Plumbered

"Honey, you got me all hot and bothered with this talk," she said in a husky voice. "You know what you gotta do now."

I did know and when she turned and moved me down on my knees between her thighs, we both knew where this was going. I hiked her skirt up around her waist, stripped off her silken panties, took her cock in my mouth, and Claire lay back into the sofa cushion and hummed while I gave her head until she was fully erect. And when this transvestite was fully erect, she was something to behold. She was thicker than Trevor and longer than Bud was. I moved up into her lap, facing her, skewered my passage on her cock, and, while she grasped and squeezed and separated my butt cheeks, I rode her very nice shaft.

For an encore, she bent me over the arm of the sofa, when a strong hand pressing my neck down, my cheek plastered to the sofa cushion, while she took her time entering me with that monster cock of hers. When she was in and setting up a rhythm, she whistled, "Shit, baby, you been practicing. That plumber has been plumbing you great and giving you religious instruction." I had set the muscles of my passage walls to undulate over her ramrod hard shaft. As usual, she was barebacking me. She had plenty of cum to give, and I coaxed it all out of her as she pumped me hard and deep. Claire didn't have the exotic, athletic positions that Bud had, but she fucked the shit out of me in a Bulldog doggy.

I had lied to Bud about who Claire was and what she was to me—I had met her in a Philly bar and moved here because she'd told me about the fixer upper in an upscaling market next door to her. I had no idea what a plumber would think about sharing me with a transvestite.

* * * *

I was mellow through Monday, and both moaning and purring, thanks to Bud and Claire, but by Tuesday, I was beginning to get antsy again. I was such a slut; having gotten gloriously plowed only keyed me up for more. Claire would have calmed that down if I asked her too, but my body craved what Bud gave. By Wednesday, I found myself racing to the front porch as soon as I heard the truck pull into the driveway. A secretary from Brandywine Plumbers had called early in the morning to tell me that the parts for the kitchen faucet replacement were in and was that afternoon OK for a service call? Indeed, it was, I told her, not specifying that I was looking forward to two service calls in one. Maybe it was time to be laid on the dining room table.

It, indeed, was a Brandywine Plumbing truck that pulled into the driveway, but it wasn't Bud who got out of the truck. It was an old, fat guy going by the name of Sam.

"Yeah, I'm the guy who will be working on your plumbing upgrade now," he said.

Not a chance you're working on all the plumbing needs I have, I thought. I need work on my pipes, but not by you. But what I said was, "I thought it was a guy named Bud who was doing the upgrade."

"He begged off. Said he didn't want to be bogged down on one job needing the servicing so bad."

Were those Bud's exact words, I wondered. If so, it was a slap in the face. He didn't want me. He thought I was too needy. He'd taken what he wanted and didn't think I was worth the second fuck session. I was crushed. I thought I'd found exactly what I needed and wanted here in Wilmington.

I went to work slashing away at the overgrowth in the front yard to take out my frustration while Sam whistled while he worked in my kitchen.

I went over to Claire's for solace, dinner, and maybe a good late-evening fuck. After dinner I was standing at her kitchen window, looking at my front yard and contemplating what I needed to whack there next when a Brandywine Plumbers truck pulled up in my driveway and Bud got out of the truck. Lickety-split I was out of Claire's back door, climbing the fence between our back yards, and coming back around to the front of my house—thankfully in time to reach the front porch while Bud was still ringing the doorbell.

"Bud," I said.

"Patrick," he answered. The inflection of our voices said it all. We needed no more than that for me to realize that everything was right and glowing in the world.

An hour later, when he was taking a break from fucking me on my sofa, I spoke for the first time about anything other than where to put what and how fast and deep to do it.

"You didn't come to do the plumbing," I said. "From the way the other plumber said it, you didn't want to come."

"I don't want to do your plumbing, no," he answered, his fingers working my hole, working on opening me even more for the next insertion. "I don't want to be working jobs for anyone I'm also fucking. It don't work well to mix business and pleasure like that."

"So, you're going to be regularly fucking me?" I asked.

"What do you call this," he asked, with a laughed. He'd rolled on top of me and inserted Tab A in Slot B again. "After this let's do it on the dining room table."

I managed a laugh of my own and a response through my moan. "Is it going to be regular?"

"Every Wednesday and Saturday if you can take it."

"Absolutely, I can take it," I answered. It wasn't enough. I couldn't get enough of him inside me. But it was a start. I arched my back and raised my pelvis to him as he grasped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, thrust up into me, and started to pump in earnest.

Later, I lay on my back on the dining room table, my head arched over the side, and he stood on the floor leaning over me, his fists pressed into the surface of the table on either side of my torso, and my hands clutching him below his armpits, my thumbs pressed into his nipples as he moaned low in his chest and I gave him what he liked best with me, taking his shaft deep inside as he slow-fucked my throat. Giving Bud what he wanted most pleased me the most.