My pipes were frozen.
Don’t laugh. This is not some explicit metaphor for my lack of action. It hit minus forty fucking degrees, as it does some winters in good old Montreal, and the water in my kitchen sink stopped flowing. With a sink full of dirty dishes, no less. Good times.
When the plumber the landlord had sent showed up, I found myself looking at him like cartoon characters look at their prey. You know, when all they see is a great big steak? It wasn’t just the fact that I was post break-up. I just didn’t expect my damn plumber to be hot, y’know? I was expecting the famed plumber crack, a meat and potatoes guy with a hearty wife and four kids. But it’s very possible I live in a pre-progressive television era with a too-hearty laugh track.
Anyhow, Alexei was 35ish, Russian (with a thick accent and broken English), and rugged. Work boots, paint splatters, calloused hands without gloves, lines on his face that told stories I would never know, and crystal clear blue eyes. Rugged and distant and sexy as hell. He was eyeing me in a less-than-professional way, but it was all in his eyes, and it seemed clear that whether or not he eyed women every single day, he had been taught to control himself.
I did what any self-respecting horny, heartbroken gal would do - I showed him my pipes. The ones under my sink.
“The water stopped yesterday,” I said.
He smiled and kneeled.
I was wearing a red fleece bathrobe and nothing else. He had caught me by surprise by showing up at 7 fucking AM instead of 8.
“You don’t want your pipes explode,” he said. His first words.
“No, of course not.”
“We leave the faucet on a little.” He stood up to make sure the knob was turned slightly. “Do you have hairdryer?”
“Um, yeah.” I went to the bathroom and returned with my hairdryer. Only after handing it to him did I realize that there was a sticker on it that I wished wasn’t. It was a naked woman, with her legs spread, and in between them was written “eat me.” I hoped he would just take the damn thing and not notice, but no such luck. He glanced at it, and then at me, and grinned.
“I am feeling hungry,” he chuckled, and I turned probably as red as my bathrobe. I smiled uncomfortably and left the room. From my bedroom I could hear him doing his best to warm my pipes with the hairdryer in hand. This went on for several minutes. And then I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door.
“Yes?” I said, opening it.
“You have space heater?” he asked.
“Um, yes,” I said, and turned around to hand him the one I had in my terribly insulated room. As I turned to hand it to him, my bathroom loosened, and he was standing there, heater in hand, staring. I looked down to realize that my left breast was mostly exposed, and quickly drew the robe shut.
“Um, sorry.” I laughed this time, and it was mostly genuine. How ridiculous had I become? Get this man to fix your pipes and be done with it, I thought.
“Don’t be sorry,” he smiled, and returned to the kitchen. I followed him and watched him plug the heater in and place it under the sink so that it was close enough to warm the pipes. “You leave like this for maybe three hours,” he said. “Water should come on. If no, you call me again. Ok?”
I wondered why I hadn’t just googled how to unfreeze a pipe on my own, but I also liked the idea of calling him.
“Ok,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”
He picked up his box of tools and made to leave, but then paused. “You’re very beautiful,” he managed, looking me up and down, frumpy robe, tousled hair and all.
“Oh, thank you,” I responded, somewhat taken aback, but also not. “So are you,” and as soon as I said it, I knew it couldn’t be taken back.
He put down his box on the kitchen counter and placed his hands on his hips, staring at me. I suddenly knew that I would not be letting him leave my apartment until we’d made some kind of physical contact. I was disheveled, sure, but I knew I looked good. I knew I had that post-relationship glow that comes to creative types who have shaken off long-lived wet-blanket romantic dynamics and lived to fuck again. I had slept well.
He did not appear to wear gloves, even in minus forty. His huge hands were chapped and I did what any caring hostess would - I reached out and took his hand in mine, caressed it a little.
“Rough hands,” I said. “You work hard.”
It happened really fast. His hands moved to my bathrobed hips and pulled me close, till we were touching. And then they moved up to cup my face as he kissed me. I let him lead. He started slow, just a few tiny pecks on the lips, and I returned them, staring full into his sharp blue ocean eyes with my deep dark brown ones. He stared back, and then slowly entered my mouth with his tongue, gently explored, bit my lip lightly. I reacted by pulling his hips into mine and I’m pretty sure my eyes rolled back in my head.
He was leaning against the counter and I was leaning into him at this point. His hands moved down, from my face to my ass, and he began cupping and jiggling it in his hands through my bathrobe as our kissing got deeper and wilder. I ran my hand over his hard, muscular chest through his button-up work shirt. The fabric was thick, but I could still feel what he was hiding. He pulled the back of my robe up with hands and let out a low moan as he began kneading and massaging my bare ass. His hands were as rough as they looked, and their texture on my soft skin made me very wet.
He turned around, moved his toolbox to the floor, and, gripping my hips, the man scooped me up like nothing at all. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He placed me on the counter, so I was sitting where his tools had just been, and he slowly undid my hastily tied bathrobe. I let it fall from my arms to my hips.
There I was, naked, sitting on my discarded bathrobe in front of this man who I had allowed into my home at 7AM on a Saturday, and there he was, taking me in with his eyes. Not missing an inch. My caramel skin, my flat stomach, my bald pussy, my large and shapely labia that hung down just a bit. I opened my legs to give him a better look.
He was fully clothed. I liked how naked I was and how geared up he was, still in boots, shirt, pants, coat. He took off his thick army coat, which he’d been wearing unzipped, and tossed it on top of the toolbox. The room was warmer than usual, thanks in part to the space heater.
“No roommates?” he asked.
“No.”
He smiled, and began caressing my soft little tits with his truly large hands. Bouncing them around, slapping them a little. I moaned. Encouraged, he grabbed the nape of my neck with one hand, roughly, and bent down to lightly bite them and lick them. I lost all control, reaching out to hold his hips with the soles of my feet. He continued downward to bite and kiss my navel, my hips. He took his time on my hips, grazing them with his soft mouth.
I remember thinking, wow; he takes better care of his lips than his hands. And then he was gliding his tongue over my eager pussy lips, biting them gently and sucking them. A low, guttural sound escaped me as I slouched back awkwardly into the kitchen cupboard.
And then, Alexei the morning plumber started fucking me with his tongue. In and out, he moved it like a small cock, into my wet, ready slit. As he moved in, he would flick upwards very slightly, and the effect had me shuddering, melting from the inside, wanting nothing more than his cock to take its place. I reached down and felt him through his pants. He was rock hard. I sat up and unbuttoned his shirt, but he made no move to take it off. He just stood there, breathing heavily. I unbuckled his sturdy belt, unzipped his pants, and moved them down past his ass, followed by his black boxer briefs. Rather than take them off, he left them to mingle with his work boots down around his ankles. His cock: hard. Long but not too long, and thick. I hopped off the counter and kneeled in front of him on the kitchen tiles. I grabbed a dishtowel for padding.
“I want you to fuck my face,” I said. “Pretend my face is a pussy, and fuck it,” I said. I opened my legs wide because it made me feel like an amazing slut, and I opened my mouth wider, waiting.
I didn’t have to ask twice.
“You’re a whore?” he asked, smiling.
“Today, yes,” I said. “For you, yes.”
He liked that answer and grabbed me by the hair at the back of my head, jamming his cock into my mouth, slowly but firmly, until his tip was kissing the back of my throat. I gagged a little, and he began thrusting into my throat hole. I gripped his cock tightly with my lips as he did, and let my tongue relax and run its way around his head. He lost his mind and held me tight by the ears as he fucked my throat harder and faster. With each thrust, my legs slid further apart on the tiles, and my knees hurt, but I became wetter and wetter for his cock.
He stopped suddenly and I fell backwards onto the floor. He laid my bathrobe on the floor, folding it in half to create a soft surface.
“Lie down,” he said. So I did. On my back, on the robe, on the kitchen floor. He finally kicked off his boots and pants and briefs, and even dropped his shirt into the pile. His broad chest was hairy and the man had a six-pack. I reached up with my foot to run my toes over it, ridge by ridge. He smiled.
“You like me, whore?”
“Yes.”
He kneeled down, bent my knees, and pushed my legs up and apart. He licked my pussy a few more times for good measure. Then he grabbed a condom from his coat pocket, and rolled it on stealthily, which made me laugh, and was a relief, because it meant I didn’t have to ask. He smiled, caressing my face.
“You’re fun girl,” he said.
And then he slowly pushed his cock inside of me, falling onto me, chest to chest. I hugged him close and I felt I would never close my legs again. As Alexei fucked me that morning, I grew warmer, I melted all over him, I groaned, and rocked with him.
I thought to myself: we don’t need the space heater to warm up these pipes anymore.
And as I looked out the window at the snowy branches, I knew the cold was almost over. Spring was coming. Alexei rose to his knees and continued fucking me. I began rubbing my clit at the same time, and he could not take his eyes off my fingers. It drove him crazy, and I could feel him getting even harder inside of me, if that was at all possible.
I imagined my ex-boyfriend walking into the room at that moment to watch me getting fucked on the floor like an animal by my insanely hot, buff plumber. I imagined him getting turned on watching me, and whipping out his cock to jack off to the site of me with my legs spread, my pussy pounded, and my fingers moving in circles on the outside of my quickly tightening hole.
I moaned louder as I looked once more at Alexei’s chest and his very serious clear blue gaze, which, without any words at all, was making me feel like a filthy slut. My muscles gripped his cock so tight that I squeezed him out of me, as my back arched, and I came—an incredible roar escaping my just-fucked throat. My thighs shook.
Alexei stroked his cock maybe five times max and he was cumming in patterns on my heaving stomach.
“Wow,” I said, sitting up.
A thin stream of water was flowing from the kitchen faucet. We both laughed.
“Can I call you anyway?” I asked.