The Deck

"Why's that?"

"Well, I'm guessing I just sort of fade out of their minds after they write the last check. And I'm outside of their social circle. Most of the people I work for seem pretty well off. They can afford me, anyway, and I'm not the cheapest carpenter around. And really, do any of your friends invite carpenters to their parties?"

He looked right at her as he said this, blue eyes not betraying anything, not a challenge really, but not humor, either.

She smiled, lifting one corner of her mouth, and said, "No, I guess not. I never thought about it, but no. You're the only carpenter I've ever known."

He continued looking straight into her eyes, then said, "Yeah, I thought so. But I've never had a lawyer and his pretty wife to a party at my place, either." Then he smiled, his eyes suddenly laughing, and part of her melted at the honesty. She laughed, deeply, happily, and reached out to touch his hard shoulder once more, in the moment.

After lunch that day, she'd retreated to her office. She spent a long time just sitting, thinking. The carpenter left, only saying, "See you tomorrow," the new door closing with authoritative clunk. A diesel motor starting in the driveway, then silence.

When her husband came home, that same photo of the carpenter was up on her screen. That night at dinner, she'd suggested that her husband stay home one day to meet the carpenter.

"Why?" he'd asked. "I mean, they guy's doing a nice job, you're comfortable with him, why do I need to take time off to meet someone we'll never see again?"

"Why do you say that? You'd like him."

"Come on," her husband said. "Be real. What do we have in common with him? Only that he's working on our house."

"How can you say that? You've never met him."

"Okay, what do we have in common with him?" her husband asked.

"Well, uh, shit, I don't know. He's funny sometimes, and forthright. He really likes to explain why he's doing whatever it is to the house."

"Like either of us really gives a shit about that," he said.

She'd dropped it at that. Later on, they fucked, but she was only fulfilling that morning's implied promise with no real desire. She just laid back, let him caress and kiss her body but she didn't really warm up until those blue eyes crept into her imagination. Concentrating on that vision, she forgot whose mouth was on her breasts, whose teeth nibbled her nipples, whose tongue twirled her clit. Her husband loved using his mouth on her, and that made her horny, but she never came from it. But as she had the night before, she orgasmed with the carpenter in her mind, ass clenching, thrusting against the mouth on her mound, her husband's mouth.

She was aware then of air, of suddenly not being touched. Breath coming heavily, she opened her eyes, looked at her husband. She knew what he wanted, knew without his next words, knew that he somehow understood what was happening in his wife's mind.

"I want you to suck my cock. To come in your mouth."

She'd never been able to let that happen. She'd taken his cock in her mouth, given him hand jobs until he came on her tits and neck, even let him fuck her ass, but the idea of him coming in her mouth just overwhelmed her.

"No, I can't," she said. "You know that."

"Can't or won't?" her husband said. His voice changed then, became mean. "You'd probably suck that carpenter's cock, let him come where you don't let me."

Her breath caught, just a slight hesitation before she said, "No, no. I couldn't. No."

Faster than she could explain, he became something she'd never seen.

"Fucking slut."

He jumped up and straddled her chest, knees on her upper arms, hurting her, but she couldn't cry out because he was pulling her head to his cock, forcing it into her mouth, then he was fucking her mouth, thrusting violently, his cock rasping her throat, filling her nose with his pubic hair, gagging her even before he came.

A week passed, the door long finished, siding replaced so that the original and the new melded perfectly, and the deck neared completion. The day was hot, and the carpenter stood comfortably in front of the kitchen sink drinking water from a sweating glass tumbler.

There are events in our lives we can never retreat from, moments of no return we charge through with little thought. Her husband raping her mouth had been one such moment. Hers happened when she overcame the butterflies in her stomach, walked up behind the carpenter and touched his hard shoulder. He'd just set down the water glass on the counter, and he stood stock still.

What the hell? she thought, sliding her hand down his arm and pressing her T-shirt clad breasts to his back. Nearly as tall as he, she rested her chin at the base of his neck, and kissed his skin. She relished the salt taste of his slight sheen of sweat.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.

"Yes."

He still hadn't moved, and her arms wrapped his chest, opening his shirt button by button, feeling his taught nipples, then the hard muscles of his belly. Trembling slightly, breathing shallow, her right hand ran over the front of his shorts, reaching for the expected hardness of his cock.

No disappointment there, she thought.

Pulling him away from the counter and turning him towards her, she kissed his neck, his chest, nibbled his nipples, all the while palming his cock through his shorts. Mouth pressed to his left nipple, feeling its firmness and small, hardening bud against her tongue, she pulled the end of his belt through its loops, pulled it off the buckle's prong and then it was loose. One hand on his back for balance, she fumbled with the button on his pants, pulled hard on corner of the fabric, and the button opened. Not waiting to unzip, her hand slid into his pants, and found his cock, hard and wanting.

Sinking to her knees, she slid her cheek against his chest and belly hair felt as she moved down. Her hands squeezed his ass, pulling him to her. Now both hands working on his zipper, him leaning against the counter. Zipper open, a tug drops the shorts to the floor.

This, she later felt, was the moment of infidelity, his cock inches from her eyes, hard, the ridge around its head converging in twin curves to the hole from which she'd soon make him come. Taking the base of his cock in her right hand, she moved her mouth toward him, tonguing that ridge she knew would be so sensitive. Rewarded by a slight trembling of his knees, she took the head into her mouth, adjusting the angle of her head so his hardness slid easily inward. For the first time, she melted at that moment when her lips, moist and smooth, engulfed the round head and the salty taste of his lubricating ooze hit her tongue. She wanted to please him, to make him come, to regain control of herself.

She looked up into his blue eyes for some seconds, moving him in and out slowly. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated. Moving her head up and down, matching the rhythm with that of her hand on his shaft, she enjoyed the feel of him in her mouth, the sweaty, musky smell of him, the occasional coarseness of his pubic hair on her cheek.

She felt his tension building as he matched her motions with small thrusts. Once or twice he touched her hair, but mainly kept his hands on the counter for balance. When the small moans started, she knew he would come soon, knew because she could feel his hard cock become even harder as he clenched his ass and tried to thrust deeper. His ejaculation was intense, the streams of semen from multiple contractions warm and salty on her tongue. When she felt him relax, she backed of his cock, her lips tight around him all the way to the head, cleaning him off as she freed him.

Take that, you bastard, she thought.

Two weeks later, she sent the carpenter a photo. She took the photo late in the afternoon as the deck was christened with a tropical theme party. Mai tais and Daquaris, Hawaiian shirts and leys. Lawyers and their wives, a Bose sound system, and not a callous on any hand.