The Plumber Who Came to Fix More Than the Faucet

My name is Mariana, and I’m forty-four years old. I live in a neighborhood house in Mercedes, with a garden I don’t tend anymore and a bed that’s almost always empty at siesta time. My husband travels for work almost all week, and I stay behind wandering through rooms I know by heart. I’m telling you this because fifteen days ago something happened that I still can’t get out of my head.

That January morning was brutally hot, the kind of heat that sticks your clothes to your body the moment you get up. I had put on a loose dress of thin cotton, short, with nothing ceremonial about it: I was alone and wasn’t expecting anyone. Underneath, just a pair of panties. The air conditioner in the living room had been broken since December, so I wandered barefoot through the kitchen looking for the coolest corner.

The bathroom faucet had been leaking for days. A steady, stubborn drip that sounded like a clock at night. I had called a plumber recommended by a neighbor, and at ten sharp the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door I found a man in his fifties, broad-shouldered, with weathered hands and a toolbox on his shoulder. He looked at me a second too long before speaking.

—Good morning. Mariana? I’m here about the leaking faucet —he said, and I noticed how he lowered his gaze for just an instant before bringing it back to my eyes.

—Yes, come in. It’s this way —I answered, stepping aside.

As I walked ahead of him toward the bathroom, I was suddenly aware of how little I was wearing. I felt his gaze on my back like a hand. It didn’t make me ashamed. It made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

—Ramiro —he introduced himself belatedly, already crouched in front of the toilet—. How long has it been leaking?

—A week, more or less. My husband isn’t here, so… —I left the sentence hanging, not really knowing why I was clarifying that.

Why am I telling him I’m alone?

I went back to the kitchen under the pretense of making myself a coffee. I listened to him work, the metallic clatter of the tools, an occasional muttered curse when a nut wouldn’t budge. Every so often I brought him something cold: a glass of ice water, then some lemonade. Every time I handed him the glass, his fingers brushed mine a little more than necessary, and I didn’t hurry the movement.

—Thank you, ma’am —he’d say, and that word, “ma’am,” in his mouth, didn’t sound distant. It sounded like something else.

***

Almost an hour passed before he came to tell me the job was more complicated than expected: the whole flexible pipe piece had to be replaced. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat and clinging to his chest, and his graying hair was damp at the temples. I leaned against the counter with my coffee in hand and looked at him without trying too hard to hide it.

—Want something colder before you keep going? It’s sweltering —I offered.

—I wouldn’t say no to a beer, if you’ve got one —he replied, with half a smile.

I bent down to the fridge to look for the last two cans left in the back. My dress rode up. I knew it at the exact moment the air in the kitchen changed, at the exact moment I stopped hearing his calm breathing. I stayed bent over a second longer than necessary, on purpose, giving him time to look at the white panties wedged between the cheeks of my ass and the wet patch I already had at my crotch.

When I straightened up and turned around, he was a step away. He didn’t touch me. He just stood there, looking at me with a question written all over his face.

—Sorry —he said softly—. I’ve been looking at you all morning. I don’t want to disrespect you.

I could have handed him the cans and sent him back to the bathroom. Instead I held his gaze longer than a married woman should, and set the beers on the counter unopened.

—What if you don’t disrespect me? —I asked.

That was all he needed. He put one huge hand on my hip, slowly, giving me time to stop him. I didn’t stop him. The other hand slid up my back to my nape, grabbed my hair, and he kissed me with a contained urgency that buckled my knees. He shoved his tongue in deep, without asking, and I sucked it like I was thirsty. He smelled of sweat, metal, and working man. I felt the hard bulge against my hip inside his pants, thick, promising, and without thinking I lowered a hand and squeezed his cock over the fabric. A growl slipped out into my mouth.

—I’m going to stain your dress —he murmured against my mouth, with his greasy hands a few centimeters from the fabric.

—Then take it off me —I told him, surprised by my own voice.

***

He slipped the straps off my shoulders carefully and the dress fell to the kitchen floor. I stood there in my panties in front of a stranger, with the morning light coming through the window, and instead of covering myself I arched my back and showed him my bare breasts, my nipples already hard with heat. He looked at my chest, at the waist that’s no longer the one I had at twenty, at the marks left by the years, and he looked at me as if all of that pleased him more, not less.

—Look what you were hiding under that little dress —he said, and ran his rough thumb over one nipple until a sigh escaped me. Then he lowered his mouth and sucked it, all of it, his tongue circling around it and his teeth barely marking me. He moved to the other nipple and bit harder, until I moaned. My two tits were hanging from his mouth and he was tugging like a hungry man, while with his other hand he squeezed my ass over my panties, sinking his fingers between my cheeks.

I sat on the edge of the counter, where I had so many times drunk coffee alone, and he positioned himself between my legs. He kissed my neck, moved down the center of my chest, bit me just a little. I pulled at his T-shirt until he yanked it off in one motion and threw it on the floor over my dress. He had a broad torso, a big man’s belly, a thick patch of gray hair on his chest. I ran my hands over it and loved how real it was, how far it was from any magazine body. I slid one hand down to his pants and undid his button, lowered the zipper and reached into his underwear. He was thick, hard, hot, with the head already wet. I ran my thumb over the crown and felt it pulse.

—You’re huge —I told him in his ear, and he gave a low laugh.

—All yours, ma’am.

He came down slowly, on his knees in my kitchen, and ripped my panties off in a tug that sounded like fabric tearing. He spread my legs with both hands, shameless, and paused for a second staring at my open cunt in front of his face, glossy, swollen. Then he leaned in and blew on it slowly, and I shuddered all over.

—You’re dripping —he murmured, and dragged one finger through my slit from bottom to top, gathering the slick, showing it to me before licking it off.

When his mouth reached me I had to grab the edge of the counter so I wouldn’t fall. He started with the outer lips, sucking them one by one, then drove his tongue inside, all the way to the back, moving it as if he were fucking me with it. He climbed to my clit and took it between his lips, pulling gently, until I cried out. He did it patiently, listening to what my body answered him, adjusting the rhythm every time a moan slipped out of me. He slid two thick fingers into my cunt while he kept sucking my clit, and curled them inside, searching for the right spot. He found it on the first try. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was a man who knew time was on his side.

—Like that, don’t stop —I begged, one hand tangled in his damp hair and the other squeezing a breast—. Eat me out, come on, eat all of me out.

He added a third finger. He pushed into me hard while licking me without stopping, and I felt my cunt filling with his whole hand, felt the wet noises every time he pulled out and thrust back in. The first orgasm hit me almost without warning, a wave that tightened my legs around his head, blurred my vision, and tore a scream from me that bounced off the tiles. I pressed his face against my pussy as I came on his tongue, shaking from top to bottom, soaking his fingers. He kept going a few seconds longer, sucking me slowly while I came apart, and only then did he rise, his chin shining, licking his lip, looking at me with quiet satisfaction.

—It’s been a long time since someone did that to me —I confessed, still breathless.

—It’s been a long time since I found a woman worth doing it to —he answered.

***

I got down from the counter with my legs still weak, and I was the one who pushed him against the kitchen wall. I loosened his belt all the way, pulled his work pants down to his ankles and his underwear with them. His cock stood up against his belly, thick, red at the tip, veined. I knelt on the dress thrown on the floor and stared at it up close for a second, mouth open. I wanted to give him back some of what he’d given me. I took it in both hands, ran my tongue from the base to the head slowly, then sucked his balls one by one until I ripped a long curse from him. I went back to the tip and took him all the way into my mouth, as deep as I could, pressing him with my tongue against the roof of my mouth, looking up at him, enjoying how his head tipped back and a rough groan slipped out of him.

I took him out and put him back in, spat on him and worked him with both hands while I sucked his balls, then wrapped my mouth around him again and sped up, letting saliva dribble down onto my hand, the wet sound filling the kitchen. He grabbed the back of my neck and started setting the pace himself, pushing my head forward, fucking my mouth slowly at first, harder afterward, until tears filled my eyes and I gagged once.

—Stop, this isn’t how it ends —he said after a while, pulling his cock out of my mouth with a wet noise and lifting me from the floor by the shoulders—. Turn around. I want to fuck you already.

I leaned back against the counter with my palms flat on the cold wood, staring out the window at the dry garden. I lifted my ass and spread my legs. I felt his hand on my waist, his big body covering my back, his breath on my nape. He slid the tip of his cock up and down my pussy slit, smearing it with my slick, until he found the hole.

—Are you sure? —he asked in my ear, and that he would ask, at that point, melted me more than anything else.

—Fuck me already —I told him, not recognizing myself—. Put it all in me.

He entered slowly, pushing little by little, opening me, and even so I had to bite my lip and grip the edge of the counter with both hands. It had been a long time since I felt something like that, that stretch, that sensation of a body taking up all the space, of a cock settling you inside. He stayed still for a moment with his dick all the way in, one open hand on my belly, waiting for me to get used to it. I could feel every centimeter inside me, throbbing. When I started moving my hips back on my own, wanting more, he understood I was ready.

He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in at once, and I screamed against the counter. We did it without hurry at first, my chest against the wood, his hand sometimes sliding up to my shoulder, sometimes into my hair, tugging my head back. Then faster, with the wood creaking and the glasses in the cupboard clinking, until the sound of our bodies colliding filled the whole kitchen, a wet, filthy slap-slap every time he drove into my ass. I moaned without holding back, said dirty things I didn’t know I had stored up, because for the first time in years there was no one I had to hide anything from.

—Look at you —he said against my ear, biting my neck—, all lady and trembling like a girl. You love this cock, don’t you? Tell me how much you love it.

—I love it, I love your cock —I gasped back—, fuck me harder, come on, ruin me.

His words, far from bothering me, pushed me further. He yanked my hair, bent me even more over the counter, and started pounding me with everything he had, no gentleness at all, all the way in every time, while with his other hand he pulled one cheek open so he could watch himself go in. He brought his thumb down and pressed it against my other hole, slowly pushing, and I spread my legs wider without thinking. The second orgasm took me while I was still facing away from him, bent over the counter, with his cock deep inside and his thick finger pushing into me from behind, and it lasted so long I thought my legs would go completely weak. My cunt clenched around him so hard he had to grip my waist to keep moving.

—You’re so fucking tight, how you squeeze me —he growled—, you’re going to make me come like this.

—Not yet —I begged, still shaking—, I want more.

***

He pulled out and I turned around, and without saying anything we went down onto the kitchen floor, on top of the pile of clothes. He lay on his back and I climbed on top, legs spread to either side of his hips. I grabbed his cock, still shining with me, and guided it into myself slowly, lowering down until I felt it hit the bottom. I stayed still for a second, sitting on him, with his whole cock inside me, and he squeezed my tits with both hands, twisting my nipples.

—Move, come on —he told me—, fuck me yourself.

I started going up and down, slowly at first, bracing myself on his gray-haired chest. He watched my tits bounce, eyes half-closed, with a crooked smile. I got faster, bouncing in short hops, feeling how the tip hit exactly where it needed to. Then I leaned back, supported on his thighs, and started circling my hips, rubbing my clit against the base of his cock, looking at him while I touched my own tits.

—Look how you’re fucking me —I said, amazed at my own mouth—, look how I’m taking it all in.

I wanted to see his face when he came. I leaned back onto his chest again, went faster, pumping hard, and felt him tense all over beneath me, his hands dug into my hips, the veins in his neck swelling.

—Wait, wait, I’m going to come, let me get out —he managed to say.

—Don’t wait for anything —I answered, staying where I was and moving on top of him—. Come inside, I want to feel you.

He came with a long groan, his body arched, his fingers marking my hip skin. I felt his cock throbbing inside me, jet after jet, hot, filling me completely. I stayed still on him, his dick still inside, squeezing him with my cunt to get every last drop out, listening to both of us panting. When I finally got up, the semen started running down the insides of my thighs, warm, and he looked up at me from the floor with a smile of complete satisfaction.

—Look what you did —he told me, running one finger through the trail sliding down my leg and taking it to his mouth.

We stayed like that for a while, sprawled on the kitchen floor, until we started hearing the bathroom drip again, the one he had come to fix and that was still falling.

We both laughed when we realized.

—In the end I didn’t fix it —he said, wiping his forehead with one hand.

—You fixed something else —I answered, and it was true.

He dressed slowly, gathered his tools, promised to come back the next day with the missing part. Before leaving he kissed me at the door, unhurriedly, the way you kiss someone you expect to see again.

—Tomorrow at ten —he said—. And bring that lemonade.

I closed the door and stood for a while leaning against the wood, naked, with the torn dress in my hand and my body still throbbing, feeling how I was still leaking between my legs. I hadn’t felt desired like that in years, fucked like that. I gathered the clothes, got into the shower, and let the water wash away the smell of metal and sweat and semen that had stayed on my skin.

The bathroom faucet started dripping again that night, drop after drop, and for the first time it didn’t bother me. It was almost a promise that Ramiro would come back. And at ten the next day, when the doorbell rang, I already had the lemonade ready, an even shorter dress on, and no panties underneath.

Some leaks are better left unfixed.