Seven-and-a-Half Tonnes

The other day, this guy came up the hill where I live to tell me he had a pallet to deliver. The problem is, vehicles that weigh more than three tonnes are not allowed to drive up the hill, because the road might literally collapse under their weight. 

I’d been dreading the arrival of this item all morning. It was the day after my flipchart thing and I was having an autistic reaction, so I had no desire to communicate with ANYONE. And I was fully expecting to have to have an argument with him about delivering the pallet. In German. While feeling like a mouse (me) wanting to hide from all the big, mean, scary cats in the world (everyone else).

He rang the bell. With sweeping dread, I opened the door, my eyes finding his feet and reluctantly travelling the long climb up his body to meet his gaze. And he was exactly the type of man I find completely intimidating, all tall, slim and grumpy looking. And oh, so ripped, dressed in these work clothes that German guys seem to don at every fitting opportunity. I’m sure you’ve seen them, black with grey piping and so many pockets, you struggle to imagine what they can all possibly be for. 

He explained, unequivocally, that there was no way his seven-and-a-half tonner could make it up the hill, you know, just in case I’d lost my grasp of physics along with my morning equilibrium. Then having established this as factual ironclad logic, he asked if my husband was home, because he needed a “big strong man” to help him.

“No shit, Sherlock. He’s still at work and you’re an hour and a half earlier than arranged,” was what my inner voice said.

“No, he’s still at work,” was what came out of my mouth, all I’m really very sorry, and timid-like.

His face took on this expression, hard and serious and a shade grumpier, and I thought he’d start off at me about wasting his time (this has actually happened before, after an unfortunate incident with an ancient washing machine and a rug it couldn’t handle). I was fully expecting him to rip a piece out of me.

He looked me up and down, and I should probably confess right about now, that I had made a concerted effort towards appearing … erm … feminine … in a big way that morning. Mascara-heavy eyes, skirt perhaps a shade too short, yeah, you get the idea. In my defence, my reasoning for this was a mess of illogical fear. I had hoped if I looked halfway slut-pretty and somewhat helpless, he might take pity on me. Be kinder to me. To be completely fair, and retrospectively honest, I deserved his “big strong man” comment. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he delivered, “but I can’t promise anything.”

I watched him stomp off down the hill. And all I could think about, was just how very grateful I was, that he hadn’t been mean about it.

Five minutes later, he rang the bell again, looking pleased as punch with himself. I swear, he struck a kind of pocketed up Superman pose at me right there on my doorstep. You know; hands on hips, chest thrust forward. Though his face remained grumpy looking. On reflection, that’s probably just how it sits naturally on him.

He’d managed to get the pallet up on some kind of tiny battery-powered forklift thing, and he’d plonked it on our driveway. 

So yeah, Superman was standing there on my doorstep dressed in his many-pocketed German-style work clothes posing at me. Of course, I looked him up and down, and I gave him a nice big tip for his efforts.

His cool dirty fingers touched my warm clean ones, and lingered a moment. And neither of us withdrew. He stared grumpily into my eyes a tick longer than is polite. Belatedly, hurriedly, I drew back my hand, and his lips formed a smile, before he saluted me, turned and stomped away. I closed the door on his retreating form.

The encounter I had been dreading all morning, should he come early, turned out to be a sweet one. The guy wasn’t the monster I was expecting him to be. And I did actually break down in tears, after he left. His kindness – and his pride – were cathartic.

And with that, I was able to let things go a little and feel again.

My mind has been turning this whole thing over ever since, in its usual dirty kind of way. It’s become a rather an obsessive fixation, a delicious, filthy fantasy for me.

Fantasy

So, he’s standing there in too many pockets, obviously posing at her. She lets her eyes travel down to his feet and back up again to his grumpy face; only he’s smirking at her now, isn’t he? She looks into his eyes, unsure of his intention. But on some level, of course she knows, she feels butterflies beginning in her stomach.

She drops her eyes just in time to catch the movement of the material of his trousers, in the vicinity of his dick, right there between some random pockets and the fly. She swallows, and the butterflies inside her ignite like a candle. Her fear and her uncertainty notch up a tick higher, poising her on the verge of flight.

He takes the last step up, so he’s standing right in front of her, staring her down. She makes direct eye-contact. His eyes are electric, shocking in their directness, and it thrills her to her core. 

“Want to show me how grateful you are?” he asks her. 

Looking at him, she considers the money clutched in her fist. He’s zinging with this fuckable energy, but he looks bored. And ah god, she’s feeling all dirty. Sordid and cheap. And it’s because of the way he’s looking at her; that boredom, that distance. That, combined with her fear and her uncertainty. Suddenly, she’s on fire, she’s so fucking hot, and wet. Horny for him, and oh so bloody needy. 

He’s probably twenty years younger than her, his face all smooth skin and chiselled cheek-bones. Her wide-open brown eyes studying him, earnest, glinting, flicking around over his face, under his greedy, heightening intention. And she’s self-conscious, her fingers touch her own cheek, trace the wrinkles at the corner of her eye. She lifts a hand to his cheek, the lightest touch of her fingertips, feather-light, gliding over the invisible sandpaper of stubble, smooth and taut, like the inside of a spanned leather belt.

Her touch triggers, reaches. His regard deepens, focuses under her observation, the boredom in his expression diminishes, abates, and his eyes kindle.

Looking up at him, in this frozen tableau, she realises how lonely she is. How badly she wants to feel again. She slips the money into her pocket, hoping with a stab of shame that he hasn’t seen it, and she glances to the street, left and right. Opposite a curtain twitches. Blushing, fatalistic, she takes a hurried step backwards, away from him. But she opens the door a fraction wider, inviting him in. 

He closes the door gently behind his back with a tiny snick of a noise, and sensing her disquiet he leans against it. She thinks maybe he’s waiting to see what she will do. They look at each other then, and the enormity of what she’s done, what she might be about to do. What she desperately wants to do hits her hard. She feels like bolting, feels she’s made a huge mistake. But, she feels that she has no choice. She must continue. 

And god, how she wants to.

As though seeing something of this in her eyes, his right hand comes up, pushes her hair back behind her ear. She observes him. His dirty fingers touch the skin by her eyes, where she touched it earlier. He strokes them down her cheek. He smells enticing, fresh sweat and cologne. Her own desire is boiling over, and with her cheeks warming, she breaks eye-contact, looks down, fumbles the buttons of her blouse open. His fingers come into view and he’s helping her, making short work of them.

“Show me, then,” he says. And she knows he’s not talking about her tits. 

She reaches for his trousers, undoes the fly, just as his hands slip inside the cups of her bra. Freezing, with his zipper pulled down, the metal squeezed painfully between her fingers, she feels this stranger’s cold thumbs grainy, dry-sliding over her nipples, back and forth. Uhh, her clit is pulsing now. A moan escapes her, and he takes it for consent. He frees her tits and she sees then, the dirt he’s smeared all over them, one erect nipple grey with grit. Again she moans, her desperate hands are exploring inside his trousers now.

She finds his shaft, grips it and pulls it upwards, frees it. He lets her tits go long enough to push his pockets down over his hips, and with her greedy eyes, she admires him, the smooth plane of his stomach, his mons. Mmmh, his dick. Her mouth is watering. 

She begins to slide her hand up and down the length of him, and she is deft, precise. She’s pleasing him exactly as hard and fast as he wants to be pleased. And she knows it.

He doesn’t waste any time, his hands are squeezing, groping her tits again, urgent now, pinching her nipples. He’s voracious, pleased with himself, not caring the slightest about how dirty he’s making her. She in turn is relentless, her warm, expert hands driving him wild, and he grunts in his pleasure. 

His moaning, hitching breath is her cue, she’s suddenly desperate to taste his hot spunk, and so she drops to her knees, and she is just in time.

He comes in a series of spurting groans. With her mouth wide, she watches it arc out of him, making a mess of her face. She catches some on her tongue, savours it, this stranger’s spunk. It drips from her chin, and she sees it mingling with the filth on her tits. Uhh, long rivulates, dripping grey grit downwards. 

She lets him go, closes her eyes and presses a warm, clean hand to the filth on her chest, the other finds its way into her knickers. She smears the grittiness of his dirt mingled spunk all over her tits, rubbing it lightly in circles over her nipples, as though it’s some expensive, luxurious body cream. The texture of it, and knowing exactly what it is is driving her wild. Her cunt is gushing and clenching, and she slips her other hand inside her knickers. 

She slides her own fingers inside herself, feels her cunt clenching around them, pressing the palm of her hand to her pulsing, swollen clit.

And just as the door snicks quietly closed, she comes hard, there on her knees in the hallway, still stroking a stranger’s dirt-streaked spunk all over her bare naked tits, heedless and moaning.

And feeling.

And alone.