Hands-On With The Handyman

The moment he stepped into my kitchen, I knew I was in trouble. His jeans hugged him like a second skin, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with sawdust and ink. David, he’d said, offering a calloused hand. His grip was firm, and I imagined it elsewhere. “My sink’s been acting up,” I murmured, leaning against the counter. He crouched, tool kit open, and I swallowed, eyes tracing the play of muscles in his back. The scent of oil and mint cologne made my pulse spike.

“Leaks under the basin,” he muttered, wrench in hand. I stepped closer, thighs brushing his shoulders. He tensed, but didn’t move. “Your pressure’s off,” I whispered. Before he could answer, I dropped to my knees. His breath hitched as I unzipped his trousers, freeing him in one swift motion. Thick, aching, real. I took him in my mouth, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of him—salt, steel, and something undeniably him.

His Cock Was Bigger Than an 8 inch Wrench, Hard, Thick, and Throbbing

“Evelyn—” His hand gripped my hair, not forceful, but urgent. I hummed, swirling my tongue, and his hips bucked faintly. The sink faucet dripped in time with his ragged “Shh,” I murmured, “fix it for me.” He let out a low noise, half-laugh, half-groan, and I tightened my grip, mimicking the twist of his own tools. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and when he came—hot, relentless—I swallowed every second, my free hand finding the leaky valve.

Pulling back, I grinned. “All better?” He stared, pupils blown, before managing a nod. “Your sink… it’s perfect.” I reached for a towel, dabbing at us both. “Call if anything else needs fixing.” He left the bill on the counter—$0.00 scrawled in the margin. I smiled, turned off the faucet, and let the water run clean.