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A few years ago I was in the cupboard under some stairs changing a customer’s fuse box when I heard his wife’s car pull up on the drive outside. James, the customer, had said his wife Karen would be home around 11.30 – so I was expecting her.
I’d known from a telephone conversation we’d had to arrange a day that Karen, the customer’s wife, had a dry sense of humour, sounded young and bright – and liked a bit of a flirt. However, I had no idea what she looked like as she opened her front door.
“Hi, Ken – it’s just Karen,” she called in her light voice. “How’re you getting on?”
I heard the door shut, the tinkle of keys and the click of heels on the tiles as I attempted to extricate myself from the cramped space I was working in.
“Yeah, OK,” I started as I managed to stick my head out into the hallway. “I’ve just – ” She was stunning: tall, blonde, pretty. “I’ve just – “
“Oh!” Karen said, putting a manicured hand to her mouth. I winced.
“I’ve just smacked my head on the door frame,” I said, trying to make a joke out of it as I turned and looked at it accusingly. I put a hand to the point of impact.
“Are you alright?” Karen said, reaching out towards the lump I could feel forming.
“Yes, I’m – ah – OK, thanks,” I said trying to concentrate on something other than the cleavage my client was displaying between the lapels of her dark blouse. “I’ve just removed the fuse box, so there’s no power at the moment.” I attempted a cheeky smile. “So you can’t make me a brew.”
Karen smiled and I forgot the sharp pain. ‘I need more customers like this,’ I thought.
“Never mind, let’s have a look,” she said moving the hand I held to my forehead. “You’ve cut yourself.”
The skin was broken and there was a very small amount of blood there.
“Kenneth: kitchen, now,” she ordered, smiling at me again.
I obeyed and she guided through to the kitchen. She cleaned the cut for what it was worth and then put a sticking plaster on it; the injury didn’t warrant it, but I wanted to let her touch me, to feel her fingers on me.
As I manfully suffered her ministrations my senses took in Karen Edwards at close quarters. The first thing was her smell – whatever her perfume was it was light and sweet and when she leaned in closer it filled my nostrils with its summeriness. The other thing I couldn’t avoid when she leaned in closer was that cleavage again. It filled my vision as her perfume filled my nostrils, two smooth and full breasts framed by a black satin blouse. Whilst trying not to look (honest) I thought I glimpsed the black material of her bra, too. As she turned to get the first aid box, I took in the tight grey skirt that hugged her hips and thighs, the bottom edge of her buttock clearly definable as she walked. The skirt ended just above the knee, and black, high-denier tights ran down to plain black shiny leather heels.
All the while she made little ironic jokes and just generally flirted with me. I wasn’t used to this – and I wasn’t complaining – but I felt a little guilty as I flirted back: Karen was a married woman after all.
She brought over the biscuit tin and we carried on our banter over some Hob-Nobs, her open face, pretty smile and sparkling blue eyes imprinting themselves on my mind. Her blonde hair was cut into a longish, classy bob and her fingers, neck and ears sparkled with white gold. She had a trim figure and held herself confidently – and she knew it, too. She was no shy thing, but was mischievous and teasing in her manner.
I resolved to finish Mrs Edwards’ job as soon as possible. Smitten as I was, I was already considering giving her a discount; being on the receiving end of half a dozen of those smiles was worth a few pounds less in my back pocket any day.
A few hours later, the power was back on and she brought me a cup of tea and we had another 20 minutes of flirting. She told me she had been married for 18 months to her childhood sweetheart, and that he had a very good job in the city centre – hence the private-plated Mini Cooper on the drive and the preponderance of electronic gizmos around the house. She didn’t work as her husband, James, insisted that she didn’t have to, that one day she would be an at-home Mum for a little boy and a little girl, but until then she should just relax, do what she wanted, when she wanted and enjoy herself.
“Which I am,” she said, smiling at me again. “Nearly finished?”
“Yeah – I’ve just got the testing to do,” I said, handing her my cup.
“Ooh – testing! Nothing too demanding I hope?” she said with a wink as she disappeared into the kitchen.
“No, just the standard stuff; won’t take long, and I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“Oh don’t worry, Ken, you’re not in my hair…” she illegal bahis said poking her head round the door, “…yet.”
I was convinced I was going to blush; I hastily took myself off to my cupboard under the stairs to start the testing.
We’ve all seen those cheesy old Seventies Brit-flicks like ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’ or ‘Confessions of a Jammy Electrician’, and I’d joked with my mates and fellow tradesmen about the fantasy of the attractive female customer whose husband is away on business and wants to pay in sexual favours, but it didn’t really happen, did it? A woman like this could pay a pretty big bill with a relatively small favour.
I busied myself with my work and tried to push such delusional thoughts from my mind.
Eventually, I finished and, as I cleared up my tools, my mind became turmoil again. Karen was gorgeous and it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to me in such a way – let alone someone this attractive – and the funny feeling in my gut told me I fancied her; that and the bulge in my trousers. The analytical, professional part of me was calmly saying ‘yes, she’s very attractive, but she’s also very married and you can’t do anything about it. It’s just a crush: get over it. The primordial, impulsive part of me was saying ‘tits, ass, smile, bra, hips, eyes, fuck, fuck, fuck!’
“What do I owe you, Kenneth?” Nobody called me Kenneth, not even my Mum, and it wasn’t helping; it was intimate, something unique between the two of us. She was leaning on the wall, and she hadn’t taken her heels off yet.
“Erm, I’ll just go and work it out in the van,” I said as I passed her. I’ll swear she must have moved as I did so as I felt my bare arm brush against her chest.
“Sorry,” we said together.
My eyes darted round to look at what I had brushed against, before they flicked guiltily back up to my customer’s face where they should have been.
“Don’t worry about it,” Karen said, not embarrassed in the slightest.
I, however, felt the scarlet progressing up my face again and I hurried out to the van.
I threw my tools in willy-nilly and started with the ball-park figure I’d quoted a week ago. I added 20% because Karen had told me her husband was loaded, instantly discounted 20% because I felt guilty, and knocked another 20% off just because Karen was a beautiful woman. My accountant would slap me if he knew this was how I did my billing.
“£400, Karen; is that alright?”
“That’s absolutely fine,” she said, smiling. I love it when customers smile – especially when they’re as pretty as Karen. “I’ll get my purse.”
Her face fell.
“Oh, Ken! I forgot to go to the bank!”
The following day, Karen texted me to say she had the money in her hand waiting for me, and I duly arrived at her house at 7.30pm as arranged.
She welcomed me in and I immediately got the impression that this was going to be different to my usual transactions. For a start, I was ushered into the living room and offered coffee and a meal.
“James is away in Düsseldorf for a few days, and my dinner’s nearly ready – it’s no bother, honestly.”
I was back in the realms of ‘Confessions of an Unfeasibly Lucky Tradesman’ again, and I declined, not wishing to disturb her evening. I’ll be honest: I didn’t decline with any sort of conviction and five minutes later I was sat at Karen’s dining table telling her how good her cannelloni was.
Sitting across from her, enjoying her wit and dazzling looks, I was half-expecting to feel a stockinged foot on my groin, but I made it through the meal unsullied. ‘She must get used to people fancying her,’ I thought, just happy to be able to spend a little more time with her.
I looked at my watch. “Jesus, Karen – it’s ten o’clock! I’d better be going.”
But she wouldn’t let me.
It turned out I was an ‘Unfeasibly Lucky Tradesman’. She begged, she pleaded, she physically tried to push me onto the couch. The Lord alone knew what I’d done to deserve this attention, and in different circumstances I’d have offered no resistance, but the circumstances were this: Karen was married, and – as such – I couldn’t lay a finger on her.
I explained this to her, but she wouldn’t pay me with money – in fact she point-blank refused. She would only pay with her body. Scowling, I left without my £400; more importantly though, I’d left Karen with her knickers on.
The next day, my mood changed. I thought about what Karen was suggesting, and realised that my anger was born of frustration: Karen was offering everything I wanted on a plate, but I couldn’t take it because she was married.
I started thinking around the problem of Karen being married, how could we remove it from the equation? Leaving James or getting a divorce illegal bahis siteleri were long term solutions, Karen becoming a widow was too improbable and sinister; marriage was a permanent fixture in the problem.
Could we remove the sleeping together aspect? No, that’s self-defeating: I want to fuck her, I want to give her orgasms, and I want her to make me cum – how will that happen if we’re not intimate? How can we do that without touching?
I smiled. I’d had an idea.
“How can Karen be cheating, if we never touch each other?”
Karen let me in. She smiled, clearly pleased to see me, but nervous about how my re-appearance might pan out. Wordlessly, she followed me into the living room. I looked at her with my ‘serious’ face: what I was going to propose would only work if we both respected the one condition implicitly.
“I’ve thought about what you said, Karen,” I said gravely. “I cannot sleep with you, Karen. As much as I want to – as much as you want to – you’re married and I’m not laying a finger on you.”
Karen looked away, her hands going to her pearl necklace to fidget with it.
“But I will accept something else that doesn’t involve you cheating on Ja… – your husband – in lieu of the money you owe me.” I couldn’t say his name.
She looked back up at me sharply and took a deep breath. I paused as I looked at her heaving chest.
“Ken – what?”
“I won’t lay a finger on you, and you won’t lay a finger on me, but I’m still taking payment from you, Karen.”
She blushed. “What do you mean?” she said, confused.
I put my hands in my jacket pocket and held up what I removed from them: two pairs of handcuffs, a blindfold and a silk scarf.
“Take your glasses off and put these on,” I said throwing her one pair of cuffs, “and then I’ll show you.”
Five minutes later, I’d watched Karen nervously clasp both bracelets over her wrists, fasten the second pair above her ankles and pull the black, elasticated blindfold down over her eyes – all at my behest.
Karen sat on the couch, her wrists and her ankles joined together by short chains and robbed of her sight. Her breathing had settled down, and I watched her breasts gently rise and fall beneath her black satin blouse. She hadn’t complained and had done everything I’d asked.
“Stand up, Karen,” I said, “and hold your hands out.”
She did so and I took hold of the chain between her wrists. “Walk,” I said pulling her after me towards the stuffed leather armchair I’d pulled into the centre of the room. Karen followed her pulled handcuffs, little steps all she could manage with the other cuffs hobbling her, until she walked into the back of the armchair, the tops of her legs coming to rest against its rolled-over top.
“Open your mouth, Karen.”
She swallowed, obviously having realised what the silk scarf was for, and opened up.
I reached round and pulled the taut length of the scarf back into Karen’s mouth. She bit down on the large knot I’d tied into the middle of it as I pulled the ends round behind her head and tied them firmly at the back of her neck.
“Lean forwards, Karen, over the back of the chair.”
Her hands found the chair, and she slid her hands down the vertical cushion to support herself as she bent over. Her heels skittered backwards slightly as her torso went lower than her ass and her centre of gravity shifted. I looked at that ass; this was where I’d have to be sure of myself, that I could rely on my willpower not to touch Karen.
Karen’s bottom was round and exposed in front of me, the black knee-length skirt she wore stretched tight from the tops of her thighs and over her buttocks. The zip tempted me, and I wanted to pull it from her waist band up to the highest part of her ass, to remove it and expose the next layers of Karen’s dignity.
I took a deep breath and compartmentalised the primeval part of my brain that was cycling images of Karen and myself coupled and rutting like animals. My resolve held.
“Thank you, Karen,” I said, walking round to the seat of the chair where Karen was propping herself up with her hands. Her blonde ponytail fell down the left side of her face, exposing the black knot and loose ends of the scarf. I knelt down and brought my head close in to hers.
“You’ve been naughty, Karen, very naughty. You can’t deny a man a living wage, and neither can you promise him things that he can’t take.” I paused, hoping I wasn’t being too melodramatic, hoping that Karen wanted to play along and would do so. I removed a stout black leather paddle from my back pocket.
“So I’m going to teach you a little lesson, Karen: if you’re not prepared to pay in cash, I’ll take payment out of your helpless body.” Karen breathed more canlı bahis siteleri rapidly, and only through her nose. “Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.
“Good,” I said, standing and returning to Karen’s upraised ass. “This is what you’ve asked for, Karen. I hope you find it worthwhile.”
I spanked her hard with the paddle.
For fifteen minutes, as my customer’s front room reverberated to the sharp crack of occasional spanks, Karen cried out and moaned; she quivered and shook, she jumped and struggled, and her fists opened and closed spasmodically as her eyes did the same – but she didn’t say ‘STOP!’
My arm was tiring – even for someone used to spending all day rotating a screwdriver – and I ached with lust. This sort of thing wasn’t something I’d considered before, but it was hot, a turn-on like I’d never have believed. I had a gorgeous blonde, sexy in her fully-clothed secretary outfit, bent over in front of me, her helpless bottom anticipating my punishment smacks – and she was enjoying it. The only downside I could think of was whether I had the willpower to refrain from hiking up her skirt and shoving my dick into her. I wondered how wet it was, and this didn’t help. I asked her.
“Are you wet, Karen?” I said as I landed another stinging blow.
“Would you like my cock inside you?” SMACK!
“My hard prick filling your pussy, pounding you hard?” SMACK!
“MMMM!! ‘es! ‘es! ‘ease!”
“Pounding you hard until you came?” SMACK! “Until I filled you with my spunk?” SMACK!
“MMM! ‘e – MMMM! ‘es!! ‘es!!”
“Tough,” I said, and tossed the paddle over her so that it landed on the sofa in front of her where she could see it. I shifted on my feet, alternating my weight nervously, as my testosterone threatened to get the better of me. Karen saw the paddle and realised her first spanking was over.
“NNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!!” she groaned. Her legs shook and her head snapped back. I watched her ass, wondering how much the skin stung after my ministrations, wondering if she’d got as big a kick out of that as I had, wondering if that combination of grunt, shaking leg and thrown-back head was frustration, relief or orgasm. Whatever it was, it lasted four or five seconds, and then she rested her forehead on the brown leather seat in front of her. She breathed hard and deep.
I was transfixed.
With some effort, I tore my consciousness away from the red-blooded desire to fuck for long enough to attend to Karen. I undid the gag and removed the blindfold, although she didn’t look up just yet, and I left her, still sprawled over the back of the chair, until I knew she was ready to move.
When she did look up, her face was flushed and her mascara slightly smudged, but she managed to focus on me. She smiled – and I was astonished to discover that seeing simple action was the biggest turn-on of the evening for me. Perhaps it was because we’d done it, we’d managed to not touch each other; perhaps it was because I knew that if we’d managed it once, we could manage it again – and again and again.
“Get me up,” Karen whispered. I hadn’t considered this, but with both her hands and her calves cuffed together, she was going to struggle to get herself up from the back of the chair. Now I thought about it, without touching her, I was also going to struggle to help her do so.
“Ah,” I said, as I tried to think.
“Pull my hair,” Karen said, with that devilish grin that had led to this in the first place.
“I can’t touch you, Karen,” I said shrugging. “Can you sort of wiggle your hands backwards and push yourself upright that way?”
She shook her head.
“Pull my hair; grab my pony-tail and pull me upright, Ken.” She smiled again. “Hair is dead, Ken – touching my dead hair isn’t the same as touching my living flesh.” The word ‘flesh’ sent my subconscious into paroxysms of desire again, but I smiled at her suggested solution.
“OK,” I said and stood just behind and to one side of her bent form.
“Pull as hard as you like,” she said quietly, closing her eyes.
For about the third time this evening, I couldn’t believe my luck; I prepared my stance and took a firm hold of her gathered blonde hair in my left fist. I took up the slack, pulling Karen’s face clear of the leather. She gasped as I paused.
I pulled firmly and quite quickly, feeling the weight of her torso as her hair took the strain of lifting her upright.
“A-a-a-aah…” Karen whimpered softly. I thought my flies would burst.
After I’d let go of her, Karen flopped back down on the sofa in the more usual fashion, and used the keys to unlock both sets of cuffs that restrained her limbs.
“Free again,” she said. She looked over at me slyly. “Am I also free from my obligation to you, Ken?”
I forced a smile, trying to play it as cool as I could.
“Oh no, not even close, Karen.”
“What a shame,” she said, putting her glasses back on.
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