Marble Express Las Vegas

​The Handyman (Kitchen Renovation)

The granite countertop is cold against your bare ass as he lifts you onto it, your yoga pants stripped off and left in a puddle with your dignity. The kitchen renovation was supposed to take three days. It's day five and you've "accidentally" walked in on him shirtless four times.

Now his mouth is on your pussy, his beard rough against your inner thighs, his tongue delving deep and making you arch off the stone. You're supposed to be hosting brunch in an hour. Your fingers find your clit, rubbing desperately as you text me with your free hand:

"He's eating me out on the kitchen island. The one that cost more than his truck. Says he's been thinking about this since he saw me in my robe this morning."

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and knowing, and sucks your clit between his lips. You almost drop the phone. Your message continues: "He tastes me like he's angry about it. Like he hates how much he wants this. Fuck, I'm going to be late for the girls."

He stands up, towering over you, his work belt still on, tool pouch bumping against your leg as he steps between your thighs. He pulls his cock out—thick and veined and heavy in his calloused hand—and rubs it against your slit, teasing.

"You want this?" he asks, voice low and dangerous. "You want the handyman to fuck your privileged little cunt before your fancy friends arrive?"

"Yes," you breathe, reaching for him. "Please. I need it."

He slaps your hand away and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while he guides himself into you with the other. You gasp as he fills you, stretching you, hitting places your husband never has.

"Text them," he commands, starting to thrust slow and deep, each one deliberate and punishing. "Tell them you're running late. Tell them you're being held up."

You manage to type: "Running 15 min late. Something came up ;)" while he fucks you harder, the countertop edge digging into your back.

He releases your wrists to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "You think you're so special in this big house? So untouchable?" He thrusts hard, making you cry out. "You're just a wet hole, same as any other. And I'm going to use you until I'm done."

Your fingers find your clit again, rubbing frantically as he pounds into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in your custom kitchen. "More," you beg. "Harder. Make it so I can't walk straight for brunch. Make me feel you all day while I smile and pour mimosas."

He flips you over suddenly, bending you over the counter, your cheek pressed against the cool granite. He enters you from behind, deeper this time, his hand coming down hard on your ass. "This what you want? To be used like the desperate housewife you are?"

"Yes," you sob, rubbing your clit in tight circles. "I'm desperate. I'm yours. Ruin me before I have to be perfect again."

He grabs your hair and pulls your head back, his other hand reaching around to cover yours on your clit, guiding your fingers, forcing you to rub yourself for him. "Cum then," he orders. "Cum on my cock while you think about how you're going to sit through your little party with my cum dripping out of you. With your pussy aching from being properly fucked."

You shatter, coming so hard your vision spots, your cunt clenching around him as he keeps thrusting, using you through your orgasm until he finds his own, burying himself deep and pulsing inside you.

You text me one last time, your hands shaking: "He's still inside me. I'm ruined. I'll never be able to look at this kitchen the same way. Thank god."