The Handyman

The clouds obscured the blue Fort Lauderdale sky as the hurricane approached. The moss-covered limbs of the ancient oaks began to sway grudgingly against the ominous sky, while the flowy, fern-like leaves of the Royal Poinciana danced in the breeze as if the storm were already upon us. The wind in the palms created a low-frequency buzzing like a chorus of cicadas admonishing me to hurry.

I stood on the ladder outside, lifted the last sheet of plywood over the bedroom window, and drove long screws into the wall to hold it in place. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder announced the rain as I grabbed my tools and ran for the door.

I had been outside all morning, boarding up the windows, while Cathy made a last-minute run for supplies. She had just brought in the last of them when I stepped through the heavy front door, set my tools on the floor, and bolted it. She was singing along with Clapton as Derek and the Dominoes played Layla on the radio.

At 6' 2" and 250 pounds, I took up a lot of space in our kitchen, but still feeling every bit of the morning's labor. My shirt was damp with rain and sweat, my brown hair plastered to my forehead.

“Good thing you made it in when you did. You look like you’ve been through a storm already,” she said, tossing me a towel.

Cathy was looking good in a white tank top and denim cut-offs. The top was stretched tight across her impressive rack, while her Daisy Dukes hugged her rounded hips and showcased her fantastic ass. She was five-foot-nothing of pure athletic energy, her light blonde hair falling in messy waves to the middle of her back. Her hiking boots highlighted the tanned, muscular curve of her legs.

“Well, that should hold us,” I said, “We’re officially locked down.”

“Just in time from the sound of it,” she said as the first wave of wind and rain pummeled the house. I dried my hair with the towel and put my tools away. As I put them in the closet, I brought her up to speed on the morning's activities, telling her how I serviced her hurricane lamps, put away the patio furniture, and boarded up the windows. I shut the door and turned around to see that my report had fallen on deaf ears.

She was leaning back against the counter, looking me up and down, completely absorbed in her thoughts. Her arms were crossed as she played with her bubble mint gum, pulling a long, thin strand of sticky gum from her mouth, stretching it past her chin, and twirling it. With a deft flick of her tongue and a slow, reeling motion of her jaw, she began to draw it back into her mouth where it disappeared behind a slight smirk. She resumed chewing it for a few seconds before repeating the process.

I found her oral fixation adorable and utterly arousing.

Her eyes drifted down my damp, sweaty frame to my rugged work boots, then back up my legs to my shorts. They lingered on my obvious bulge, and with a deliberate, powerful flex, I made it twitch beneath the denim. The movement was sharp and undeniable. Her jaw stopped mid-chew, the long string of gum she’d been reeling in freezing for a heartbeat before she flicked it back into her mouth with a sharp, satisfied snap. Her eyes shot up to mine, dark with a primal heat as a slow smirk spread across her face.

I put my hands on my hips and assumed my 'handyman' persona.

“The windows are all boarded up, ma’am. Time to pay up,”  I said with a deep, gravelly voice.

She pushed her gum back in her mouth and said, “Gosh, mister. I spent all my money on hurricane supplies. I don't know how I’m gonna pay you for all that wood,” she said, leaning into the role play.

“Well, there’s a substantial amount of wood hanging, lady, and it has your name on it.”

She pushed off the counter and walked over to me, putting her palms on my chest, looking up at me with her baby blues.

“Gee, I’d hate to leave you hanging, mister. Maybe I can offer an...oral agreement…as a down payment and settle the rest of the bill later?”

“Well, I don’t usually give credit, lady, so your proposal had better be good.”

"Oh, I think you'll find it to be very...comprehensive."

Cathy plucked the gum out of her mouth and pressed it to the counter, her eyes never leaving mine. She put her arms around me and we slow-danced for a minute.

“Let me ease your worried mind, handyman,” she whispered. She rose onto her tiptoes, her warm body a firm weight against me, and gave me a minty, demanding kiss.

Her hands slid from my chest down to my shorts, squeezing my growing bulge with both hands. With a sharp tug, she popped the button and unzipped me. She reached inside, one hand cupping my hefty balls, the other grabbing my growing cock. She eased my boxers down, and my cock sprang free, throbbing to the beat of my heart. She wrapped her fingers around the base, stroking my length, and teased the tip with her thumb as it oozed precum.

She looked up at me through long lashes and slowly dropped to her knees on the terrazzo. She swirled her tongue around the head, licking precum from the slit before parting her lips and taking me into the heat of her mouth. She licked and sucked noisily, teasing the sensitive ridge, swirling her wet tongue around the glans. She used her hand to guide the rhythm, bobbing her head with a slow, deliberate suction.

I put my hand on the back of her head and pushed my cock past the threshold of her throat. She swallowed me again and again, her throat working in powerful, rhythmic gulps, making her ‘proposal’ with every hungry stroke.

Outside, the storm intensified, the thunder a low, rolling boom that vibrated through the house. I buried my fingers in her hair, my hips bucking instinctively as the tension coiled in my gut, a white-hot pressure that became a massive, unstoppable wave of pleasure.

As I reached the point of no return, I flooded her mouth with pulsing jets of hot, creamy cum that splattered the back of her throat. She drank me down greedily, her insatiable throat milking me with noisy, powerful gulps.

I exhaled a long, shaky breath as she licked the tip, squeezing my balls, and claiming every last drop.

She looked up at me, a stray lock of blonde hair falling across her face as she stood up, giving me a slow, satisfied wink as Duane Allan’s crying bird ended the song.

"That was quite a proposal, lady... I think that more than covers the down payment,” I managed to rasp, my voice thick as my legs trembled with the aftershocks.

"Consider it a tip for the quality of the workmanship, handyman," she whispered, leaning in to give me one last lingering kiss that tasted of me and mint before she picked up her gum and popped it back in her mouth.

Playing for Keeps

“How was the crowd at Publix?” I asked.

“It was a madhouse,” she said, standing in the center of the kitchen, putting her hair up in a messy bun. “But I managed to get a good stock of supplies and some ice.”

I stood behind her, my hands on her hips, unable to resist kissing the back of her sweaty neck.

“Mmm...sweaty blonde girl, my favorite flavor.”

“Greg, if you keep sampling the merchandise, we're never going to get these supplies put away,” she said, leaning back into me and letting out a soft purr as she tilted her head to give me better access. I blew on her neck to cool her off and turned to address the supplies.

I looked from her to the kitchen island piled high with snacks, including three types of beef jerky, a case of Vienna sausages, six tins of butter cookies because they were on sale, Cheetos, and enough bottled water to float a boat.

“Are you sure you got enough stuff, Cathy?” I asked, putting a case of water in the freezer and the rest in the fridge with the ice. She dug through the pile of goodies and found a box of jerky.

"Don't judge the hoard, Greg. In a blackout, jerky is the only legal currency,” she said,  tossing me a stick.

“Here, snap into a Slim Jim,” she added, her voice light despite the low moan of the wind beginning to hammer against the shuttered windows.

I laughed and opened the jerky as we went into the living room. The local TV news played an endless satellite view of the storm churning across the Strait of Florida. The volume was off, and Lynyrd Skynyrd played ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ on the radio.

“So where’s the eye now?” I asked, taking a bite of the jerky.

“It should be across the strait by now. The next update’s in a few minutes,” she said.

“What do you think of my hurricane décor?” she asked, walking around the room, indicating the placement of her hurricane lamps with a flourish like a model on "The Price is Right". She had transformed the living room into a warm, intimate cavern of shadows. Without the natural light from the windows, the hurricane lamps cast a soft, amber glow over the room. The storm radio had a battery backup so we could still hear updates after the power went out.

“It’s perfect,” I said,  “The lamps make it cozy in here.” I pulled her close to steal a kiss, raking my fingertips across her ribs, tickling her to hear her laugh.   

“Stop,” she giggled, “it’s coming on.”

We sat on the couch as the Emergency Alert System sounded and the National Weather Service advisory came on. The Tropical Storm had been upgraded to a Category 2 Hurricane tracking northeast through the Everglades towards the Gold Coast. A hurricane warning was in effect from Cape Sable to Jupiter inlet, and it was just a matter of time before the full force of the storm was upon us. The gusting wind against the house was a reminder of the chaos all around us.

The update was not good. The storm surge and rain had flooded Key West, and the storm had made landfall at Cape Sable, with ten to twenty inches of rain forecast and tornado warnings in effect. The updated satellite image showed the storm had moved northeast, engulfing all of South Florida.

The storm came in waves; the sound of the rain pounding against the house was like static white noise in the background. Rogue gusts slammed into the house, making the entire frame of the building groan.

“Well, that sucks,” Cathy said.

“Yeah, the last thing we need is a tornado,” I agreed.

We sat on the couch, munching snacks and watching the storm coverage on TV. After an hour or so of gloom and doom, we got bored and turned the volume down. The radio station played classic rock blocks between updates, and a triple shot of ZZ Top came on, "Gimme All Your Lovin'", helping to drown out the sound of the storm.

Cathy got up to get some cards and knelt on the rug at the coffee table. I joined her, kneeling across the table from her, a hurricane lamp between us. The flickering lamplight danced across her face as she shuffled the cards. Her blonde hair was still pulled up in a messy bun that left the graceful curve of her neck exposed.

I sang along while she shuffled the deck.

“I got to have a shot...of what you got, it’s oh so sweet."

“Wanna play a game?” she asked, her blue eyes dark as she looked up at me. There was a heat in her expression that shifted the air between us, turning the simple act of shuffling into a prelude for a different game entirely.

“You gotta make it hot, like a boomerang. I need a repeat,” was my response.

“Maybe we can play rummy...or something," she teased, giving me a slow, calculated smirk—the kind that told me the cards in her hands were the last thing on her mind. I knew full well that the blowjob she gave me earlier had as much effect on her as it did on me. My cum was like an aphrodisiac to her, and I could tell by the look on her face that it was kicking in.

Cathy was the perfect wife. Level-headed and even-tempered with the heart of a saint, she was the calm in the eye of my storm. But behind closed doors, she was my fantasy girl, her carnal instincts were primal, uninhibited, and utterly insatiable; she became the storm itself.

“Gimme all your lovin’, don’t let up until we’re through.” I teased back.

We leaned across the table for a kiss - a deep, wet, smoldering wreck of a kiss. The cards slipped from her fingers, scattering across the tabletop. As we sank back onto our heels, she pulled the hair tie of her messy bun, shaking her head, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in a golden wave. I reached out to scoop up the scattered cards and shuffle them.

“I say we play a different game."

“And what game might that be?” she countered, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous silk.

“Strip poker. Five-card stud."

Cathy’s eyebrows shot up, a mischievous smile crossing her face.

"Strip poker? Are you sure you can handle losing all your clothes?" She gave me a slow, appraising sweep with her eyes, lingering on my damp shirt.

"Oh, I can handle you, little lady. Don’t forget you still owe me for services rendered, plus interest."

Cathy let out a low, throaty laugh.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten about your invoice, handyman," she purred, her eyes never leaving mine. "But just so we're clear—if I win this game, I expect a full hands-on survey of my finest assets."

She picked up her water bottle, taking a slow sip while holding my gaze, her expression shifting from playful to something much more predatory.

“And don’t you forget,” I said, “if I win, your assets will be seized to satisfy my invoice.”

As the song faded, she reached across the table and tapped the back of my hand, her pinky locking mine, our thumbs pressed together. The ‘handyman's bill’ hung in the air like a heavy, erotic debt.

"Deal the cards, handyman."

Suddenly, the loud blast of a transformer exploding outside shattered the night, briefly painting the cracks in the hurricane shutters with a sickly neon light. The violent jolt of it sent our hearts into a frantic, thudding overdrive, leaving us breathless and rigid as we sat paralyzed in the amber lamplight.

The hum of the refrigerator and AC died; the low blue glow of the television flickered once before vanishing entirely. The rhythmic buffeting of the storm was the only sound.

The light from the hurricane lamps didn't illuminate the living room so much as it carved an intimate sanctuary out of the darkness. The flames were steady and bright, protected behind the bellied glass chimney. Their amber glow cast dancing shadows across the living room with a rhythmic flicker that mimicked the pulse of the house as it strained against the wind.

In the sudden, heavy void, the dry, wooden snap of four snare-stick clicks and the hiccuping shuffle of "La Grange" stuttered from the radio. We welcomed the dusty, low-slung sound of ZZ Top's lesson on Texas history, letting us know the radio was still alive.

We stayed frozen like that, barely inches apart, until our hearts found a rhythm with the music.

"Hell of a way to break a mood," Cathy breathed, a ghost of a shaky smile touching her lips.

"Or a hell of a way to start one."

"Well," Cathy whispered, the amber light reflected in her eyes, "we can play by lamplight if you’re ready to lose.”

Gibbons answered, “A-haw, haw, haw, haw...”

I smiled and dealt the cards.

My down card was an ace of spades, a good omen. Cathy’s up-card was a ten of diamonds. I pulled a jack of hearts.

"High card bets," I said, “Shoes.”

The song exploded into its full, overdriven boogie, the thick crunch of the '59 Les Paul filling the room with a raw, saturated grit.

"Shoes," Cathy replied without hesitation, kicking off her hiking boots. They hit the terrazzo with a dull thud. She peeled off her white socks, tossing them onto the growing pile. I followed suit, my own boots and socks joining hers.

By the third card, the heavy Texas shuffle was relentless. Cathy had a pair of tens showing. I had a possible straight.

"Pair of tens bets," Cathy said, her eyes locked on mine. "I'll bet my shirt."

"I'll see your shirt and raise you," I countered, feeling the heat rise as I looked her in the eye. "My shirt, and let's make it the next round too."

Cathy didn't flinch. She reached down, grabbed the hem of her tank top, and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion. Her blonde hair fell back into place as she tossed the shirt aside, leaving her in a transparent, lacy white bra that struggled to contain her big tits. The lamp light caught the curve of her shoulders and the soft indentation of her waist.

"Your turn, mister," she said, her voice a low, teasing challenge.

The next card was the deal-breaker. I caught the king I needed; Cathy caught a useless three. She looked at the board, then at my hole card, which I kept face down.

"Read 'em and weep," I said, flipping the ace. "Straight, jack high."

Cathy groaned, but there was a hungry light in her eyes. The driving boogie of La Grange faded as if leading the way to the Chicken Ranch.

"Fine. You win this one." She stood up, undid the button, and slid the zipper down. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her denim cut-offs. She wiggled her hips to the fading rhythm, letting the tight denim slide down her smooth, tanned legs. She stepped out of them, standing before me in nothing but her white lace bra and matching panties.

The storm outside seemed miles away as I took her in. The white lace didn't just sit on her skin; it popped against the honey-hued depth of her tan, a bright and fragile contrast that seemed to pull all the amber light in the room toward her. The flickering lamp flame danced across her body, carving out every curve and shadow. The sight of her in her skimpy lace undies was getting a rise out of me.

"Deal again, handyman," she whispered, "I'm not done yet."

I picked up the cards, my hands a little less steady than they had been ten minutes ago. The humidity was rising now that the AC was gone, making the air feel heavy and charged.

As I began to shuffle, the last song of the triple play came on. ‘I Need You Tonight’ opened with the stuttering tease of the guitar leading that prowling bassline into the room like a black panther on a leash.  

“Wow,” I said as the bass settled into a predatory slow burn. I looked up at Cathy, who didn't move—she just leveled a look at me that was pure, unfiltered heat. Her eyes darkened, locking onto mine with a weighted silence that dragged the memory of the last time we heard it into the center of the room.

I dealt the first card down and the second one up. I had a six of clubs showing; Cathy had a queen of hearts.

She looked at her down card, then back at me. That playful, mischievous spark in her eyes cooled, her focus narrowing and concentrating as she felt the song’s nasty groove take hold. Her lips were slightly parted, and her gaze thickened. She had that look where her pupils seemed to swallow the blue of her irises, fixing on me with an intensity that made the cards in her hand feel like an afterthought. It was a look that stripped away the saint and left only the storm.

The music seemed to anchor her; her head tilted just a fraction of an inch, her chin dipping as she absorbed the slow, rhythmic burn of the bass. Every time the beat hit, I saw a microscopic shift in her jaw, a subtle tension that told me she was feeling the music’s sultry edge vibrate right down to her core.

"Your bet, pretty lady," I said.

"Bra," she said instantly. She didn't wait for me to agree. As the hypnotic heartbeat of the song pulsed through the room, she reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving under her skin as she unhooked the clasp. She slid the straps down her arms and tossed the lacy white garment onto the pile of denim. Her tits were swollen and heavy, the nipples dark and rock-hard in the humid, lamp-lit air.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the coffee table, seemingly oblivious to her nakedness. Her hips held a nearly imperceptible slow grind against her heels—a rhythmic, internal tension that matched the throbbing undertow of the music and sent a faint, pendulous sway through the weight of her tits. I couldn’t pull my eyes away.

"Your move, handyman.”

I swallowed hard and dealt the third card. I got another six. Cathy got a four.

"Pair of sixes bets," I said, my voice sounding a little raspy. I looked at her, at the way the firelight caught the curve of her tits. "I'll bet my shorts."

I stood up and kicked them off, joining her on the rug in just my boxers. I could feel her eyes on me, tracing the line of my muscles as I knelt back down. The fourth card went out. I got a king. Cathy got another queen.

"Pair of queens beats a pair of sixes," I noted.

Cathy’s eyes were locked on mine, the relentless rhythm of the music driving the tension, "Raise you. Panties."

"I'll call that," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Boxers."

The final card hit the table as the guitar began to wail in a slow, predatory crawl. I got a third six. I looked at Cathy. She had caught a third queen. We both had trips showing. The room felt like it was vibrating, the low roar of the storm outside reaching a crescendo as a massive gust slammed into the side of the house, making the hurricane lamp flicker wildly.

"Well," I said, looking at the three queens staring back at me. "I've got three sixes. What's in the hole, Cathy?"

She reached out and slowly flipped her card as the lyrics whispered, “I need you tonight...” It was the fourth queen.

"Four of a kind," she whispered, her voice a mix of triumph and something much hotter. "I believe you're officially out of clothes, Greg."

I didn't say a word. I stood up and stripped off my boxers, standing completely naked in the golden light. Cathy’s eyes traveled down my body, lingering on the way I was already reacting to the sight of her. She didn't move to take off her panties yet; she just sat there, her lips parted, watching me.

"Mmmmm, you certainly look ready to work, handyman," she said, her voice dropping to a low, silky purr, "But. I'm a generous winner. I’ll give you one last chance to win it back. Winner takes all on one final card."

"What's the stake?" I asked, kneeling on the rug, my cock throbbing. I focused on the shuffle to keep from lunging at her.

Cathy stood up, her hips gyrating in an agonizingly slow groove that matched the bass. She bent forward and eased the white lace over her hips, the fabric sliding down the length of her toned legs to her ankles, giving me a satisfied smirk before she kicked the panties aside, naked as the day she was born.

The heavy, inviting weight of her tits shifted with every breath as she straightened with a slow, predatory grace. She ran her hands over her body as she swayed to the music. Her nipples were a deep, dusky pink – pebbled and rock-hard. The light of the flame traced the athletic line of her narrow waist, highlighting a midsection that was as smooth as it was firm—a silent reminder of the ‘premium assets' I was now contracted to maintain.

My gaze drifted down to the light-blonde fur of her pussy, soft and delicate against the firm, tanned skin of her thighs. Beneath the golden fleece, the hood of her clit was prominent, emerging from beneath her silky muff. Her intricate folds glistened with a visible, soaking heat.

Cathy walked around the table to stand directly in front of me, her vibrating body just inches away. The humid weight of the air between us was filled with the intoxicating essence of all that was Cathy: the faint scent of her shampoo, her mint bubblegum, the salty-sweet scent of her skin in the humidity, and the deep, fragrant musk of her arousal. My nostrils flared as she put her warm hands on my shoulders, her fingers digging into my skin as she stood over me and looked down into my eyes.

"The stake is me," she whispered. "Winner takes all."

The storm outside had reached a fever pitch, the wind screaming through the eaves, but all I could hear was the frantic thrumming of my own heart against the dense, rhythmic grind of the music.

"OK, pretty lady. One card, high card wins. If I win, I get to do whatever I want with you for the rest of the night. If you win..."

"If I win," she interrupted, her eyes dark and possessive, "you’re my handyman for the duration of the blackout. You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, and you don't stop until I'm satisfied."

“You’re on,” I said. We knelt on the floor, creating a space on the rug. She knelt facing me as I reached out and cut the deck, the edges of the cards crisp in the humid air. I pulled the top card and laid it face down on the floor. Cathy did the same, her movements slow and deliberate, her naked knees pressing into the rug as she savored the tension.

The music was dissolving now, seeming to walk away until only the faint, rhythmic memory of the guitar remained, like a ghost, in the sudden silence.

"On three," she said. "One...Two...Three."

We flipped the cards simultaneously. I stared down at the king of diamonds. My heart leaped. It was a strong card—nearly the best. I looked over at Cathy’s, expecting to see her dejected, but her small, dangerous smirk hadn't moved.

Lying on the rug was the ace of spades.

"Ace beats king, Greg," she whispered, her hands sliding from my shoulders down to my chest, her nails lightly raking over my skin. "Looks like you’re officially my property."

She didn't wait for a response. She leaned in, her naked body pressing against mine, the heat of her skin a shock against my own. She captured my lips in a feral, hungry kiss that tasted of victory and need. I fisted her golden locks with my hand, holding her head firmly as I drove my tongue into her mouth, returning her heat with a hungry, desperate focus.

Cathy groaned into the kiss, her body melting into mine, our tongues meeting with a fierce, uninhibited hunger. My hand tightened in her hair, the fine strands wrapping around my knuckles as I pulled her closer, my grip a silent, possessive command that she answered with a low, vibrating purr.

The hurricane had settled into a relentless, high-velocity rhythm, a steady wall of air that didn't gust so much as it pushed with the weight of a physical tide. The rain was blown into horizontal needles that hissed as they sandblasted the plywood. The sound of saturated palm fronds being whipped against the siding thudded against the windward side of the house.

As the house groaned under the weight of the hurricane, Cathy pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. We stood up, and Cathy took one of the hurricane lamps from the coffee table, her free hand reaching behind her to grasp my erection.

"Come along, handyman," she said, her voice dropping into a low, husky command that made my pulse hammer against her palm. "My assets require your immediate attention.”

Moondance

Van Morrison’s ‘Moondance’ began to play on the radio as she led the way, the song that was playing the first time we made love. While the stormy weather was nothing like the starry autumn sky in the song, Cathy and I fully intended to seize the night for love and passion. The smooth, rhythmic swing of the music filled the house as her hips swung to the beat of the walking bassline. I tracked her ass swinging in front of me, eager to get my hands on it. 

In the bedroom, the atmosphere was still and warm, the chill of the AC long gone. Every corner of the room vibrated with the low-frequency hum of the storm’s power. Cathy set the lamp on the nightstand. The flame flared behind the glass chimney as she turned to face me, the sheen of sweat covering her skin glistened in the lamplight.

She gave my cock a firm squeeze, “Well, I’m happy to see you’re up for the job," she whispered, her voice a low, silky purr, her blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thick with a new kind of tension.

I sat on the edge of the bed, surrendering to my petite wife as she put her hands on my chest and pushed me down onto the mattress with a deliberate, authoritative weight. She climbed on top of me immediately, my rock-hard cock dragging against her as she catcrawled up my body on her hands and knees like a lithe, sweaty predator claiming her prize.

Tilting her head down, she swept her long hair across my skin, the fine strands carrying the intoxicating scent of her desire and traces of her herbal shampoo. She straddled my belly, the firm grip of her small hands on my shoulders pinning me to the bed. Looking down at me, her hair hung around my face like a golden veil.

"I expect a full, hands-on survey of these premium assets," she commanded, a playful yet sharp edge to her voice.

“Well, you’d better brace yourself, lady,” the gravelly voice of the handyman advised. “A high-end, premium asset package like yours will require a lengthy, comprehensive survey and a rigorous in-depth analysis.”  

The amber lamplight caught the slick sheen of her skin, highlighting every curve and shadow. My palms slid from her narrow waist over the sleek heat of her ribs to the heavy sway of her jugs.  Cathy let out a deep, throaty purr as I manhandled them, the rough, calloused texture of my big hands catching on her damp skin. I cupped them firmly and traced slow, insistent circles around the puckered rings of her areolae.

“Ooooo...those big, rough, manly hands have such a commanding grip, handyman.”

“It takes a solid grip to manage premium assets like yours.”

I twirled the rock-hard nipples between my fingers, tugging them with a deliberate, heavy firmness that made her breath hitch. With a sudden, sharp pinch, I twisted them both. Cathy let out a low, jagged hiss of air, her back arching as she pressed herself into my grip, her skin slippery and hot in the rising humidity.

“Everything seems firm and responsive, lady, but I’ll need to spend a little more time on these specialized fixtures.”

“Mmm, is that so?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. She leaned down, dangling her tits in my face, playfully grazing my lips, teasing them with her erect nipples. I grabbed both tits and squeezed them together so her nipples were side by side, flickering them both rapidly with the tip of my tongue. I drew them into my mouth greedily, swirling my tongue around the textured areolae while her hands tightened on my shoulders. She had way more than a mouthful, but I wasn’t going to let any go to waste.

The saxophone solo reached its peak, the final, staccato chirps and tweets cutting through the heavy atmosphere of the room like a jagged blade. The sound seemed to snap the last of Cathy's formal restraints.

“Ooooo, handyman,” Cathy moaned, “Don’t you dare stop.” I pulled her down harder, my fingers digging into the undersides of her heavy, swaying jugs. I began to feast on her, my tongue lashing over the salt-sweet peaks before I latched onto one rock-hard nipple with a fierce, greedy suction. I didn't just suck; I pulled, nibbling her peak with a sharp, demanding sucker bite to drive her wild, my calloused hands kneading the swollen weight of her tits like they were clay.

Cathy’s back arched into a bow, her fingers clawing at my shoulders as I switched to the other side, my mouth wide and hungry. I took as much of her as I could, my tongue swirling in relentless, demanding circles around the dark, puckered rings of her areolae.

On the radio, the saxophone solo was climbing, hitting a soulful peak that matched the rising heat in the room.

Every time I gave her a sharp, possessive sucker-bite, her hips bucked against my belly, her core grinding into me in a desperate search for friction. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and raw desire. I redoubled my efforts, my tongue flicking her stiff peaks with a rapid-fire intensity while my teeth grazed the sensitive skin, pushing her right to the jagged edge.

"Greg! Oh god, right there!" she screamed, her voice cracking as the first wave hit her.

The bird-like trill of the flute marked the emotional climax of Moondance as Cathy came hard, her long, high-pitched wail of pleasure rising to meet the music. The fluttering notes combined with her cries to cut through the low-frequency hum of the storm, a delicate but piercing sound that signaled her total breaking point.

I didn't let up, drawing her deep into the heat of my mouth and sucking with everything I had. I watched her face from below, her jaw dropping and her eyes rolling back as a violent, head-to-toe shudder racked her frame. She remained clenched around the sensation, her athletic legs squeezing me tight as she held that note, her voice finally drowning out the roar of the hurricane outside.

“Oh, God, I felt that all the way down,” she said with a breathy tremble in her voice. Her thighs tightened against me as her body clenched with aftershocks. I held her tits in my hands, still teasing her nipples, watching as a shudder rippled down her spine. She finally pulled back and sat up on top of me, straddling my belly, my hands drifting down to the curve of her hips.

“Fuck... I think you just recalibrated my entire nervous system.”

“Your specialized fixtures needed a little tweaking.”

“Mmm, I need tweaking like that more often.”

“I have to check your plumbing, too. You’re leaking all over me.”

“Oh, God. My plumbing...” she whispered, still trembling.

Love Reign O’er Me

Pete Townshend’s piano and the distant rain of ‘Love, Reign O'er Me’ began to pour from the radio, blending with the sound of the storm. As the opening chords swelled, Cathy gave a small, involuntary hitch of her hips and began to crawl forward.

“Your recalibration must have blown a seal, handyman. You'd better take a look. I expect you to stay down there until every bit of the overflow is contained.”

She moved to straddle my head, running her fingers through my hair. She moaned, grinding her slit against my chin, pinning my head to the pillows as she sought the friction she needed. Her pussy was dripping like someone left the faucet on. I licked her slit with a few long laps of my wide tongue.

“I think I found the problem right here, lady. Just one more tweak...,” I didn’t get to finish the sentence.

With one hand holding onto the headboard, she fisted my hair with the other, her grip firm and possessive. She pulled my face into the soaking heat of her pussy and held it there, my tongue fucking her as her hips gyrated on my face.

“Lick it, mister, eat it,” she gasped, bucking against my tongue.

I used my hands to pull her closer, my tongue working her over with a hungry, determined focus.  She gripped my hair tighter, undulating her hips, mashing her drenched pussy against my face. I dug my fingers firmly into her ass cheeks and pulled her tight against my face, covering her pussy with my mouth, and sucked her for all I was worth. My tongue went wild, tickling her intricate labia and zeroing in on her clit with a frantic, rhythmic tongue lashing.  

“Ooo, fuck...oh...oh, fuck,” she said, her voice breaking as she began to clench around my face. She let go of my hair and gripped the headboard with both hands. Her pussy was like a breach that finally gave way, drenching my face in a tangy, hot deluge. Her hips began to buck and spasm against me, and I knew it was going to be a big one.

"Oh Greg…right there… right there...right there...right there….don’t stop...don’t stop…Greg...” she whispered, chasing my tongue in erratic circles, grinding her aching center against it. I licked like a madman, right there, frantic to make my baby cum.

The house groaned under the hurricane's weight, the windows rattling in their frames, as Townshend’s piano reached a fever pitch. As Cathy reached the breaking point, her entire body went rigid, her fingers tore away from the headboard to lock into my scalp like a drowning woman. When the drums crashed—a violent, percussive wave that shattered the air—Cathy broke, her scream of release perfectly threading the needle of Daltrey’s legendary howl as he tore into the word “Love”.

I let out a long, shaky breath, my hands slowly pulling her down to me, sharing the briny, intimate flavor of her pussy in a deep, smoldering kiss. The heat of our shared breath felt thick and heavy in the room's stagnant humidity.

Riders on the Storm

Before the tremors could even subside, Cathy slid herself back down my body, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches, as the aftershocks of her orgasm persisted. Straddling my hips, she lifted her ass in the air and reached down between us. She wet her hand with her own slick juices, grabbed my rock-hard cock, and guided me to her hot, creamy hole.

She pushed herself up into a straddle, refusing to plunge down on me just yet. Instead, she braced her palms against my chest, pinning me with her weight as much as her gaze. Her eyes were dark, fixed on mine with a look that said she wasn't finished with me yet.

"You're not done yet, mister," she whispered, her voice a low, dominant purr that seemed to vibrate right through my ribs. "I believe your quote included a very... thorough... in-depth analysis.”

I grinned up at her through flickering lamplight, “Correction, lady, I said that your premium assets require a rigorous in-depth analysis.

"Well, I hope you're all done 'tweaking' around, mister."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, ma'am. I brought my finest tool for the job.”

“Oh, did you, now? And what tool is that?”

“The best in the business, it’s a Johnson 9000. A Big Johnson.”

“A Big Johnson?” she asked.

“That’s right, lady, it’s the perfect tool for servicing high-end assets such as yours.“

We tried to keep straight faces, but we burst out laughing instead.

“You’re funny, mister,” she said, still looming over me, her sweat dripping on my face.

The laughter trailed off into the heavy, humid air, and the playful light in Cathy's eyes was replaced by a dark, steady hunger that mirrored the gathering pressure of the storm.

“You have to be careful around the Big Johnson, lady; impalement is a real hazard.” Her eyes flashed as I flexed my cock. She felt it throb at her tight, hungry opening. “Thick, isn’t it?”

”I’ll risk it, handyman,” she said as she flexed her pussy with a possessive squeeze, clamping down on the head of my cock. “Tight, isn’t it?”

She backed onto me just a little, her internal muscles clenching me with a powerful, rhythmic throb. My breath hitched, and my cock throbbed in sync with her internal grip as her juices ran down my shaft. She gave me a small, dangerous smirk, the orange glow of the lamp catching the predatory sharpness in her eyes. Her breath hitched into a low, throaty thrum – part giggle, part moan - as she positioned the head at the entrance to her needy pussy.

From the radio, the hypnotic, rain-slicked notes of a Fender Rhodes electric piano began to pulse, the cool jazz-rock rhythm of ‘Riders on the Storm’ mirroring the heavy, expectant thrum between her thighs as the recorded thunder in the music blended with the reality of the gale outside.

Cathy let out a sharp, hitched breath and lowered herself, taking my length in one slow, heavy descent, her pussy tight and molten as she swallowed me an inch at a time. The friction was incredible, a deep, pulling heat that felt like being drawn into a pulsating, humid heat. Her natural slickness acted like a seal, making every bit of the descent feel heavy and deliberate, an unyielding, submerged crawl. My cock throbbed against her internal ridges as she bottomed out, her pelvis grinding against mine with a heavy, final thud. A low, throaty hiss escaped her as she finally seated herself, completely engulfing me. She settled her weight with a fierce, possessive finality, her breath hitching again as she reached full depth. A flood of her searing heat washed over me. She didn't move for a second, her hips giving a slow, involuntary tilt as she found her rhythm.

As she enveloped me, I felt an overwhelming sensory shift that matched the storm's intensity. It was a sudden, heavy, pressurized weight as her internal heat enveloped me, a vacuum-like suction, where her pussy didn't just receive me but actively grasped and milked my shaft in an involuntary reflex. It was a sensation of intense, stretching fullness, the high-frequency pulses spasming around me with an overwhelming, pressurized heat that made my own arousal throb in rhythm with her heartbeat. To our sweat-slicked bodies, the physical connection felt frictionless yet incredibly snug.

With the AC off, the Florida humidity hung in the room like a physical weight. The air felt thick, tasting of sweat-slicked skin and the salt of our exertion. It wasn't just hot; it was oppressive; a slick, shimmering layer of sweat that turned our contact into a seamless, high-friction slide. We weren't just hiding from the hurricane anymore; we were right in the middle of it, our own body heat rising to match the fever of the night.

There was a brief, heavy pause where she simply absorbed me. Then, that involuntary tilt of her pelvis sharpened into a deliberate, fierce authority. As the jazz-rock melody spiraled into a cascading keyboard solo—notes falling like neon rain—she began to move. Her athletic thighs worked as she ground her hips against me in a heavy, rolling cadence. The motion of her pelvis created a three-dimensional rotation, her slick, pulsing depths shifting against me with a liquid velocity. I lay there feeling the vacuum-seal of her pussy milking my sensitive cock with every micro-adjustment.

"Oh fuck, Greg," she moaned, her head tossing back. "Fuck...fuck me...fuck."

She leaned back, her blonde hair cascading down her back, her full tits bouncing with every powerful, rhythmic thrust. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted as she rode me with a relentless focus, her core clenching around me with every downward stroke. The sound of our bodies meeting was a wet, heavy slap that punctuated the roar of the wind, a primal percussion that drove us closer to the peak. She bent down over me, her breath hot against my ear, mirroring the ghost-whisper vocals of the song.

"Now," she managed to gasp, her breath hot against my ear. "Finish the job, handyman."

I grabbed her hips, our eyes locking for a heartbeat before I rolled her onto her back. I took charge, driving myself into her with the same relentless velocity as the wind hammering against the shuttered house, our internal and external storms finally merging into a single, unstoppable force. We moved together, a frantic, desperate cadence that mirrored the chaos of the hurricane. The house groaned, and the nails creaked in their seats as the roof trusses strained under the uplift, but all I could feel was Cathy. Every thrust was a declaration of our own power in the face of the gale.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a white-hot energy that threatened to consume us both. As the storm outside reached a fever pitch and the music swelled into its final crescendo, the vacuum-seal of our connection finally gave way. We broke in a heavy, shuddering release that displaced the humid weight of the room, leaving us gasping in the sudden, quiet wreckage of the moment.

I pulled Cathy close, her head resting on my chest as our breathing slowly synchronized. As we lay in each other's arms with the storm still howling and hammering against the plywood, we found safety and peace in the sanctuary of our bedroom, the center of our universe and the true eye of the storm.

END