When the Contractor Opened the Wrong Door

I’ve been married to Rodrigo for seven years, and I never would have considered myself the kind of woman who does this sort of thing. I’m the kind who keeps her promises, who stays home when she says she will, who doesn’t look at men who aren’t her husband. Or so I thought, until that Wednesday afternoon when I was left alone with the contractor.

It all started with some cracks. The bedroom walls had been splitting from the damp for months, and Rodrigo had finally decided to hire someone to repair them. He announced it on a Sunday as if he’d solved something important: “I already called a contractor. He’s coming early Wednesday.” I nodded and didn’t think much more about it.

He arrived right on time on Wednesday. I was in the kitchen finishing my coffee when the doorbell rang. I opened the door without thinking too much about what I was going to find on the other side, and for a second I stood frozen in the doorway without saying anything.

He was tall. Very dark, the kind of dark that comes from working long hours under the sun. He had the kind of body that isn’t built in a gym but through years of lifting real weight: broad shoulders, defined forearms, large hands with callused knuckles. He looked at me calmly and smiled faintly, with that quiet confidence of someone who knows perfectly well what effect he has.

“Good morning. I’m here about the cracks,” he said in a deep voice, the kind you feel more than hear.

“Of course,” I replied, stepping aside. “Come in.”

I showed him around the house: the master bedroom, the guest room, the marks in the plaster, the areas where the damp had left its traces. He followed behind me, taking notes in a small notebook, and I could feel his eyes on me whenever I turned around to point something out. It wasn’t a vulgar look. It was direct, unapologetic, and that was worse than anything else. I felt his eyes fixed on my ass every time I walked in front of him, and I realized that, without meaning to, I was swaying my hips differently.

I explained what we needed. He told me there was no problem, that he could start that very day. I told him to go ahead.

That morning he was only the contractor, the man dealing with the cracks, the one who shouldn’t matter to me beyond that. I repeated it to myself as I went back to the kitchen and started preparing lunch.

While he got to work, I took refuge by the stove. I prepared things that didn’t need preparing, straightened things that were already straight, cleaned the countertop more times than necessary. Around eleven, I heard his footsteps in the hall and straightened up without realizing it.

“Excuse me. Could you give me a glass of water?”

He had stopped in the kitchen doorway, his T-shirt stained with plaster on the right shoulder. I handed him the glass. When he took it, his fingers brushed mine for an instant, just long enough for me to notice and not long enough for me to complain about anything.

“And don’t call me ‘ma’am,’” I told him. “It makes me feel too old. You can call me Mariana.”

He fell silent for a moment, the glass halfway between the counter and his mouth. Then he smiled slowly, on one side.

“Mariana,” he repeated, letting the word sound by itself.

He drank the entire glass without taking his eyes off me. I could feel my nipples hardening beneath my thin T-shirt, without a bra, and I knew he was seeing it too. He left the glass on the counter and went back down the hall. I waited for his footsteps to fade before releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My pussy was wet, pressed against the seam of my jeans, and I hated myself a little for it.

***

At noon, my phone rang. It was Rodrigo.

“Mari, a problem came up at the northern site. I have to leave this afternoon. Two days, maybe three.”

There was a pause in which I waited for him to add something to soften the news, but he didn’t add anything. There was only silence on the other end of the line.

“You know I hate being alone,” I said.

“I know, but it’s not up to me. And keep an eye on the contractor, okay? Don’t leave him alone for too long.”

I hung up with the phone still warm in my hand and stood motionless in the kitchen for a full minute. Then I went upstairs to my room.

I didn’t feel like cooking or going downstairs to do any of the things I was supposed to do. I lay down on the bed on top of the comforter and turned on the television without really looking at the screen. A movie. Whatever. Something to fill the silence.

What came on was one of those erotic thrillers that seem designed to make you uncomfortable at precisely the worst possible moment. Long scenes, dim lighting, lots of skin-on-skin contact. Some chick sucking a cock against a mirror, moaning softly while the guy pulled her hair. After fifteen minutes, I wasn’t thinking about Rodrigo or the trip or the cracks in the plaster anymore.

I was thinking about other things. Ernesto’s hands. The way his forearms stood out when he lifted the toolbox. What he might have between his legs beneath those plaster-stained jeans.

I took off my jeans and left them on the floor. Then my T-shirt. I remained in my underwear—a dark lace thong and a thin-strapped bra—and settled back among the pillows. From downstairs came the muffled sound of Ernesto working: the scraping of plaster, an occasional dull thud against the wall, his footsteps crossing the hall from time to time.

Rodrigo won’t be back until Friday. No one’s going to come up here.

I closed my eyes and let my hand slide slowly over my belly, tracing the edge of the thong. The room was silent except for the television and my own breathing, which was becoming less regular without my deciding to make it so. I slipped my fingers beneath the lace and found myself soaked. I was so wet that my middle finger slid inside on its own, and I let out a soft moan that sounded strange to me. I began rubbing my clitoris in slow circles, imagining that broad mouth traveling down my belly, that tongue opening me, those big fingers pushing into the place where mine were now.

What happened next was completely normal until it wasn’t.

***

I didn’t hear the door. I didn’t hear footsteps in the hall. The first thing I noticed was that slight change in the light of the room—a shift in the shadow—that happens when someone steps between you and the window. I opened my eyes.

Ernesto was standing in the doorway.

He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t announced himself. I had left the door ajar without realizing it, and he had come all the way there with his toolbox and was now standing with his eyes fixed on me, on my hand inside my thong, on the movement I hadn’t quite managed to stop. Without moving.

The heat I’d been building for the past half hour turned into shame all at once. I pulled out my hand, sat up, tugged the comforter toward me, and tried to cover whatever could be covered. On the television screen, the actors continued doing their thing with perfect indifference; the woman was on all fours now and the man was fucking her from behind, with loud moans filling the room.

“Sorry,” Ernesto said, but he didn’t step back. “I wanted to let you know I’d run out of material. The door was open, and I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

“You can go,” I told him. My voice came out tighter than I wanted. “The material isn’t a problem.”

He glanced toward the television for a moment. Then he looked back at me and waited, with that patience that was almost more disturbing than any sudden movement. I saw the bulge in his jeans, thick and obvious, with no attempt to hide it.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

The question was too direct. It wasn’t “I’m leaving now” or “sorry for interrupting.” It was a real question, expecting a real answer, and we both knew that whatever I said at that moment would not be innocent.

“I should ask you to leave,” I said.

“But you’re not asking me.”

He took a step inside. Just one. He set the toolbox on the floor very carefully, as though he didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, and kept looking at me.

I got up from the bed. I meant to tell him to leave, that he couldn’t come in like that without knocking, that he had to finish his work and go back the way he’d come. I had the speech formed in my head as I crossed the few yards separating us with the comforter still in my hands. But when I reached him, my heart pounding against my chest and my face probably as flushed as I felt, I said none of it.

He was the first to move. He took my chin between two fingers, barely, and kissed me.

It wasn’t an urgent or clumsy kiss. It was slow, with a confidence I hadn’t expected, his hand moving from my chin to the nape of my neck and tangling in my hair. He bit my lower lip, slipped his tongue inside without asking permission, and grabbed my hair hard enough to pull my head back. When he drew away, he looked into my eyes for a second. Searching for something. Finding it.

“You were touching yourself,” he said, his voice much deeper than before. “What were you thinking about?”

“You,” I admitted, hating myself and not hating myself at the same time. “Your hands.”

“Yeah?” He lowered his hand along my neck, over the top of my breasts, across my bra. “And what were they doing to you?”

“Everything.”

He chuckled softly against my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him this time, hungrily, pressing myself against him to feel his hard cock against my belly.

***

The comforter fell to the floor at some point I couldn’t quite identify. His hands were exactly as they looked: large, rough from work, but they knew what they were doing. He unclasped my bra with one hand without taking his mouth from my neck, slid the straps over my shoulders, and let it fall. He grabbed my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and I threw my head back and let out a long moan that came from deep inside me.

“What delicious tits,” he said, lowering his mouth to suck them. He licked my nipples slowly, circling them with his tongue, barely nibbling, while I buried my fingers in his hair and wordlessly begged him not to stop.

He moved one hand down my belly, slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of my thong, and found me as he’d left me a minute earlier: soaked, swollen, throbbing. He slid two fingers inside without ceremony, and I spread my legs against his hand without the slightest shame.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured against my neck. “Dripping. All mine.”

“Don’t talk,” I begged, and he laughed and kept fucking me with his fingers, deep, twisting them inside me, pulling them out glistening with my juices before pushing them back in.

I pushed him toward the bed. He sat on the edge and watched me while I finished taking off my thong. There was something in that look—calm, unhurried, completely self-assured—that made everything harder to stop. I knelt between his legs before thinking it through, unbuckled his belt, yanked down his jeans and briefs, and found his cock springing against his belly: thick, dark, with a prominent vein underneath and a shiny, precum-wet head.

I took it in both hands. I couldn’t even fit all of it. I ran my tongue along the underside, from the base to the head, slowly, and heard him exhale through his nose. I put it in my mouth as far as I could, tightening my lips, and began sucking him, moving up and down with my cheeks hollowed. I licked his balls while continuing to work his cock with my hand. I took him so deep that my eyes watered and I had to pull away to breathe, but I went back immediately, coating him in saliva, spitting on him so he would slide more easily between my fingers.

“That’s it, that’s it, don’t stop,” he growled, placing one hand on the back of my neck to set the rhythm. He fed himself into my mouth, holding my head, fucking my mouth slowly but firmly, and I let him do it with my eyes full of tears and drool running down my chin.

When he realized he was too close, he pulled me away with a gentle tug. He lifted me off the floor, tossed me onto my back on the bed, took off his T-shirt, and stripped off the rest of his clothes in one motion. His torso was darkened by the sun, his muscles defined in a way that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with years of real physical labor.

He got between my legs and opened them with both hands, pressing them against my chest. Without warning, he buried his face in my pussy and began eating me as though he hadn’t eaten in months. He sucked my lips, pushed his tongue inside me and pulled it out, caught my clitoris between his lips and sucked it hard. I gripped the sheet with both hands and arched my back against his mouth, moaning loudly without being able to stop myself, my legs trembling over his shoulders.

“I’m going to come,” I managed to say, and he growled against my pussy without stopping his sucking.

I came like that, with his tongue working my clitoris and two fingers buried deep inside me, squeezing his head between my thighs and biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream. My whole body shook, waves rising from my belly to my throat, and he kept licking me more slowly until I collapsed onto the mattress, breathless.

I settled on top of him astride when he lay down, my hands braced on his shoulders, and felt his hard, hot cock rubbing between my ass cheeks. I took it in one hand, ran it over my soaked pussy lips, and slowly lowered myself onto it, sinking my hips until I was sitting fully on him. I felt it fill me all the way, touching me where no one had touched me in a long time, and I had to stay still for a second to adjust to its size.

“Easy,” he whispered in my ear, his hands firm on my hips. “Ride me however you want.”

Easy. As if that were possible with that cock inside me.

I began moving slowly, lowering and rising, feeling it almost slide all the way out before entering again to the hilt. He watched me from below with darkened eyes, his hands helping me set the pace, watching my tits bounce every time I came down. I sped up. I started riding him for real, bracing my hands on his chest, my ass slapping against his thighs with every downward stroke, the wet sound of my pussy swallowing his cock filling the room.

“That’s it, slut, that’s it,” he growled, and slapped my ass, making me squeeze tightly around him. “Look at you ride.”

He suddenly sat up without pulling out, wrapped his arms around my back, and put one of my tits in his mouth while I kept moving on top of him. Then he turned with me until I was beneath him, without withdrawing his cock for even a moment, and spread my legs wide.

He started fucking me for real. He drove deep, his hips pounding against mine, the bed squeaking beneath us. I dug my fingers into his back, my nails sinking in unintentionally, and he didn’t even complain. He stretched over me and pushed it deeper and deeper, breathing heavily against my neck.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

He pulled out, turned me onto my stomach, lifted my hips, and put me on all fours. He thrust back inside me, making me let out a muffled cry against the pillow. From behind, it was something else: deeper, rougher, touching places I hadn’t known I had. He grabbed my hair with one hand and my hip with the other, and began fucking me as if he wanted to break me.

“Tell me you like it,” he demanded between thrusts.

“I like it, fuck, I love it,” I panted into the pillow. “Don’t stop.”

“Such a sweet slut. All wet. Look how you swallow my cock.”

I felt him tensing above me, his rhythm becoming more erratic, his fingers tightening on my hip. I was getting close again too; I slipped my hand underneath me, rubbed my clitoris with two fingers, and came for the second time with my face pressed into the pillow and my pussy squeezing his cock in spasms.

“I’m going to come,” he growled, and sped up even more.

“Inside,” I told him without thinking. “Come inside me.”

A couple more thrusts and I felt him let go, growling deeply, buried to the hilt, his hot come filling me completely. He stayed pressed against me for several seconds, panting, his hands still digging into my hips.

When he pulled out, he collapsed beside me, and I remained facedown, his semen running down my thighs, too exhausted to move. His weight on top of me a minute earlier hadn’t been unpleasant. The room was silent except for our breathing as it recovered.

He was the first to get up. He dressed in silence, unhurried, without the awkwardness I would have expected in his place. He picked up the toolbox from the floor. Before leaving, he turned from the doorway and looked at me lying there, still naked, still marked by him.

“I’m going to get the material,” he said. “We have to finish those cracks.”

And he left.

I heard his footsteps going down the stairs. Then the sound of the front door closing gently, without slamming. I remained lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the afternoon light coming in through the blinds and the movie ending by itself on the screen.

Rodrigo comes back Friday.

I closed my eyes. And for the first time all day, I didn’t feel any unease at all.