For all the wifes / our special time - Sex Stories

For all the wifes / our special time

Breakfast is over. Your husband is off to work and the k**s have left for school. You sit quietly at the kitchen table finishing the last cup from the coffee pot, daydreaming about nothing in particular... getting ready to start another weekday. The doorbell rings once, startling you from your morning musings. You rise slowly from the table, wondering who it might be. As you walk from the kitchen to the front door you think "what a sight I am, hair all mussed, in an old robe and worn slippers... well the hell with it, whoever it is they probably don't look much better than I do." Quickly you run your hands through your hair and down the front of your robe, smoothing out the wrinkles as best you can. Standing on your tip toes you peek through the security viewer in the door. You can see the head and shoulders of a man in a cap and work shirt. He appears to be in his mid to late thirties, with sandy blond hair peeking out from around his cap. You open the door slightly, and peering around the edge you say "Yes?" You can see more of him now; a strong, athletic, tall man carrying a toolbox in his right hand. "You called about your refrigerator?" he says in a deep, but soft baritone. You remember your call to the appliance store in town yesterday, and their promise to send someone to look at your balky ice maker. "Yes, I did, come in, please." You open the door to let him in, then close it behind him. "The ice maker, it doesn't work all the time, and we're expecting company this ...

... weekend." Just inside the door he places his tool box on the floor and turns to face you. His deep, hazel/green eyes meet yours. You stand not moving under his unblinking gaze, and a tremor of fear, or is it excitement, quivers along your spine. For what seems an eternity, neither of you speaks or moves. You are riveted in place by his eyes. They seem to reach out and hold you immobile, like a fawn caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He doesn't move, or speak. His eyes seem to see right into your soul, and you desperately want to say something to break the spell... but you can't find your voice. Something primal in the depths of your being doesn't want to move or speak, something strong and insistent, caged and yearning for the light pushes its way up through your stomach like a white fire. You stand unmoving, trembling, half afraid. You watch helplessly as his hands reach for you. They are strong, rough hands... a workingman's hands, but strangely graceful in their movements. Slowly, one button at a time, he unbuttons your robe. You feel on the edge of panic, but the growing white fire in your belly holds you firmly, and quietly, in place. He pushes the robe gently off your shoulders, and it falls silently, forgotten, to the floor. Your knees are turning to water, and the trembling along your spine is moving in waves. Gently he places his hands on your shoulders and turns you around with your back to him. His hands move softly to your hips, and with one hand on your ...