He stood, leaning against the sink, back half turned to me. The sides of the orange juice carton flexed in and out as his jaw and throat worked in time to his suction, and I watched the movement in fascination, all thoughts of complaint vanquished by the spectacle of his greed. My cunt twitched involuntarily as I lowered the shopping bags stealthily to the floor, hoping in that moment to go on watching without triggering his awareness. He had clearly been bending over in the hot shed working, the smell of hot metal combined with recent sweat was thick in the air, and telltale patches of damp bloomed across the faded blue flannelette of his work shirt. The hand grasping the juice carton was streaked with reddish dirt.
From my position just inside the doorway, I could see more signs of his labour; damp tendrils of hair springing across his forehead, darker lines of sweat in the red blonde hair on the side of his head. Savoring the picture I followed the line of his long braid down his back, past the worn damp flannelette between his shoulder blades, toward the hem of the shirt, where it fell loosely across his buttocks. His jeans were filthy and marked with the same rust coloured dirt that stained his hands. It appeared to have been a successful afternoon in the studio, judging by the absence of tension in his stance.
As I watched he put down the empty carton on the sink with a sigh of evident satisfaction, and I chose the moment to reveal my presence.
“A good thing I picked up some more juice while I was out.”
He turned, face lighting with pleasure;
I brushed past him to reach into the open fridge door, giving his arse a friendly squeeze of greeting before depositing more juice into the bottom shelf, then straightened to reach into the bag for the pasta sauce and salad.
“Get much done?”
He rolled back against the sink, facing outwards, long legs angled away from his torso.
“Finished.” he said softly, a little self-satisfied smile playing across his sexy mouth, and I noted further smears across one cheek and his forehead.
Taking the cheese and the cat food from a second shopping bag and adding it to the rapidly filling shelves, I paused to survey him with a solicitous eye.
“You look tired. Do you want to have a shower before dinner?”
I bent down to scoop up the last item, a large, plastic wrapped custard tart from the cloth bag on the floor.
Ryan straightened, looking anything but tired now, uncoiling his long muscular frame from the edge of the sink and reaching toward me, ignoring my question.
“You bought custard tart.”
I grinned, waving the package toward him then transferring it quickly behind my back.
“Yeah, I did, but you’re not getting any yet. Not until you’ve cleaned up for dinner!”
He reached over and around me as we started a tussle I knew I could not possibly win. He was considerably taller than I, his long arms and strong shoulders – honed through his sculpting work, would allow him to easily overpower me while safely claiming his prize. But I had my own wiles. I twisted away, and he came after, trying to reach around me. The sudden movement generated a small tear in the worn shoulder seam of the sleeve encasing the same arm, which even now was wresting the dessert from my resistant fingers.
“Mine!” he declared, quickly shifting his prize to the other hand and half turned away placing his shoulder between me and the prize, while moving it rapidly away out of my reach.
“Mine!” I retorted, seizing the damaged fabric of the sleeve he now presented to me, and tugging.
A large rent appeared in the cloth, revealing a surprisingly clean muscled bicep, and releasing a delicious aroma of fresh male sweat.
“Leave it!” he commanded, as he reached carefully to place the custard tart on the adjacent bench, keeping me in his peripheral vision as he did so.
Of course an injunction such as this was fair game. I flashed him a look of mischievous intent and renewed my assault. The sleeve was hanging limply off his elbow before he could retaliate, and I danced back a step in the hope of avoiding the response I had knowingly provoked. In our informal house rules, a damaged garment was fair game, and often led to sexual contest and conquest.
However the rapid backwards movement caught one sandalled foot on a fold of the shopping bag discarded on the floor during our initial interplay. As I started to trip, arms flailing for balance, Ryan pounced. Seizing one arm to steady me, he used this grip to his advantage as he threw the other arm around my thighs and hoisted me rapidly across one shoulder. My other sandal fell to the floor as he shouldered open the bedroom door.
“Ryan! I remonstrated, laughing. “Put me down, you fool! You’re getting dirt all over my blouse!”
Ignoring my concerns, now bolstered by ineffectual kicks and further attempts to damage his already threadbare shirt, he caught me up in both arms and threw me backwards onto our bed. While I continued to protest the mess he’d already made of my white blouse, brushing ineffectually at the rust stains across the front, he took a moment to survey his catch, hands on hips, shirt dangling in strips from shoulders and cuffs, a lustful appreciation lighting his face as he eyed my squirming, recumbent form, spreadeagled before him. Covertly I watched his admiring appraisal taking in the way my skirt had ridden up as I landed on the bed. His gaze alone informed me that my position was revealing not only my open fleshy thighs, but a glimpse of cloth-covered mound, damp crotch and pubic hair. Then I watched as his inventory turned to a self-satisfied smirk, as he too noted the smears of rust coloured dirt on my once white blouse, knowing in the same instant he’d not heard a word of my tirade.
“Dirty girl” he intoned, “look at the mess you’ve got yourself into”.
He reached one hand down toward my thighs and I shuddered in anticipation of what he might do next.
“Ah ha!” he cried and held up a small grubby object for my inspection.
“What do we have here? It seems like your blouse has encountered some collateral damage. Unfortunately it has a missing button. Which means, that technically your blouse is damaged” he added, kneeling on the bed between my legs, nudging them further apart as he did so. Looking directly into my eyes, his gaze stern, he added solemnly.
“And we both know what that means don’t we?”
He reached down, with one grubby probing finger, gaze shifting to my breasts as he revealed the open section of blouse where the missing button had once been. His gaze shifted back to my face, checking that I was watching. I felt the movement of my throat as I swallowed hard, echoing Ryan’s earlier working of the juice container. Silently my own gaze darkly intent, I followed the movement of his strong sculptors hands as they twisted together a handful of fabric from either side of the blouse opening, paused, then pulled sharply apart. My chest lifted momentarily upwards, material strained and ripped, buttons popped and flew randomly across the bed. “Mine!” he roared joyously, reaching out to spring my pale breasts free from my bra with his grubby hands.
In turn, I reached under the dangling strip of damaged shirt front – still partly intact thanks to the reinforced pocket of his work shirt; and, running my hand rapidly up his muscled stomach and smooth firm pectoral muscle, groped for the stub of his erect, brown nipple. I tweaked his nipple hard, taking satisfaction from hearing him gasp, then reached downwards to rub firmly across the cock strained fabric of his jeans. “Mine” I rasped, voice husky with desire, reaching for the zipper…
Come back for more Ryan on his new page…