Hathaway

He was a big man but light on his feet. Building is a physical trade and he knew how to handle himself, moving gracefully despite his bulk. I don't know why I found him so attractive. Maybe it was his penchant for pink shirts... or possibly just the twinkle in his eye... but I think it all started when I watched him skip out of an attic window four precipitous storeys above the ground and climb the steep slate slope to remove, with one swift sharp tug, a piece of unnecessary guttering which my neighbour had had installed, God knows why, but seemingly for the express purpose of debouching a large quantity of rainwater onto my bathroom roof and causing a leak.

We hadn't discussed what he would do. I'd told him about the problem and showed him the offending piece through my attic window - he'd climbed out, like I said, with no more ado - and as he reached the gutter had turned and raised an eyebrow at me just ever so slightly - as if to judge whether my unscrupulousness matched his own. The merest answering smile and barely perceptible lift of the head from me and the deed was done - petty larceny, DIY, something necessary that didn't harm her and benefited me. Whatever.... He climbed back down the slope towards me, lofting the guttering casually in one hand, and passed it back through my window to me before climbing back in himself.

As I took the plastic section from him, I was surprised at how big it was - in situ it had looked about three or four feet long but in fact must have been nearer ten in length. Looking back out at the roof, the tell-tale gutter supports were all that remained to give away the fact that a piece of guttering had ever been there. It was structurally unnecessary and you'd have thought her builders would have told her that, but my neighbour was a crabby old woman, universally loathed, who hated me and made appallingly rude comments if ever she caught me wearing a skirt above my knees - as if it was any business of hers what I wore. The old can behave terribly badly and we let them get away with it because they are old and because we are much too nice to respond accordingly. When the old woman made her remarks I pretended to be deaf, even when she repeated them, and avoided her as far as possible. I expect her builders had stuck guttering all over the place just for the hell of it and charged her accordingly and it was just my misfortune that one extraneous piece was causing me problems. No way would a polite request have convinced her to have it removed. Instead I called on Hathaway, as I had done on several occasions in the past, and he did not fail me.

That time we said goodbye... he didn't charge me for the deed and I hid the guttering in our basement where it remained until, several years later, we moved house. For all I know it's there still as I certainly didn't take it with me.

The next house needed some roofing work on it and once more I called on Hathaway and he answered the call, dressed as usual in one of his pink shirts, as large and round and twinkly as ever. There's something comforting about big men, I find. Something reassuring, a bulwark to shelter behind. When I was a girl I liked thin intense boys but now that I was a grown-up it was big men that really did it for me. Not all big men, but when they had a presence, a self-assurance, I found that very sexy. Hathaway was thin on top and if you analysed his features, not much to look at but somehow none of those individual qualities mattered so much as the aura of the man. He always looked me directly in the eye, held my gaze, and seemed at ease in his skin in an enviable way. As usual I felt myself responding to what I felt was an undeniable, strongly sexual presence but no matter how he looked at me, nor how I looked back at him (probably hopelessly cowlike in my wide-eyed appreciation) he kept things strictly professional between us, did the work on the roof and went his way. Did he realise how often he featured in my fantasies? I had no way of telling. I fancied he always looked at me with a particular twinkle, but perhaps all women felt the same. Doubtless it was good for business.

The third time I moved house the circumstances had changed. I was on my own now. My ex-husband stayed in the family home and I moved into a dilapidated maisonette in one of the many old Victorian houses in town, with big rooms on the first floor but rather a rabbit-warren on the second, rooms which were of good size but, in estate-agent parlance, 'had potential'. In other words, the place needed a lot of work, but as you can imagine, money was tight. I did what I could on a shoe-string to make the place nice, while entertaining fantasies of new big rooflights to open up the poky upper floor. But I had to face reality - anything major would have to wait...

Although it was several years now since Hathaway's path had crossed with mine, I still thought of him more often, really, than was decent. Occasionally I'd see him driving his big white van through town and even when I couldn't see for sure that he was driving, I always saluted him and on occasion caught him waving back. So when one day I was walking home from work and saw him parked by the side of the road I raised my hand as usual. I didn't know what he was doing there - waiting for someone, as it turned out - and whether it was simply to idle away his time I don't know, but he beckoned me over. Of course I went up to his window and we started talking as if the last time had been three weeks ago, rather than three years.

As usual his eyes rested on me with, I thought, more than professional friendliness, an impression strengthened when he commented on how well I was looking. Since my divorce I'd had a rather flattering new haircut and had gone blonder (bearing always in mind Oscar's wonderful line about the widowed woman whose hair had 'gone quite gold with grief'). The stress and strain had trimmed a few pounds from my figure too and perhaps my new independence gave me more assurance and confidence - I certainly felt better about myself these days. I told him that I'd moved and where, and the plans I had for the place, even if they were only pipe dreams. He must have guessed my story from these spare details, as why else would I have moved from a large four-bedroomed detached house to a ramshackle maisonette in a worse part of town?

When I mentioned the attic rooms he told me to give him a ring and fished in his pocket for a card. At the time I wondered why he bothered to find one for me, as he knew I was perfectly well aware of where he lived and how to make contact. I stowed the card away in my purse and it was only later, much later, when I got the card out again to see if he'd moved himself that I noticed the only possible reason he could have had for giving it to me - it had his mobile number on it.

That card stayed in my purse for weeks. Every so often I'd get it out and think about whether to call him, tapping the card against the table-top, running through the possibilities in my head. The thing was, I couldn't really afford to put in the velux windows I had in mind for the attics, not now. I'd be getting him here entirely on false pretenses, just because I wanted to see him again, because I was free, because I could, because I felt there was a connection between us and that the attraction I felt to him was at least in part returned. I didn't know anything about his own circumstances though. He seemed like the married type to me, there was that sleek, well-cared-for aspect of him that implied a devoted wife behind the scenes, cooking him good meals and devotedly pressing that endless supply of pink shirts. In my imagination he was the loved and loving respected head of a large family, with several children of his own and a whole generation of grandchildren playing happily around his feet. It didn't make him any less of a lust-object, but it did make me wonder how much of my fantasy bore any relation to reality and how much was simply smoke and mirrors.

The only thing to do, really, was to call him. Otherwise I'd never know, and let's face it, neither of us were getting any younger. Our flirtation - or my mild obsession if such it was - had lasted now for about eight years. My usual inclination would have been to allow it to continue indefinitely, a source of mental enjoyment, with no resolution that could put an end to my self-indulgent fantasy. But since the divorce I'd become - not bolder, exactly - but more prepared to take risks - and anyway, things were different now. It had the potential to become more than a fantasy. So... I called him.

Somewhat to my relief, his 'phone was on voicemail so I left a message about windows and accepted that the ball was now back in his court, much the best place for it. Going on the pull was not and never had been my style... if that was what I was doing now. It was perfectly possible that Hathaway would come and look at the attics and make his recommendations - and I already knew he'd be persuading me to have the biggest windows possible as he had successfully done in both my previous houses - and I would thank him and he would go and that would be that. Particularly as I didn't actually have the money to have him come back and do the work.

When he rang back to fix when he was coming round, I felt sure my voice must be betraying me. It wobbled stupidly so that I felt sure my hidden purpose must be utterly revealed. But he was smoothly professional as usual on the 'phone and when we said goodbye I felt idiotic at the way my stomach was churning. Lust and fantasy were reducing me to a gibbering idiot but my mind was racing way ahead of us and I felt as embarrassed and foolish now when speaking to him as if the contents of my head were laid bare before him in every last humiliating detail. I realised as I hung up the 'phone that I was scarlet to the roots of my hair, my pulse was racing and that I'd broken out in a sweat. What I'd be like when he came round the next evening after work I could not bear to imagine.

That night in bed I lay there while thoughts and sensations ran riot in my mind. I kept imagining touching him, feeling his hands on me and wondering how his mouth would feel, whether it would be soft or hard, warm or cool, dry or smooth against my lips. In my imagination my own mouth slid across his cheek, his stubble rough against my skin. I tried to imagine the smell of him, whether it would be sweat or soap or maybe some sort of cologne. Over and over again his body pressed itself against mine and my fingers probed the heat of my cunt through the smooth silk of my night-dress. The cool fabric bunched under my fingers, becoming creased, hot and damp as in my mind's eye it was his hard fingers that felt for me, slipping inside my cunt which was now open and dripping with juice. My breath now coming fast and shallow I moaned as my orgasm took me, my body tensing as every hair on my head stood briefly on end. Sated, for the present, I turned onto my side and drifted off into a deliciously relaxed sleep.

The next morning I told myself to stop being so silly about it all and that when Hathaway came round that evening I'd be business-like and that nothing would happen. I'd have come home from the office and as far as he was concerned it was a work appointment and I wouldn't make any sort of effort to turn it into anything else.

But of course I changed when I got in. I hadn't been able to concentrate properly at work, even though I scolded myself thoroughly for my daftness. All right, I hadn't been fucked for weeks and the strain was beginning to tell - just a little! - but even so, I told myself, there was no excuse for this shameless abject display. Nevertheless as I hovered in front of my wardrobe, seemingly full of things none of which were suitable to wear - what DID one wear to seduce one's builder anyway? - and pulled items out at random, I felt quite purposeful and calmer, thank goodness, than I had for a few days now. OK, I'd keep things cool and not expect anything to happen, but on the other hand this was my opportunity and the next couple of hours could lay my ghost one way or another. I'd just have to give it my best shot...

In the end I chose clothes that were neither flagrantly suggestive nor particularly smart, but I made sure I was wearing my favourite plunge bra, a fairly revealing top to show off the effects of the bra on my cleavage, and a shortish skirt - which for me meant an inch or two above my knees, nothing ludicrous, though that old witch who once lived next door to me would no doubt have had a field day had she still been around to see it. I redid my lipstick and that was that - I'd shaved my cunt first thing as usual and it still felt pleasantly smooth, not stubbly. And of course I never wore knickers.... So not too much effort, then, so that when Hathaway came and went without incident, as I told myself was almost bound to happen, I wouldn't feel too much like a bride left standing at the altar. Nevertheless when the doorbell went and I hurried downstairs to let him in, my mouth was dry and my heart thumping noticeably in my chest.

There he was, looming rather large in my narrow entrance hall, looking quite smart himself in one of his inevitable pink shirts and dark trousers. I said hello and preceded him up the stairs. I asked him if he'd like a cup of tea and he said maybe later, but that it would be a good idea to look at the attics while there was still some light. So I took him up the second flight of stairs, into the first bedroom, which had a very small dormer window right over on one side of the room - it was the 'better' of the two larger rooms, the only one with a dormer, but the dormer was totally inadequate really. Although I kept a lot of my clothes up here, and a spare bed, I was actually using one of the downstairs rooms as my bedroom - these rooms just felt too claustrophobic without much natural light. There was a great view out of the dormer, but you had to be standing right in it to see. Hathaway measured up and we started talking about what size of Velux would be appropriate. Just as I'd expected, Hathaway started talking about one which would take up almost the entire roof slope - which would open the whole room up to the sky, the sun and the stars. He didn't need to persuade me, it was the money that would be the problem, but I discussed it with him as if the window size was the most important thing.

The larger back room only had a tiny skylight, and we had to pick our way past boxes I had yet to unpack so that Hathaway could measure up. All the time he was telling me what a difference a decent window would make in this room I was really wondering whether he was ever going to touch me and whether, if he didn't, I had the nerve to touch him... Finally we both squeezed into the other back attic, a boxroom really, where the only light came through a glass pane fitted in place of one of the slates. I peered up at the darkening sky through the tiny, grimy piece of glass, wishing I had infinite resources - this would make a great shower-room but that was entirely out of the question right now. Then I shook myself back to the present and the entirely more pressing matter of Hathaway and my physical need and desires. While we were in this confined space surely I could press up against him and if he didn't respond then I could make out it had been nothing intentional in any case. But even though, looking at him standing so close to me, so large and physically present, seemingly glowing with some sort of sexual halo in the gloomy little room, my body began to melt and open..... despite all that, I found myself incapable of moving so much as a muscle in his direction - it just wasn't me, that sort of thing. I could have moaned aloud with frustration. So near and yet... I became aware that Hathaway was looking at me with an amused expression on his face. Goddamit - I think I DID moan aloud! He reached out and - miracle of miracles - took me by the wrist. Well, it was a start.

'Steady' he said. 'You OK?'

I muttered something about being fine but, alarmingly aware of his fingers encircling my wrist, felt myself sway towards him, ineluctably drawn - of course, he would think that in the confined space I was simply feeling a bit faint... which I was... but not because of the lack of air. As I staggered slightly he moved his fingers from my wrist and I felt both his hands take me by the shoulders, firmly. I let myself lean against him, taking advantage of his nearness. I was very aware of my body, the pulse beating fast in my blood, the loose drawstring neck of my top falling down from one shoulder. As he put an arm around me to hold me there I still wondered whether this was entirely concern for my well-being. I could feel his fingers stroking my back gently and I sighed in pleasure. That signaled my feelings quite clearly... even though my face was buried in his shoulder and he couldn't see my expression. If he could, he'd have seen blissful surrender. It felt so good to be in a man's arms again, particularly this man's arms, even if I had got there under false pretenses.

I pressed myself against him, loving the solid feel of him, not daring to move my face up to look at him, not sure what I would see. But the fingers massaging my back moved now under the flimsy fabric of the blouse I was wearing and made contact with my bare skin. I shivered with pleasure, feeling my cunt well with juices. I opened my mouth against the soft skin at the base of his neck and kissed him there, gently. I was rewarded with an answering tremor from him and his free hand stroked my hair lightly, then moved to touch my face and turn it towards him. I opened my eyes when I felt him looking at me. He was still smiling but there was a slightly quizzical look in his eyes. I didn't want to see that but I smiled as I shut my eyes again. That seemed to satisfy him for I felt his mouth against the side of my face and I turned back towards him, wanting to be kissed properly. As our mouths met, I felt his fingers loosening the tie at the front of my blouse and then both his hands sliding it down my shoulders. I pulled my arms free and put them up around his neck as he first ran his fingers over the tops of my breasts, left exposed by the deep plunge of the bra, then slid them underneath the dark blue lace, cupping my breasts in his hands, then pulling them out from their lacy cradle. My nipples, hardening, wanted his fingers on them, needed to be pinched and played with. He looked down at them, appreciatively, tugging softly on one nipple as he lowered his mouth to the other, biting down gently with his teeth as I flexed against him, wetness now sliding down my thighs.

Almost I couldn't believe this was finally happening - this encounter I'd fantasised about for so long. And I wanted to remember every moment of it but my mind was switching off, as it always did when I was sexually aroused - I always got lost in the moment and it was a regret of mine that although I could almost always recall the flavour and intensity of a sexual encounter, I could rarely, if ever, remember it in any detail. The way he was playing with my nipples was driving me crazy with lust and I was grinding my body against his, one of his thighs trapped between mine - later he'd be sure to find a wet patch on his trouser-leg where I'd leaked cunt juice all over him. I couldn't take much more of this - I wanted him in me, one way or another. I allowed myself to slide down his body till I was on my knees at his feet and purposefully I unbuckled his belt, undid his trousers and slipped them down his legs. He smiled down at me, not stopping me, and watching while I pulled the waist elastic of his boxers out over his hard cock and then slid them down his thighs. Precum glistened at the head of his cock and I could smell that heady, musky male aroma. I buried my nose in his pubes and inhaled deeply, then licked the dewy tip of his penis before enveloping it in my mouth. Ah..... it felt good to have my mouth filled with him, to feel his hands on my head, stroking my hair at first, then holding me more tightly and pressing my mouth down harder, deeper... I sucked and caressed him with my tongue, alternating sucking with long exploratory licks up and down and around the shaft, then delving into the moist warmth between balls and thighs, sucking his balls into my mouth and holding them there gently, as fragile as eggs... tugging on them ever so softly... before releasing them and turning my attention to his cock once more.