Sophia's Choice Pt. 03

So confident was Sophia that she had Ulf ensnared in her web that she booked a personal day for herself almost as soon as she got to the office on Monday. Her attention then turned to what she would be wearing when Ulf arrived. She ran through a range of options - négligée, tight fitting jumper, see-through blouse, mini dress - before deciding on a slightly subtler number. After all, her very presence would be indication enough that she wanted more than woodworking services from him that day. So, it was to be a sexy office look (as if she was working from home): silk blouse, uplift bra, knee-length skirt and two-inch heels. The latter she felt was an important touch, since so many men had a thing for feet and stylish shoes. She would leave it to the day to decide whether she would wear stockings or not.

Sophia admired Ulf's discipline, as he held off texting her until seven o'clock that evening. Of course, it came as no surprise to Sophia that his boss had given him the day off: he'd probably told him that his girlfriend had a family crisis, if she knew men. Sophia toyed with the idea of making a jokey referring to his toolbox or instrument, but thought better of it. For one thing, these messages might be read by others; for another, such heavy-handed come-ons weren't really in her line. Instead, she sent him pictures of the study, indicating where she wanted the shelves put up. She knew it wouldn't be a difficult or long job for a professional, which suited her just fine. He said he'd get started around eight thirty.

The days seemed to drag by until Friday morning finally dawned. On Thursday evening, she had returned home a bit earlier than usual to tell the temp that she wouldn't be required on the following day - news that had been received most gratefully by the woman. She hadn't of course told Peter about her personal day, since he knew about Ulf's visit, and had dressed as if for a normal work day. As soon as first Peter and then the kids had left the house, at around ten past eight, she popped upstairs and took off her sensible white cotton blouse. She was about to replace it with her royal blue satin blouse with bowtie and narrow plunging neckline, when she thought she'd put on some scent. Peter had bought her a bottle of her favourite Givenchy perfume for her birthday and there was still plenty left. Going into the bathroom, wearing her white push-up bra, she applied it to the key spots: behind her ears, on her neck, on her wrists, behind her knees and just a touch on her navel.

'In for a penny, in for a pound,' she thought, taking off her skirt and her bra and putting on a grey lingerie set that matched her high-waisted figure-hugging grey skirt with ornamental black belt. She fished out a pair of low grey heels, added a few spots of Givenchy to her clothing, then headed downstairs and placed the shoes by the kitchen door, ready to slip into when she heard the key turn in the lock. It was 8.25am, so she had only five minutes left to wait, if Ulf was on time. She poured herself a mineral water and sat at the kitchen table checking her messages.

I suppose you could call it fashionably late, but for Sophia the wait was agonising. As the clock ticked around to 9 o'clock, she thought about going upstairs and changing into sweatshirt and jeans. She felt as if she had been stood up. She had just turned on the De'Longhi coffee machine when she heard the door being opened. She froze like a deer in the headlights, before telling herself to snap out of it. She had planned the whole thing down to the last detail and now she had to execute those plans. With head held high, she breezed out of the kitchen into the hall and coughed to attract the attention of Ulf, who had his back to her, as he placed the final load of shelving planks next to the others, which were leaning against the wall.

Turning round, he greeted Sophia with a laconic 'Good morning', as if her sudden appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. Sophia wasn't sure, but she fancied he gave her the once over before sitting down on the doormat in order that he might take off his boots. Then, without a word, in relays he took his large bag and the planks through to the study, the entrance to which was only a matter of yards down the hall. He was wearing a carpenter's tool belt, which housed various screwdrivers and other implements, as well as a tape measure.

He muttered his assent to Sophia's offer of a coffee, telling her he took it black with no sugar. Sophia went off to make it, wondering if the whole idea had been a big mistake. Had she been misinterpreting his signals? Had he actually been sending any signals? When she brought him the coffee together with a piece of deli bought carrot cake, he thanked her and asked her if she was going out.

Sophia could sense the sexual tension. He had ratcheted it up with one question - not a real question seeking an answer, but a challenge to test her mettle. She was literally aquiver with desire. Holding onto the door handle to give herself support, she replied that she had much to do around the house and hoped that he would excuse her. She would bring him refreshments at eleven and they could have lunch together at one o' clock if that suited him. He told her he had brought sandwiches and she offered to put them in the fridge for him if he'd like that. He said there was no need and she left him and went upstairs to fetch her laptop, before resuming her place at the kitchen table, so she could respond if he wanted anything. Yes, she thought, anything.

SEVEN

She was so wound up that she could barely concentrate on the emails she needed to respond to or the documents she needed to read. When she looked at the clock, it wasn't yet ten o'clock. She badly wanted to go and check on his progress, to watch as he used his drill and his screwdriver. Drill. Screwdriver. The very words caused her to tremble. She felt herself getting wet fantasising about him carrying her upstairs and ravishing her on her bed.

About him ripping her satin blouse into shreds, about him undoing her belt with unnecessary force and hurling it across the room, about him sending the six buttons that fastened her skirt flying all over the floor as he wrenches it down to the floor, about him pushing her bra up without unfastening it to reveal her breasts, about him yanking her panties down as far as they will go before they wedge against her garter straps.

After that, he takes his dick out and, refusing to let her touch it, drives it into her pussy as he stands beside the bed, manhandling her all the while as if she were a rag doll. After using her, he packs up his things and leaves her. This part she doesn't like. But those are the breaks. This is her fantasy and it has taken on a life of its own. She no longer owns it; it owns her.

Excited and disturbed in equal measure, Sophia pretends she needs to get a book from the study. He doesn't acknowledge her, doesn't turn around, doesn't stop his planing and his sanding. He works fast. Maybe he will be finished before lunch. Maybe he has had second thoughts about betraying Petsi. Maybe he never had any first thoughts. She asks him if he'd like a glass of mineral water. He thanks her but says no - he has his own water. She asks him what he would like for elevenses: Earl Grey, Ceylon tea, peppermint, another coffee, something cold. He says Earl Grey would be fine - milk, one sugar. She decides she'll bring him a couple of Petsi's macarons. She doesn't know why. He will know that she has baked them. Well, if he wants to call the whole thing off over some macarons, then let him. She'll find herself a real man. There must be plenty out there.

She brings a tray to the study at eleven o'clock and they take their mid-morning refreshments together. He's noticeably more communicative and she catches him looking at her ankles and calves, while he pretends to be randomly running his eyes over the carpet as he bites into his macaron. She responds by uncrossing and recrossing her legs. She watches him as his eyes move up to her thighs and beyond. Progress is definitely being made.

She asks him what time he thinks he will be through, and he says he will probably have everything done by lunch, bar the first coat of the resin-tung oil with which he will coat the wood. Sophia's heart leaps when she realises that he is creating a pretext for spending the afternoon with her; she knows coating the shelves isn't a time-consuming job. He tells her he will need to come back and apply a second coat over the weekend. That means meeting Peter. Well, she is a good enough actress to pretend that she is meeting him for the first time too.

She leaves him to his work and prepares herself a salad for lunch, just to occupy her mind and calm her nerves. She puts it in the fridge and returns to her work with her equilibrium almost fully restored, able to concentrate on the latest compliance report drafted by members of her team, to mark up the changes that need making and request the drafting of additional sections. Around half past twelve, she puts on a pair of sneakers and pops down to the nearest shop to get some mints, which she might suck on after lunch. When she returns, it is almost one o'clock - the witching hour, the time for extraordinary events to occur.

She waits in the kitchen while Ulf washes up in the downstairs bathroom. When he comes in, he has lost his bulky belt and carries the pleasant oaky aroma of his work. They sit opposite each other, eating the food they have prepared, drinking mineral water. Sophia makes the first move, rubbing his foot with her shoe. He looks her in the eye. Something Sophia can't identify is in his look. It's not passion per se; it's more like the state that precedes passion. In meteorological terms, it's like the darkening of the sky that precedes the first faint rumblings of thunder.

She brings her other foot into play, so that both her feet (still in their shoes) are rubbing each of his. He wipes his hands on his napkin, moves the plates and glasses out of the way, and, taking Sophia's hands in his, pulls her across the table and kisses her fiercely. He remains seated while she, the shorter partner, is in a half-standing position, her stomach pressed - not unpleasantly - against the table's rounded edge. He runs one hand through her hair, while the other - the more impulsive one - seeks out her breast...both breasts.

Letting hold of her for just a moment, he walks around the table, helps her to her feet, lifts her up and carries her upstairs. When they get to the landing, she whispers 'left' into his ear and he takes her to her bedroom and lays her gently on the bed. He takes her shoes of and kisses her stockinged feet. 'God, this is going to be good,' she thinks.

Leaving her lying on her back - her legs slightly bent for comfort, her arms pulled back so that her hands could play with her hair - Ulf began to undress, never taking his eyes off Sophia as he did so, as if afraid she might vanish. He was wearing nothing beneath his blue cotton twill shirt (hardly something a carpenter normally wore, Sophia thought). Sitting on the bed beside her, he took off his socks and then his jeans, then stood so she could get a good look at his muscular body. Sophia noticed that he was virtually hairless on his chest and in the lower abdominal area. Of course, she also noticed the bulge in his briefs.

Before proceeding further, he bent down to kiss Sophia, whose head was at the foot of the bed. This time there was more feeling in the kiss. Sophia was just getting lost in the wondrous sensations that were sweeping through her body when he broke the kiss and asked her to take off his one remaining item of clothing. Raising herself so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, she ran her fingers from his chest over his six-pack down to his belly button. As she proceeded further south, she saw his penis twitch in its cage. Running her fingers over the elastic waistband, she continued down until she found his ball sac. She rubbed it gently before starting the journey along his shaft, which jerked periodically as she made her way to journey's end. Considering that he was sufficiently aroused for the time being, she eased the fabric over his tumescence, watching in delight as the flesh coloured, circumcised weapon was revealed for the first time.

'I don't think I'll be able to get enough of Thor's hammer,' thought Sophia, as she imagined it smashing to smithereens any inhibitions she might still have, strange as that may sound to the reader of her story. ('O, wad some Power the giftie gie us, to see oursels as others see us!' and all that...)

'Would you like me to lick it?' asked Sophia a little redundantly.

'If it isn't too much trouble,' replied the enigmatic Swede.

'Little Ulf looks like big trouble,' laughed Sophia.

There was no moaning or other noises from the self-contained Swede as Sophia got to work on his phallus. This was a little disconcerting at first - a bit like listening to a sitcom with no canned laughter. Something felt like it was missing. Sophia plugged away just the same, feeling a lot better when Ulf employed the time-honoured hand-around-the-base-of-the-head trick to encourage her to go deeper.

'Houston, we have lift-off!' she thought.

But even after this encouraging sign it wasn't all plain sailing. She might have been churning away as if her very life depended on it, but Ulf was so motionless (and of course quiet) that she thought he must have fallen asleep on his feet - like a horse. She was about to pop up to check on the state of play when she felt that old familiar feeling via the various receptors that obviously measure these things in her mouth and throat.

'It takes all sorts to make a world,' she reflected, as wads of his jism shot down her oesophagus.

Sophia had never seen Ulf as animated as when he thanked her for her 'expert fellatio'. Apparently, very few women had ever managed to make him come orally, including Petsi. Sophia ticked him off for telling secrets out of school and was going to offer him a bit of advice in respect of showing a bit of enthusiasm, but decided against it when she realised that this might jeopardise her chances of getting a good fuck. She knew how melancholic these Swedes could get. She once had a boyfriend who was an Ingmar Bergman fan and had taken her to see one of his films. It was easily the most depressing experience of her life. No, any advice she might dispense would have to wait until after the main event.

So, instead of a little lecture, Sophia told Ulf that his sperm was the tastiest she had ever swallowed, and that she was looking forward to receiving another load in her pussy, which was 'aching for his hammer'. If you want a man to perform in bed, the sure-fire way to achieve this is by acting like a brain-dead bimbo - especially if you are already blonde. It is a sad fact, but a fact, nonetheless.

To her enquiry as to whether he wished to rest before proceeding, he answered with the most animation he had yet shown that he was ready to give Sophia 'the fuck of her life', if she was ready to receive it. Demurely - she actually fluttered her eyelashes - Sophia replied that she thought she was, but now that she realised how big he was, she wasn't sure any more. Since that was the case, Ulf insisted on giving Sophia choice of positions.

Her mind suddenly flooded with images of Luca doing his wife 'like a sheep' at that incredibly acute angle, she asked Ulf how you said doggy-style in Swedish. When he told her that they used a word meaning 'from behind', she was distinctly underwhelmed, but understood that this was what you must expect from a country that had produced Greta Garbo and Ingmar Bergman. Putting her disappointment to one side, she asked him if he could do her 'from behind' but from a sharp angle.

At first, Ulf didn't understand. It had got to the point that Sophia was thinking about drawing a picture, even though her art skills weren't very strong, when, with the help of a bit of sign language, she got the message across. A broad smile lit his face. It was one of the positions which gave the most pleasure to women, he told her, beaming. Sophia beamed back, wondering how many women comprised the sample he was basing his research results on. They said you needed at least 30 participants to make a sample valid. Surely he hadn't had that many women in his relatively short life, And, if he had, had he really gone to the trouble of asking them to rank-order their favourite positions? Perhaps he passed out a questionnaire to save time, she thought.

So the bakifrån position (as she later learnt it was called) it was to be. Ulf prepped himself with a few stretches, evidently believing that ensuring his other muscles were in proper working order would help his love muscle function at its optimal level. Ulf clearly wasn't one for oral sex, or, if he was, he was content to dispense with preliminaries on this occasion. Lining up his schlong at such an extreme angle that he grazed Sophia's asshole on the way down, he slowly eased himself into her tight passage.

'God, that feels good,' Sophia thought, channelling her inner Swede by refraining from making any declaration.

Ulf seemed to derive energy from their mime, moving his manhood inch by inch (or rather, in his terms, centimetre by centimetre) into the Englishwoman. In fact, he was the first party to break their mutual code of silence, commenting in favourable terms on the tightness of her pussy. This encouraged Sophia in the hope that he would compare her favourably to Petsi. She knew it was reprehensible, but, when her competitive juices started flowing, she just couldn't help herself.

Speaking of juices, as Ulf journeyed further into Sophia's tunnel, he perceived a change in the, so to speak, road surface conditions. They were slick with what appeared to be a mixture of oil and water. He would have to proceed with great caution; otherwise, he knew that he risked going into a spin. As a child, he used to watch motor rallying in the winter with his father from the side of a country road, and had looked on with awe as cars would fail to take the corner and go somersaulting into the distance through hedges and across fields. He realised that this was a very real possibility for him now if he allowed himself to lose control.

He wasn't helped in his commitment to health and safety by his co-driver, who at this most critical of points chose to forget her role of helpmate and map-reader, and started acting in a manner guaranteed to put life and limb in danger. She'd even unbuckled her safety belt and jettisoned her crash helmet.

Despite this, Ulf thought he had reached his destination in one piece and was on the point of congratulating himself on a job well done, when the wheels came off. The road he was travelling along at high speed suddenly started to break up. As fast as he managed to avoid the potholes, new ones appeared - wider and deeper than those he had circumvented before. There was only one thing for it: he had to bale out before the car entered into a deadly spin. But he was too late. The landscape appeared to be unfolding around him and he couldn't find the door handle, or even the door. Ragnarök was upon him: the twilight of the gods, the end of the world! There was only one thing for a Norse warrior to do: die with glory. Ulf did not disappoint his ancestors. Neither, he found, once he had awoken from his reverie, had he disappointed Sophia, who lay exhausted but sated before him.

As they lay on the bed in the Nordic version of coital bliss - saying nothing to each other - Sophia had two things on her mind. First, she mustn't let Ulf go before he'd applied the varnish, or whatever it was, and, second, she wanted to draw him out a bit on Petsi. What was the deal with her? Had she dated a lot of men before Ulf? Did they have an open relationship? Was she into women? As always, she knew it was best to start by oiling the wheels with a bit of flattery.