Thirsty Housewife Devours Repairman's Cock

Dave shows up with a busted leg and a paycheck reputation. The minute he steps in she’s sizing him up like tomorrow’s ex. “Water pressure’s for shit and my husband’s on the road again,” she says. His knuckles barely meet the handle of the wrench before she’s rattling off a list—cold taps, wet wall, something dripping under the sink. Dave nods, moves slower, leans over the pipes just enough to let the fitted white tee stretch across muscle. Her questions turn personal fast. Hours later he’s shirt off, sweat sliding down the line of his back while she “supervises,” kneeling close enough to smell the mix of cleaner and heat. She doesn’t pretend to look away. When the job’s done, a fat drop slides off his jaw, lands on her cleavage, and she smiles like the broken shower head was never the real issue. He takes her wrist, drags her thumb across his lower lip to wipe the grease, and says, “Lady, you’ve got more leaks than your pipes. Might need more than one visit.” She answers by popping the top button of her blouse. Locker-room grins travel the narrow hallway. He bends her over the wet counter the way he’d anchor a pipe—steady, firm, certain nothing’s dripping that he can’t control.