A Final Inspection

"Just keep working on them," he says and I feel his hands moving up and down my sides. It feels good. It feels like what I was picturing the day before only it was Henry's hands running along my soft legs. Even so, it feels sensuous and lulling.

One of his hands slips between my legs and he is now caressing my knee and that soft little depression behind them I love so much. I've lost track of what I am supposed to be doing but as both hands slide up my one thigh I grip those knobs as tight as I can. They are the only thing stopping me falling forward. One hand has now glided all the way up and around to cup my buttock and the other has reached the juncture of my legs and his finger is tracing along the edges of my lips, another erotic area for me; he is almost but not quite touching my folds, it's gentle and enticing. The soft peach fur over my pussy is brushing against his hand.

I can't help it, I am getting wet and I need his touch, his fingers on me. I part my knees a little to give him better access but still he continues with tracing softly around and around. I feel a little desperate as I push down to his fingers and wriggle my hips but he maintains his method. Abruptly, he withdraws his hands, startling me and I almost let go. I look down and I'm ashamed at what I see: my arms in the air and my knees spread out and squatting, pushing; more like a primate than a woman. And there in front of me is my sweaty city inspector giving me a thorough appraisal. He's no longer smiling, though, and I know my eyes show more desire than fear at this point. He reaches forward, undoes the thin belt on my robe and removes it, tucking it away in his pocket presumably with my panties.

"You don't seem to be really trying very hard, Missus Johnston. Are you?"

"Yes, I'm trying," I reply, focusing again on twisting the knobs.

"Harder, Missus Johnston," he encourages.

I feel his hands slide inside the flaps of my robe and up the cotton front of my nightie. I catch my breath as his hands cover my breasts, squeezing and massaging them. I can't help myself pressing them further into his hands. His fingers seek out my hardened nipples and a thumb and forefinger clamps around them.

"You need to do it more like this," he says, and he pinches hard and twists them both to the left. I gasp and my knees almost buckle.

"Righty tighty, lefty loosey," he singsongs to me, that same contorted smirk back on his face again.

The knobs finally give and start to turn. He rewards me by massaging my breasts again. I take one completely off then carefully remove the other. Holding the cover I lower it slightly from the hinges.

"Take a peek under and make sure there is a filter inside," he instructs. It looks fine and I tell him so.

"Okey-dokey, very good," he says then tells me, "Press the cover back and do the screws up again." As I am tightening the screws down I feel his fingers searching for my nipples again and I prepare myself.

"Remember, righty tighty," he says, simultaneously pinching and twisting my nipples to the right. Fuck they hurt.

"Right, time's money so let's be moving on." His hands reach under my armpits making me reflexively giggle from ticklishness; it counteracts the throbbing of my nipples. He lifts my small frame off the chair with ease and sets me down against his chest where my face presses against his rank shirt. I try to back off but the chair is behind me. As my hands reach back to balance myself he quickly strips the robe off my shoulders and tosses it to the ground.

"Better be putting that chair back," he says, "then let's be moving along."

When I come back out of the bedroom having deposited the chair, he is nowhere to be seen. Neither is my robe. I hear faint rummaging sounds coming from the garage so head back through my pink kitchen and down the steps into the garage. I find him, arms akimbo, frowning at the water heater.

"Some dubious looking workmanship here, lady," he says, "this your husband done this crap or was it a real professional?"

He says "real professional" the way some guys say "real man". Right now we're probably both feeling the same way about my husband.

"Look at this shit tape, should be using aluminum. And look at this wiring behind here. I can barely see it with all this clutter. Come and take a look. This is not good." These are not words I want or hope to hear and it instantly clears my head with alarm. Somehow deep in the back of my mind I had tacitly assumed I was trading him some liberties for a free pass. Not that I was thinking straight enough to put those thoughts together, simply going along with the situation. Now reality was crashing in.

"I am sure it's something we can take care of right away...isn't it?" I inquire hopefully, pleadingly.

"Dunno. Come and look back here for me," he's waving me over. I appear to have forgotten I am only wearing my nightie now that a crisis is at hand. Anything-I-can-do attitude is what's needed.

"You lean over those boxes and all that other shit and I will hold you. See if you can see where that cabling is going." He manhandles me in front of him and pushes me roughly forward over the cartons and grips my hips. It's a very suggestive position with me bent forward and legs straight, I feel hotness spreading in my groin again and the crisis has flown from my mind as I consider the obvious progression from here.

However, he has wrong-footed me again. I was expecting him to press up against me from behind. Instead he moves to my side and grabs my shoulder, lifting me back slightly. His left hand reaches underneath, scraping across my sensitive nipple, until his hand clutches my neck firmly. I have never had my throat held like this. I can feel a panic rising.

"Easy girl, just supporting you here more easily. Calm down there," he soothes, stroking my flank as if I am a skittish filly. His hand progresses around and comes to rest, below my buttock, cradling its firm shape. It's insane: in less than an hour, I have been maneuvered from sitting at my breakfast table to being suspended in my garage by the hands of a large and dirty city official. I moan a little at the thought and wonder how this can be.

"Now take a good look back there, love," he tells me and I lean forward trusting in his support as I come up on my toes. It freaks me out a little as my weight is taken into his hand and he tightens it around my throat until his thumb and finger almost reach my ears. It's oddly reassuring, placing myself in these older calloused hands.

His other hand moves too. It slides a little further between my bare legs -- when did it get underneath my nightie? I have no idea what I am supposed to be looking for behind this tank and don't really care as I feel his fingers touch the edge of my pussy, gripping tightly and pulling sideways so my one lip is drawn with it. I feel my pussy involuntarily come open and the air of the garage is cold on its wetness.

"I...I don't know what to look for," I croak from my constricted throat.

"Don't worry about that. Just focus on that cable down there. I think I need to do a little maintenance back ere for ya," he says as I feel his fingers slide across my wet pussy. Two fingers, thick like veined sausages I think, press between my lips and explore further. I can feel his thumb as well, foraging between my cheeks. As those two meaty fingers dig deeper into me I also feel that broad thumb flat against a place I would never let Henry near. It brings me up further on my toes, looking to escape its reach, but the hand on my throat holds me in place. His thumb tip does one lap around before burrowing against the ring of muscle. I have no more room to escape and my feet are cramping like I haven't felt since attempting pointe in ballet as a young teenager.

"I don't think...I don't think I can stay...can I...," but I don't finish the question as my legs give out. I drop onto those two fat fingers and his thumb settles firmly into my asshole. It is frighteningly satisfying and not a little uncomfortable but the sensation of his two fingers in my pussy rubbing up against the membrane separating the thumb in my ass is unbelievable. Not sensuously sexy -- viciously sexual. And it's as much the situation: I am literally hanging from his fingers at one end and his hand around my throat at the other, a rag doll.

This greasy fuck from the building department has me dangling there, panting and lustful. I can't speak, I can't move my arms. His fingers are churning in my pussy and ass like a mechanical tool working around inside me. The soft wet squishing sounds proclaim my state as nothing else can do, certainly more than the smell of my excited pussy which has no chance of overpowering the sweaty emanations from the inspector.

My dreamy erotic thoughts from yesterday and my frustrated hankerings earlier had no concept of this. A simple desire to please, a humbling of myself, has somehow transformed into this unbridled desire and willing compliance. My eyes are wide, staring unseeing at the brown pegboard lining the walls, the dark splurges of lubricant and a multitude of spider webs, dust and debris along the floor; all I really see is a tunnel of need as I slump in his hands. It is at the moment I feel I can't tolerate any longer the frustration of his fingers turning over in me and the tightening grip around my throat and wanting to scream for more, that I feel a third finger slip over and around my clitoris. It is all that I need, that simple touch, to set me over the edge. My eyes bug out, I try to speak but can only gasp, and my body goes rigid as the orgasm sweeps over me.

***

As I recover it is to the sound of laughing. Not pleasant laughing but the harsh kind you hear on the other side of a bar and wonder if it is about you. The grip on my throat has relaxed a little and I am still panting. His fingers are no longer in me and I have no recollection of when that happened. He's surprisingly careful, considerate, as he guides me to my knees on the hard concrete garage floor. He's looking at me strangely.

I'm a little dazed, slow to understand, when he steps up to me and places his work boots either side of my knees. I look up at him. He seems so close and tall like one of those pictures of a skyscraper taken with a wide-angle camera lens. He shifts his weight to another hip, waiting, and I look down, embarrassed, suddenly ashamed. The contrast I see couldn't be more extreme between the pretty flowers on my cotton nightie bunched high up my pale thighs and his muddy dark work boots and the grimy rolled cuffs of his jeans. I glance up again and he is still looking at me with a curious look. He raises his eyebrows.

Complex emotions are running through me. I am already content, satiated. I have no idea what came over me and regrets are congregating in my mind. But there is no denying that a large man is looming over me. All this I am thinking in less than a minute before his hand has taken hold of my ponytail and pulled it firmly back.

"Missus Johnston? I think we need to complete the inspection," he says, flatly.

It seems only fair...and prudent? Hesitantly, I reach up to his leather belt with its ridiculous buckle and draw the strap through the loop and unfasten it from the silver hoop. There was already an overpowering smell coming off him, more so now I am this close to his crotch but I can't help noticing his bulge. It is nothing like I can sometimes coax from Henry's khaki Dockers when I'm feeling frisky in the car. Frank's button is awkward but the zipper slides down easily. Pulling the stained denim down over his hips reveals some disheveled-looking white y-fronts but the prominent bulge underneath is distraction enough from the discouraging scent.

I glance up again and he has a stern expression so I quickly look back to the package in front of me. I don't know whether to try and be sexy or just grab it. Settling for the former, I run my hand sensuously over the front of his groin, stroking, caressing the cotton fabric, but he is in no mood for subtlety and again using my ponytail pulls me up against the material so my nose is pressed against a yellow stain and my mouth is around the weight of his balls. He's back in control again. Fuck.

Just to avoid his underwear I grab the sides and pull them to his knees. His cock flops out on my forehead and rolls off the side. It's thick and long. It's incredible and I can't help grasping onto it as if to verify its existence. It's warm, heavy in my grasp and pungent, dark with a thick skin along and over its head. I daren't look up because I know he has that smirk again.

He has let go of my hair. I expect he sees my interest and knows I am already committed. He's right. It is a big solid strong piece of flesh, more than my two small pixie hands can manage. I lean back to admire it. I put one hand on his hip and with the other I hold on to it and watch it throb with a life of its own. I know it smells but I am tempted to just touch the tip and I extend my tongue and lick that small puckered gap where his foreskin gathers.

Slowly, ever so slowly, like unwrapping a special gift, I draw the foreskin back over the knob. The smell is a little more breathtaking than expected and I recoil. His hand is straight back on the bunch of my hair and suddenly his knob is pressing against my lips.

"Lick," he says, simply.

I do, reluctantly.

I wonder how Henry's meetings in Texas are going.

"More. All over the end. Clean it up for me."

I hope he remembers I ironed those shirts he's wearing.

"Come on, put some care into it Missus Johnston. Open wide!"

I can just about get my lips around the head but I'm not so sure about my teeth. He doesn't seem to care. I hope Henry will appreciate my dedication. I am certain I will always remember this when I kiss him in future.

"Ya not used to something this size? Mister Johnston a little on the average size?" Franks asks. He has no idea how far on the other side of average Henry is, I think. And suddenly I am wet again. Fuck.

With that thought I force as much as I can into my mouth, almost gagging. With both hands I grab his balls and grope them harshly. I use them to pull him further into my mouth.

"That's the spirit, Missus Johnston."

He's not fazed by the sudden aggression at all, more encouraged by it or perhaps accustomed to it. He's thrusting sharply now which makes me choke. This must please him as he does it more. It's hard to hold on.

Suddenly I am yanked back, strands of saliva stretching from his cock to my lips. I am left gasping momentarily before he grabs his cock to the side and shoves my face into that dark sweaty area between his balls and his thigh. His hand is still gripping my hair, directing me, and I can feel his other hand chafing my ear as he strokes up and down on this cock. He's grunting and growling like something wild above me. The hand I had on his balls is now between my legs, rubbing to the sounds he is making, thinking of being taken again by this animal. My tongue is bathing his skin, beneath and around his balls before I suck one into my mouth.

No longer gripping my hair, his hand is around the back of my head pulling me into him, I can barely breathe and what I can get is redolent with his musk. I feel my head falling back and only his hand is supporting me. I'm sitting on my heels, with knees spread and back curved, frantically working my clit. His rapid strokes have pulled his balls onto my face and I know he is close. I am too.

I don't know if it is intentional or not but he has worked his way higher on my face and he pulls me up so my mouth is against the cleft of his cheeks and my nose is enveloped by his scrotum. I can't breathe at all and open my mouth to gasp at air. He must like the sensation as his pace increases as do his grunts. I need him to finish with me so I do the only thing left to me and I extend my tongue to explore the hairy fetid crack, seeking his hole. It is so fucking dirty my pussy vibrates at the perversion and my fingers speed across my pussy...my dirty cunt. Fuck. My other hand is pulling and twisting my nipples: righty tighty, lefty loosey, righty tighty, lefty loosey; like a mantra matching my motions.

The moment my tongue locates his rectum and pushes wetly inside, I know he is done. His body goes rigid briefly and, as my own orgasm sweeps the length of my body, I feel wet splatters on my hair. My head is tugged back and the next volley is across my face before he can get the head into my mouth. It just keeps going, filling my mouth until I feel the viscous fluid ooze from the sides of my mouth and down my chin. I swallow as best I can, feeling the sticky mess on my tongue and teeth and coating my throat.

For a few seconds we are an odd tableau in the garage, broken only when he starts moving. He steps back pulling me more upright and his cock pops out of my mouth. I look up at him expectantly and he starts smearing his cum all across my face, painting my forehead and freckled cheeks with his cock.

Now it is done, I feel like an absolute slut and I am mortified by everything that has transpired. Frank is dragging his jeans back over his pasty legs and buckling up the scarred leather belt. He's looking at me, sitting here like a penitent waiting for absolution. I almost feel like I am waiting for his blessing or some approbation. I can tell he's amused which doesn't help my feelings.

"I don't think that water tank is going to pass with me today and it's not gonna fix itself," he says. I feel ridiculous but nod my understanding. "Get it taken care of and call the office again. I think you're gonna need another inspection for sure. I think you are a long way off before I can endorse the final inspection, Missus Johnston."

With that, he turns, picks up his metal clipboard and lumbers out the door into the kitchen. I listen to the front door open and shut. I still haven't moved when I hear his truck: the metallic door creaking, its engine roaring to life, and the tires crunching as he turns the wheel and heads down the drive. His cum is hardening into a crust on my face.

I wonder if Henry is on a break yet. He's not going to be pleased at all. Maybe I can get someone out to take care of the matter while he is still gone. I can get another inspection then. I feel a little smirk of my own forming.