. She wondered how one might describe its color? Chocolate was too cliché. The color of the coffee in his mug was perhaps more accurate, a shade of deep brown that was nearly black. It was hue which called to mind calm strength and solidity.

Sarah's mind wandered further. What would it be like to be in Randall's arms? What kind of lover was he, passionate and unrestrained or tender and gentle? Ideally, he'd be the right mixture of both. Then there was the question of his cock.

"That oak you got back there," he said. "It's a tricky job."

"Oh?" she said, pulled from her daydream.

"The problem is it's so close to the shed. We're going to have to temporarily remove part of the fence and then there's only a narrow angle it will have to come down along to avoid hitting anything. We can do it, but that level of precision takes a while. Plus, it's not a small tree."

"How much are we looking at?" Sarah asked.

Randall's brow furrowed. Sarah studied him carefully.

Sarah had been dealing with contractors since she'd gotten married and made a science out of negotiating with them. She knew Randall knew exactly what the job would cost. He acted as if he were still pondering a number, though. The job, she was well aware, would run between fifteen and seventeen hundred dollars. Some contractors would take a shot and try for two thousand, but she didn't think Randall would. Too many online reviews referenced his reasonable prices. Sarah guessed he'd split the difference.

"Sixteen hundred," he said, as if on cue.

"Sixteen hundred?" She feigned surprise. "I didn't think it'd be that much."

"Well, like I said, it's tricky."

"Can you do any better?"

Randall paused again, glancing over his figures. Sarah waited for him to throw out the regular concessions, like throwing in the stump grinding for free. It was all part of the dance.

"I can throw in the stump grinding for free," he said.

Sarah kept a straight face.

"That won't be enough," she said, shaking her head. "I can't do more than eleven hundred."

A pained look crossed Randall's face. Sarah had to admit he looked cute, glancing down at his clipboard and studying his notes again. She had him off-balance, which was good. Her number was ridiculous, true, but that didn't matter.

"Eleven hundred's tough," he said. "I've a crew to pay, plus insurance. I can go down to fifteen hundred but then I'm barely breaking even. I'd only be taking the job to give my crew work for the day and hope your good recommendation leads to future business."

"Twelve hundred," Sarah responded evenly. That was her true price, and she certain she'd get it. "That's the most I'll pay."

"That's, uh, still a bit low," Randall began, searching for words. He glanced down at his clipboard again, a hint of panic in his voice. "I -- I don't know how I can swing that."

"There must be some way, something we can do."

"What do you mean?"

"How about a trade?" Sarah said. "I offer you something in exchange for the price I want."

"I'm listening."

Sarah put down her coffee.

"There's only one thing I have to offer," she said firmly.

"What's that?"

Sarah smiled, looking him in the eye and arching her eyebrows.

"Do you want me to spell it out for you?" she said. "I'm not paying more than twelve hundred. I've only one thing to trade for the price I want."

"I, uh, well." He stumbled over his words, embarrassed. "I don't know what you're getting at. I -"

"I'm getting at sex. Make it twelve hundred and you can have sex with me. Got it?"

"But," he stammered. "I, um, I'm married."

"So am I," Sarah laughed. "Look, I'm not talking about an affair. I'm suggesting a one-time-only proposition. You're married, you say? How long?"

"Ten years."

"Ten years," Sarah repeated. "That's an awful long time to fuck the same woman. Don't tell me you couldn't use a little variety."

"Well, uh, that's not the point."

"If it helps you to decide," she said, leaning forward. "I'm incredibly fucking crazy in bed."

"I, uh, maybe I should go."

Randall started to get up.

"Take a breath, Randall," she said gently. "Relax. What're you afraid I'm gonna do? Rape you?"

"No," he said. "But you, you can't be serious."

"Why not? Don't tell me this is the first time a housewife has come onto you."

Randall sat back down and Sarah knew she'd won.

"No," he admitted. "I've had offers. No one's ever been as forthcoming about it as you and, uh, no one's offered it in exchange for a discount."

"Can you blame me?" she protested. "You're a good-looking man. Come on. Don't tell me you don't think I'm attractive. Don't tell me you wouldn't mind a go at this white girl."

"No. I mean, of course you're attractive. Only, the thing is, I love my wife."

Randall took another sip of coffee. Good, Sarah thought, he's warming to the idea. He just doesn't know it yet.

"I'm sure you do," she said. "But don't tell me you don't think about other women."

"Well, yeah. Sure."

"Listen, I appreciate your feelings for your wife. I do. But I'm not proposing anything emotional. I'm talking about recreational sex, nothing more. Love is love, sex is sex."

"It sounds good, I'll admit," he said. "But your proposal isn't exactly legally binding, is it?"

Sarah nodded, as though weighing his objection. He'd been reeled-in. Time to close the deal.

"We'll fuck first," Sarah said. "Then I'll expect you to honor my price. I'll fuck you, and trust you to keep your end of the deal afterwards."

"This is too crazy," he said suddenly, standing. "I can't do this."

Sarah followed him to the door.

"I really hope you'll reconsider," she said when they reached it.

Sarah placed her hand on the door knob, blocking his exit.

"Mrs. Cleary, I -" he started to say.

Standing on her tiptoes, Sarah reached up and pulled his face towards hers. Their lips met, mashing against one another. She pushed her tongue against his lips, his mouth opening in response. Randall tasted of strong coffee and was a skilled kisser, sensuous and eager.

A tingle went through Sarah. She'd never kissed a black man before. If only her mother could see her now, she mused, the thought sending a tingle through her loins.

Randall pulled her tight against him, strong arms enveloping her. She felt a growing bulge in his pants and wondered how accurate the stereotypes about black men were in that regard.

Randall broke off the kiss, flustered.

"I, uh, I should go," he said.

"Go if you want," Sarah said. "My offer stands."

"I really should go."

"Fine. Think it over and let me know."

***

Sarah went straight upstairs, digging out the vibrator she kept stuffed way in the back of her closet. Stripping down, she lay back on her bed and closed her eyes. Switching on the vibrator, its familiar rumble brought a smile to her lips. She wondered how many times she'd heard that delightful sound. Enough to elicit a Pavlovian response in her pussy, as it happened.

Pressing the vibrator to her clit sent a wave of ecstasy through her body, emanating from her crotch outwards. Sarah held it there, pushing harder as the pleasure travelled up her back and over her shoulders. She usually came quickly, especially when she was this excited. She'd get off in no time.

Sarah thought of Randall, recalling their kiss. A torrent of images ran through her mind, disjointed and barely coherent. It was like an erotic narrative rapidly evolving in her imagination, too quickly to make sense of. There was kissing and eager groping, mouths and tongues. There was the feel of Randall's arms, drawing her into him. There was firm muscle and the contrast of his deep-brown flesh against her fair skin.

Sarah moved the vibrator into her pussy, fucking herself with it as she rubbed her clit. The images flashing through her consciousness turned more specific, as well as more graphic.

Sarah imagined reaching down and grabbing Randall's cock, then taking it into her mouth. She envisioned sucking on it. It was long and hard and she gobbled it with abandon. She'd sucked her share of cock in her life, to be sure, but never a black one. The taboo nature of the act drove her half-mad as she fucked herself harder, writhing and groaning.

"Yes," she moaned. "Let me suck that big black cock."

Sarah wondered what her friends would think of her sucking Randall's dick. They'd be mortified, she was certain, her husband crushed. That last notion was particularly powerful, and it fueled her lust. She gave herself over to the idea, imagining Randall fucking her.

Sarah pictured Randall behind her, fucking her pussy with his big dick. She was screaming and coming as Randall pounded her furiously. Yes, she decided, that's how it would be. He'd fuck her hard, filling up her pussy with his cum as his dick throbbed inside her.

A long shudder went through Sarah's body as her orgasm overwhelmed her. Gasping, she rode the tide of sweet relief that enveloped her entire body and provided moments of welcome forgetfulness. Alone with her orgasm, the mundane cares of existence could be banished for a short time.

Sarah lay silent for a long time after, staring up at the ceiling.

***

Donald didn't get home until nine-thirty, barely in time to see the boys for a few minutes before they went off to bed. He kissed them goodnight with barely a word, lines of exhaustion on his face. It would be like this every night until after tax day, Sarah knew. Then Donald could take some time off. He'd spend most if it golfing and watching TV, as always, ignoring Sarah.

Sarah served him spaghetti Bolognese. He ate silently, washing the meal down with a glass of wine. Her inquiries about his day were met with grudging responses, short answers communicating his lack of interest in conversation.

Finishing his meal, Donald poured himself a second glass of wine and adjourned into the living room without a word. There he'd watch TV until he fell asleep on the couch.

Sarah sighed but said nothing. She did the dishes, pouring a glass of wine for herself. She took a sip and heard her phone beep. Glancing at it, she smirked when she saw the number. She was surprised it had taken so long.

"Hello," she answered.

"Mrs. Cleary?" the voice on the other end asked. "It's Randall, from Randall's Tree Service. I hope it's not too late to call."

"Not at all, Randall," Sarah said. "What's up?"

"I was thinking about your offer," he said. "I think we can meet your price."

"Excellent. When did you have in mind?"

"Oh, tomorrow's good," he replied instantly. "That is, I can have a crew after lunch. They'll finish the next morning."

"Sound great. When would you like to come by so I can, uh, sign the contract?"

"How's ten-thirty?"

"That's good. So...we're in agreement? Twelve hundred?"

"Yup. Twelve hundred."

"Very good. I'll see you then. Goodnight."

Back in the living room, Sarah sat down next to Donald on the couch. He was watching a basketball game, a blank look on his face. She sipped her wine and they said nothing until a commercial came on.

"Another glass?" she asked. His own was nearly empty.

"Sure."

Sarah took his glass and refilled it. Handing it back to him, she sat back down.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked.

"Tree guy," Sarah said. Then, unable to resist the juvenile pun, "He's coming tomorrow."

Donald didn't respond, already ignoring her as the game returned.

***

The next morning, Sarah stripped off her sweaty gym clothes and took her time getting ready for Randall. She'd put a lot of extra effort into her weight training, hoping to be as fit and toned for Randall as she could.