The Best Erotic Stories.

The Handyman Again Ch. II
by JEdwins

There it is. 2815. A two-story with ample property on both sides in a really up-scale neighborhood. It's only 8:20 and she said 8:30. I'll just sit here in her driveway until then. I'm really glad I finally had this poor old car of mine painted. Most folks can't tell if its an '83 or a '93 because they don't change that much over the years. But since this is my car and my truck, this poor 13 year old beastie has really given it's all. And still looks good. Now it's 8:23. How come time slows down like that? I really need a new headliner. All of the smoking I did in the past has this one permanently discolored and there are two small tears where I got careless with some lumber. It would probably have to be custom-made at this late date. 8:27. I'll go up to the door with my tool pouch casually slung over my shoulder. Later I can come back out to get the big drill and other stuff I might need. Here goes. I hope she's not a slacks person.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm too early." My shock must have been self-evident. Somewhere between 'I've probably lost this job now' and 'can I please see under there?' Tamara had opened the door wearing a short terry-cloth white robe that she was holding closed with one hand and a towel wrapped around her head and twisted down her back. I thought she looked half way amused at my reaction and possibly upset that I was on time.

Anyway, she stepped back, opening the door more, and said, "Come on in. I can be dressed in no time." Then she seemed to think about that and further said, "Well, I can show you some of what needs to be done so you can get started and then I'll get dressed. I got a late start this morning and I'm sorry I'm not ready." Yeah. Me too.

"Please don't worry about it. I probably should have either called first or been a little late", I said around a thickening tongue. She looked up at me for a moment before turning to cross the living room. I was, at that instant, trying to figure out how to get her to raise both of her hands so that her robe would open. Her legs were really nice and I wanted to see the tops of them. And her breasts . . . They weren't really well hidden, the way she was holding the robe, and I certainly wanted to see more. I don't know if I hoped she knew what I was thinking or hoped she didn't, but she turned to walk across the room just then and I got a much better idea of how short the robe really was. Mid-thigh would be my guess as I started to follow her, watching the actions of her undoubtedly precious buns under the robe as she walked. She was saying something and I was drooling. Concentrate, John, you idiot.

"... and so this back door really has me more worried than the front door." She had stopped at the kitchen door to the back yard and turned to me.

I asked if she minded if I opened the door so I could see the jamb. She motioned for me to go ahead by gesturing toward the door with her left hand. That particular left hand was holding the robe closed. The robe started to open, ever so slowly, too slowly. She realized her mistake and quickly reclosed the robe, holding it with her left hand again. I didn't get to see anything, but if I wore glasses my eyes probably would have pushed them off of my face. I know she saw my intent, mesmerized look that time, even though I tried to be nonchalant and open the door. Because of the over-sized strike plate, the dead bolt would have to be mounted about 4 1/2 inches above the doorknob set, but that wouldn't be a problem. I said so to Tamara.

After I relocked the back door, she took off into the dining room with me following (heh, heh). Boy, she was a really nice looking woman. No make-up and didn't really need any. She would probably think she did, of course, but she must actually know she is a doll. Again, I wondered if she knew the effect she was having on me. Wow! She stopped at the doorway between the dining room and the living room. Using her right hand (damn) she pulled the latch of a pocket door to close the door on that side of the opening. It screeched some but moved fairly smoothly.

"Can you lubricate that, John? And the other side, too?" I would swear by the way she opened her eyes more than normal that she was daring me to look anywhere but in her eyes. A tough test when the only lubricant I could think of was hers, and my tendency was to look toward its source.

"That shouldn't be a problem, Tamara." All of this usage of names seemed like a game of some sort, but my copy of the rules hadn't been delivered to me.

"Okay. Lets go upstairs", she said. She said that we were going up the stairs. Her first. Me second, below her above me. Up the stairs. It pays to fantasize. Then she went on, with, "Oh, that can wait a minute. I forgot to show you something in the kitchen."

No! Going up the stairs is important. Critical! We need to go up the stairs. It can't wait a minute! "Okay", I said calmly (I hope).

In the kitchen she opened one of the drawers just under the counter top and asked me to remove it. Then she bent down and looked and pointed toward the back of the cabinet saying, "That thingy back there is loose and the drawer sometimes comes off of the track."

I bent down and looked too. At least one of the screws was loose and probably none of the three screws was into a stud; just the drywall. I turned my head toward her so that I could reach to the back of the cabinet and wiggle the bracket when 'what to my wondering eyes should appear?' but a view of Tamara's left breast. No! Gorgeous left breast. Somehow, it seemed, when she bent over to show me the bracket problem, her left hand had slid up some from her waist creating slack in that side of her robe which gaped open when she bent over. (Trust me when I say that I didn't think of all of that physics stuff at the time. I just looked at her breast and slightly erect nipple and began salivating again.) Tamara seemed to realize her degree of dishevelment and stood back up straight. I told her I could tighten up that bracket or I could fix it permanently, with wall anchors. Which one I did was up to her. Now that I was standing upright again and looking at her she didn't seem at all embarrassed. But she must have known I was looking at her naked, dark brown, erect nipple on the whitest of firm breasts. Actually, judging by the extra bumps in her robe, both of her nipples were very erect. Hmmmm.

Saying, "I'd rather it was fixed the right way", she turned to leave the kitchen again. Me follow woman.

The stairs. Nice wide staircase. Carpeted up the center with about a foot of oak showing on each side of each tread. She started up and I delayed just a bit so that I'd be about four steps below her. But I no more than began mounting the first few steps when she stopped, commented something about, "How did that get there?", bent down to pick up a pen at the edge of the carpeted step, and then continued on up the stairs.

Let me say right off of the bat that I watched to see what she picked up. I'm willing to be 100% honest about that level of stupidity. On the plus side, however, I did recover my male senses just barely in time to see: the bottom half of each hemisphere of her ass cheeks, her tightly puckered anus, the slightly bulging mound of her pussy with the fold of her lips quickly disappearing into a verdant bush of light brown hair, the tops of her firm and nicely-opened-at-the-top-for-viewing-pussy-from-the-rear thighs. Then her robe lowered down to once again hide her lower charms. To whomever dropped the pen there, my eternal thanks. To the manufacturer of that fine robe, my eternal thanks. Amen.

At the top of the steps she turned down the hallway, through the master bedroom and into the master bath. Nice. Big clear glass shower. Double sinks. Two huge medicine cabinets. Jacuzzi tub in a raised platform. And plenty of floor space. Closing the bathroom door behind me she said, "This knob is one I just hate. I can't lock it when I'm in here and want privacy." After a short pause to see if I was paying attention (I was, while wondering what must go on in here when she wanted to be uninterrupted) she continued with, "So this one needs a lockable handle."

Since I didn't know if she had already bought doorknob sets based upon our conversation at the store or if I was supposed to go get them, I asked, "Did you already buy the doorknob sets you want or am I supposed to get them for you?"

"I already have them. You were a lot of help with your good advice. I know you'll be able to help me more", she breathed up at me from mere inches away.

As I reread what I've written so far I don't know that I would believe it so I don't mind much if you don't either. It will, however, get harder to believe, especially if you have read and remember my first writing about Pam in The Handyman

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