A Low Maintenance Affair with a BBW

Rylee always wore a baseball cap and this day was no exception. It was a standard part of his maintenance uniform and kept the sun out of his eyes as he traversed between buildings fixing everything from busted pipes to plaster dings. He was six feet tall, naturally tanned by his work outdoors, and had incredible green eyes the color of a pine tree in a rainstorm. Along with his baseball cap, he wore a tan polo shirt with the logo of the apartment building emblazoned on the left breast pocket, long Carhartt's workpants, sturdy steel capped boots, and a belt much larger in circumference than his sinewy frame. He was one of those men who were not only naturally muscular for his small build but his muscles were also enhanced honest physical labor. Every time Moira saw him, she was mesmerized by the way he moved. He was tough and strong but also had a soft mouth and a fluid way of working with materials that suggested the care a lover would take in doing it right the first time.

The few times he had been in her apartment to work on fixing something, he looked at her with genuine interest and seemed lustful, not only of her sexy, large, curvy body necessarily, but of life in general and it carried over well into conversations. He was the kind of man who would tell you how he really was if you bothered to ask, who made a genuine attempt at conversation and truly engaging you. He did not seem like the gruff, goal-oriented, typical working-class men that had done maintenance in all of the other buildings Moira had lived in before. They were the kind that would grunt with the dissatisfaction of obligation of having to respond to you when you said good morning to them. Rylee was not like that, not in the slightest. Moira could sense that about him and felt drawn in by this aura of welcoming and interest. Whenever they would meet, her on her way to some gallery and Rylee on his way to some fix-it urgency, he would always take the time to ask her about her work as an artist and stop whatever he was doing to listen intently to her response. She loved that he understood art, not what she would expect from a maintenance man. In fact, nothing about him was what she expected. Especially after the conversation they had accidentally had a few months back.

Rylee had a habit of coming in the middle of the day to fix things, it seems, always when Moira was poised for a shower, unclothed, and then scrambling for clothing and running to the door. This particular day was no exception. It was hot and Moira had been painting all day with the heavy drapes closed so she could be naked and feel the fan blowing on her glistening skin. No matter what the weather, she preferred to be alone, nude, and cool (in no particular order) when she painted. Sometimes setting up lights on certain objects contributed a great deal of heat to the room so in the winter she would have to turn the heat off and in the summer, the fans on. Only this day it was so hot that she had all of the fans on full blast. Her husband had not mentioned that he had put in a work order in the office and she was not expecting anyone. Their kitchen sink had unexplainably lost water pressure, which was making rinsing the dishes and filling the water pitcher a wretched chore. And since Moira's husband did both of these chores on a regular basis, it was not surprising that he had put in the work order before Moira even had time to be sufficiently annoyed by the problem.

The fans created a noise just loud enough to drown out the sound of Rylee's knocking on the door. Moira had her long, naturally red hair pinned up in chopsticks as she moved about the living room, fans whispering on her freckled shoulders as she trained her cerulean blue eyes on a particularly pesky sunflower petal she was painting on a large canvas. Before she even knew he was there, Rylee had let himself in with the key, thinking no one home and had entered the long hallway to the living room. It was too late to cover up by the time she looked up and her blues met his greens. She threw down her paintbrush in haste and ran into the bedroom to wrap her nude body in a robe. Moira could not tell who was more shocked by the incident but when she came back out, Rylee had picked up her paint brush, mopped the azure paint off the beige carpet with his personal handkerchief, and was bashfully looking down at the detail of every last fiber of the carpet, his face the color of cherries in a still life. He was, after all, a full-blooded, first generation Irishman and he could grow a blush on his skin like a lake could grow sky on its shimmering surface. She was not sure what to say to him, they were both speechless, and she was wondering if they would never recover from the embarrassment.

They began feverishly at the same time.

"Look, I am really, really sorry about that ma'am. I knocked but..."

"It's not your fault! I couldn't hear the door..."

"I swear I knocked, I really did!" he blurted out.

"Honestly, Rylee, of course you did. I... I'm... so sorry."

"You aren't going to complain or anything are you? I should have really knocked again," he seemed remorseful.

He stared at her manicured toes, painted the naturally achievable color of his Irish face, partially hidden by his grimy baseball cap.

"Of course not. It's no one's fault... look, let's just forget it happened ok?"

She smiled at him genuinely and he allowed his gaze to drift up her body wrapped loosely in a pale pink kimono, accenting every enormous, round curve of her lush body. It was that look again, that earnest once over that told her exactly what he thought of her beauty, so unlike his own wife's, waifish, mousy, plain, and petite. Moira was tall, strong, and self confident about her presentation. Her long red hair, pinned up in black, enameled chopsticks detailed with tiny cherry blossoms, and her in a Kimono made him think of an Irish Geisha, though such a thing did not really exist. When he met her eyes, he could not help but think he saw the same look of interest in her as she sculpted his muscles with her eyes under his short sleeves, picturing his hard abs, paid for with sweat and hard work. They were very different and she was nothing like anyone he had ever been attracted to before but he had always wondered what it would be like to be with a big woman, having her generous flesh yield under his touch, not meeting him with cold, flat hardness like his wife's did. Moira looked warm and inviting and everything about her was attractive to him. Even the way she did her eye makeup was different and drew him in.

She was not sure what else to say so she plainly asked why he was there. What came out sounded a bit like a schoolboy caught with a dirty magazine and he mumbled under his breath something about a work order.

"Oh, right! This sink! Here, in the kitchen. It totally slipped my mind!"

He made his way to the dinky kitchen, familiar with the layout, as it was one of those complexes where each apartment was identical to the next. Without another word he began to fiddle with the sink, his experienced hands beginning that skilled dance of discovery on the knobs. Something about his mannerisms in this sent a jolt through her body as she imagined those calloused, expert hands on her pierced nipples, running down her ample curves, pushing their way through soft, pale thighs to find her wet. It was almost too much for her. She wanted to make small talk to ease the tension.

"So, thanks so much for coming, I am not sure what is going on with the sink"

Suddenly, she felt parched, a lump forming in her throat. "Do you mind?" She reached above him to get a pint glass out of the cupboard above where he was working his magic. Her arm brushed against his and the kimono sleeve slid up her arm to reveal a gorgeous, blood red rose on her inner left arm. The electricity, when softly she slipped her arm against his was almost too much for him to bear. He wanted desperately to rip the kimono right off her body and devour her then and there.

But just as quickly, she turned away and opened the refrigerator to get the water pitcher out. In her mind she went back to the last time he had been there, digging unmentionable guck out of their shower drain as he explained to her how, ever since the invention of shower gel, everyone got clogged shower drains now. Somehow he managed to transition from shower gel to discussing his wife's semi-addiction to beauty products and eventually to his relationship with his wife in general and how much he struggled with monogamy. Maybe it was the easy way Moira had with her body that put him in a state of conversation but she had confessed at that moment that she had struggled with the monogamy too. They bonded over their inability to commit to monogamy in the past though he stated hat he had been faithful to his wife for the last eight years they had been together. Moira congratulated him and asked him how he had managed. He said he had been tempted once, when they had been having trouble and that he embossed on his wife's heart that he loved her immensely but that if any beautiful woman had ever thrown herself at him, he could only resist so much. When he said that, suddenly, the institutionally white bathroom grew tiny and cramped with temptation. Moira had changed the subject before the conversation had become any more personal. The heat between them was speech and breath.

Moira was instantly snapped back from this daydream as the water pitcher sipped from her hands. She had not been paying attention. She had tuned out to her juicy daydream, that moment in time she had replayed in her head a million times as she fantasized a different outcome, one that had her in his arms that day in the bathroom. How ironic that she was about to be in his arms, but not of her own choosing. The water gushed out of the pitcher as it hit the floor, splashing back up on her kimono and leaving an ice-cold puddle of water all around her. There she was, an island in a storm and as she tried to step out of the water with her bare feet, she slipped and went flying backwards, her kimono flipping above her waist and falling open. She remembered only the wet thud of her body hitting the linoleum, the water soaking her entire naked back, and then quiet.

It was dark, cold, and breezy. She fluttered her eyes, coming to as Rylee leaned over her on the wet floor. He had dragged a fan over to where she was and was gently shaking her shoulders and telling her to wake up.

"Moira? Moira? Can you hear me?" he sounded distant at first.

She opened her eyes to see he had his face only inches from hers. He smelled of sweat, spackle, pine tar, and cheap paint. She focused in on his concerned expression and dignified lips, the kind she knew would only kiss with meaning.

"Moira? You took quite a spill there. Are you alright?" he was coming in clearly.

"Yes, I... I'm alright." She tried to sit up and noticed he had not closed her robe around her, which was thoroughly soaked and clinging to her skin like sweaty sheets after making love.

"Don't try to sit up sweetie, just lay there."

His unintentional tenderness seemed at odds with the carnal admiration of her pale and fleshy position, which he displayed, it seemed, without remorse.

"What happened to you? One minute you were getting water and then you just kind of spaced out and then, wham!"

She weighed telling him the truth. She decided it was worth the risk and she was already in such a vulnerable position that surely, he would forgive her brazenness and contribute the whole mess to concussion if it was too much for him.

"Honestly?" he nodded to her in response, "I was thinking about how the last time you were here and how we were talking about monogamy and you said if a woman threw herself at you..." she could not go on as she realized that it must sound as though she might have interpreted his statement literally and had faked this spill to "throw" herself at him.

His loud chuckle assuaged her fears as he joked about it... "I didn't mean if she 'literally' threw herself at me!"

"Oh, that sounds terrible!" she was mortified. "I meant..."

He cut her off, "I know what you mean. Don't worry. I played that moment over and over again in my own mind too, wishing I had not let you change the subject. You are just... so... Moira...just...delicious. Everything about you is sexy. You wouldn't have had to do more than nod a yes to me in order for me to jump on the opportunity."

She was relieved that he felt the same way but also instantly wet and aroused, thinking about interpreting him literally again about him jumping on her. She wanted him. Bad. Maybe is was his daring revival of her, past conversations, or that fact that she had no idea how long she had been out that he had been fixedly watching her naked, wet body. She wanted to imagine it was a long time and that he has been thinking long and hard about just how to wake her up.

"I am so glad to hear you say that Rylee. The truth is, every time I see you, I relive that pulse of sexual energy I got when you said that. I knew you were attracted to me but until then we had really only discussed neutral topics. You are SO sexy, Rylee... Listen to me babbling on... I am wet, and naked and confessing my crush for you."

He silently watched her mouth form the words and just took her right hand, and placed it on the enormous bulge in his crotch, which was straining against the restrictive, canvassy material of his khaki Carhartt's. As a unique person and artist, she had never before felt like such a cliché as she lusted after a sexy, muscular maintenance man and she knew this opportunity might not ever come along again. She said not another word as she sat up, her hand still on his bulging crotch, his huge package pushing against her with a vengeance, pulsing with his heartbeat. Her eyes did not leave his, water met trees, they were there own moving skyline as she undid his bulky tool belt and started on the button fly crotch of his work pants. He responded by tearing her kimono the rest of the way off, unable to control himself any longer, her kimono a drowning rose petal in an ocean of their desire. Such barriers could not bother them. He pushed her back and in a flash, had his polo shirt off, cast aside into the puddle, his farmer's tan revealing his true skin color, his muscles rippling on his frame.

"I..." he stated slowly and deliberately like a parent telling a child like it is... "Am going to FUCK you, Moira. I have been waiting for that delicious body of yours for a long time."

She was beyond speechless and broke out into a fevered sweat, the kind that comes only with the madness of this particular brand of desire, the taboo, the fear of getting caught, the straight up animalistic passion of doing something so unplanned. He stood up, towering over her vulnerable and naked ample body and peeled his pants down. Seamlessly he knelt back down, worshipping her freckled, glowing skin and spread her big thighs apart with the same effortless skill with which he performed his job. Giving her time only to gasp in awe instead of rationalizing and objecting, he greedily advanced his fat nine-inch cock into the supple folds of her pink pussy. All the while, his eyes never left hers and she swallowed him into her, begging with each breathe for more, harder and he forced it up the hilt, grinding his pubic bone against her hidden clit, resigned to give her pleasure she had never before experienced.

Moira was drowning in him, her ass sliding around in the puddle as he ground his cock into her, unrelenting as she twitched against him and bucked her hips, crazy for more and wanting him to stay like this, deep inside her pussy. She clawed at his back, breathlessly and silently, her eyes pleading for him to keep going. He could see she was on the verge of cumming and her muscles milked at his thick, long cock. He wanted to pull out in time but as she could see he was close to cumming to she said authoritatively, "No. Cum with me. Cum inside me. No regrets."

Her demands made it impossible for him to not shoot his load inside her as rope after rope of hot cum filled her up and her pussy milked his cock for every last drop of it, her creamy tits bouncing with the rhythm of their fucking. She screamed in unison with his orgasm. He had fucked her, and hard and her mound had eaten up every last drop he had to give her.

They lay there, out of breath and aching from the intensity of it all, unsure of what to say, the sink still disassembled. She had no idea what to say or do. He pulled out, a last drop of cum clinging to the slit of his cock. She leaned over and licked it off, gently placing her hand on him as she did so. He began to grow hard again and she knew he wanted more. She had cum, hard and wasn't sure if she could ride the second wave but he saw her reluctance and stated forcefully, "I am not done with you yet. And you, have not had nearly enough of me, I can tell."

He reached his hands out to her and gently slid her body away from him a bit, her legs falling back open in the process. It was too late to take it back now and she was aching to feel his gentle lips nursing her tits, sucking on them, licking the barbells in her piercings. Almost as though he could read her mind he lay her back down in the puddle and sucked on her nipples, his had sliding down to find her pussy drenched in his own cum. He rubbed a circle around her clit as he nursed her breasts then slid one finger inside her cunt, still throbbing from her last orgasm. He moved it around inside her until it was nice and wet and then pulled it out and slipped it unashamedly into her tight, resistant asshole, leaving the comfort of her bosom and bringing his face in down between her legs to taste her pussy and the mess he had made while fucking her ass.

Immediately, her body responded to his manipulations and he knew exactly what to do, pressing his tongue into her clit and that flat part of his clean-shaven chin into her pussy as he wrangled his finger into the forbidden abyss of her ass. Moira's thighs began to tighten around his head and tremble. He felt their fullness swallowing him up, his strong hand lost inside her flesh. He felt her clenching down on his finger as wave after wave or the most intense body orgasm she had ever had washed over her and she undulated against him, taking in all that he gave her and fucking his face. She came again. Then, not to be outdone as a lover, she began excitedly sucking his hard cock, twisting her hand around it and rubbing the wetness on her nipples until he could hold back no longer and yelled loudly as his cock, ripe with spasms, sprayed hot cum all over her tits.

Time and space ceased to exist as he moved away from her body. She lay there limply, spent and satiated, fucked beyond repair. Then what she was waiting for came to her. He kissed her on the lips; she tasted her own pussy and his cum on his tongue. Without the right words for the situation, she refused to unlock her gaze from his until he finally spoke. "See, you threw yourself at me and look what happened."

She laughed and grabbed her soaked kimono, covering herself, appreciating the cool, wet silk and sitting up against the cupboards as he stood, dressed and told her he had to get a part for the sink from his workshop. As he walked out the door, she headed to the shower; convincing her self it was all a dream. She came out of the shower, clean of her desires, he was fixing the sink and he began asking about her painting as though nothing had happened.

Weeks later in the parking lot, Rylee, in his baseball cap, she almost relived the whole delicious dream as he was talking to her about how he had to replace a 70 pound support beam on one of the bridges between building and how sore it had made him. She started dreaming back to that incident and fantasized about ways to break her sink again.