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My Husband Wanted the Contractor to Have Me — part 3

A First-Time Hotwife Story

When my husband caught the contractor staring, he didn’t get jealous. He gave him permission.

Part 2:

[embed]My Husband Wanted the Contractor to Have Me — part 2 A First-Time Hotwife Storymedium.com

Wednesday morning at seven forty-five is usually reserved for making coffee and pretending I understand Ben’s stock portfolio. Today, I am standing in the middle of our master bathroom, staring at my reflection.

My heart is beating completely out of rhythm.

Ben walks up behind me. He is wearing his tailored suit pants, but his crisp dress shirt is still completely unbuttoned. He looks at me in the mirror. His hands slide down my waist, settling firmly on the curve of my hips.

“Nervous?” Ben asks. His voice is a low, soothing rumble.

“Terrified,” I admit with a breathless laugh. “What if he brought someone awful? What if he brought a guy who smells like old onions?”

Ben chuckles. His lips brush the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “Wyatt is a professional. He knows the standard I expect for my wife.”

Ben steps back and opens the heavy oak bathroom drawer. He pulls out a sheer, pale pink silk robe. I bought it for our honeymoon ten years ago and have not worn it since. It covers absolutely nothing. It just blurs the edges.

“Put this on,” Ben commands softly. “And nothing underneath.”

At exactly eight o’clock, the heavy rumble of a diesel engine shakes the front windows.

I peek through the living room blinds. Wyatt’s silver pickup truck is parked in the driveway. A second door opens. A man steps out of the passenger side.

My stomach drops right into my bare feet.

Wyatt is lean, tattooed, and athletic. The guy standing next to him is a human bulldozer. He is wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms thicker than my thighs. He has a dark, neatly trimmed beard and eyes that look like they belong on a very angry bear.

“Oh god,” I whisper.

Ben stands next to me. He sips his black coffee. He looks completely unfazed.

“He looks hungry,” Ben notes casually. “Go sit on the sofa, Nora. I will answer the door.”

I practically scramble to the beige couch. I cross my legs, trying to arrange the sheer pink silk to look somewhat presentable. It is a completely impossible task.

The doorbell rings.

Ben opens it. I hear the deep, polite murmur of morning greetings. Heavy work boots step onto the hardwood floor.

Wyatt walks into the living room first. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. The cocky smirk from yesterday instantly returns. He drops his heavy tool belt onto the rug.

“Morning, boss,” Wyatt says to Ben, but his eyes are locked completely onto my chest.

“Morning, Wyatt,” Ben replies. He stands in the archway, holding his coffee mug. “Introduce us to your friend.”

The mountain of a man steps into the room. He looks around, taking in the pristine living room, the expensive vanilla candles, and then, finally, me. He freezes. His dark eyes go wide.

“This is Cole,” Wyatt says. He slaps the big guy on the shoulder. “He does the heavy lifting.”

Cole looks completely confused. He looks at Wyatt, then at Ben, then back at me. He swallows hard.

“I thought we were hanging drywall,” Cole rumbles. His voice is so deep it actually vibrates the floorboards.

Ben takes a slow sip of his coffee. He sets the mug down on the console table.

“The drywall is in the kitchen, Cole,” Ben says calmly. “But my wife has a very demanding schedule. She needs two sets of hands today.”

Cole stares at my husband like he just grew a second head.

“Sir?” Cole asks. He is gripping the straps of his heavy canvas tool bag so hard his knuckles are white.

“Wyatt didn’t explain the job to you?” Ben asks, feigning surprise. He looks at Wyatt. “Communication is key in contracting, Wyatt.”

Wyatt laughs. “I told him the pay was double and the client was incredibly generous. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Cole slowly lowers his tool bag to the floor. He looks at me again. This time, his gaze drops lower. He takes in the sheer pink silk. He sees the outline of my nipples pressing against the thin fabric. He sees the bare skin of my thighs where the robe has fallen open.

A very dark, very primal shift happens in his eyes. The confusion vanishes. The polite contractor disappears. What is left behind is pure, predatory instinct.

“I can handle the heavy lifting,” Cole says. His voice is basically a low growl now.

I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper.

Ben smiles. It is a brilliant, totally satisfied smile. He walks over and sits in the leather armchair directly across from the sofa. He crosses his legs. He is the absolute king holding court in his own castle.

“Show him how it works, Wyatt,” Ben commands.

Wyatt does not hesitate. He closes the distance between us in two strides. He doesn’t even bother with teasing today. He reaches down, grabs the lapels of my silk robe, and pulls them wide open.

I am completely exposed in the bright morning sunlight.

Cole lets out a harsh, ragged breath. He takes a heavy step closer. He is so massive he practically blocks out the sun coming through the window.

“Look at her,” Wyatt says to Cole. He rests his rough, callused hands on my bare hips. “Told you she was perfect.”

Cole doesn’t say a single word. He reaches for his flannel shirt. He pops the buttons open one by one. His chest is a wall of solid muscle covered in thick, dark hair. The sheer size of him is terrifying in the absolute best way possible.

“You like him, Nora?” Ben asks from the armchair. His eyes are dark and incredibly focused. “Tell Cole how much you like his size.”

My face is burning. The verbal exhibitionism still absolutely guts me, but the pleasure it brings my husband pushes me right over the edge. I have to play the game for him.

I look up at the massive man standing over me.

“I like it,” I whisper. My voice is shaking violently. “I like it a lot.”

Cole drops his flannel shirt onto the rug. He reaches for his heavy leather belt buckle.

“Good,” Cole rumbles. He steps right up to the edge of the cushions, his shadow falling completely over my body. “Because I brought all my tools.”

Cole’s heavy leather belt slips through the metal buckle with a sharp clack that makes my heart completely jump into my throat.

He pushes his faded denim jeans down his thick thighs, taking his dark boxer briefs with them. He springs free, and I actually stop breathing. I mean it. My lungs completely cease to function.

He is massive.

I am a thirty-two-year-old woman whose primary form of exercise is a Tuesday morning Pilates class where we mostly just stretch and gossip about the Homeowners Association. I am completely, fundamentally unequipped to handle the sheer logistics of what is standing in front of my face.

Wyatt looks down at my wide, terrified eyes and bursts out laughing.

“I told you he does the heavy lifting,” Wyatt says, practically cackling.

“Ben,” I squeak. I actually look past the two towering contractors to my husband, who is still casually sitting in his leather armchair. He is holding his coffee mug with two hands, looking like he’s watching a fascinating documentary on the Discovery Channel. “Ben, I am going to break. He is going to literally break me in half.”

Ben chuckles. It is a warm, rich sound that instantly coats my panicked nerves in a layer of absolute safety.

“You are not going to break, Nora,” Ben says soothingly. He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Women’s bodies are miraculously adaptable. And Cole is a professional. Aren’t you, Cole?”

“Yes, sir,” Cole rumbles.

It is completely absurd. I am lying naked on my beige sofa, my pink silk robe completely open, discussing my anatomical elasticity with my accountant husband and a giant bearded man who smells like sawdust and motor oil. It is so ridiculous, and so incredibly dirty, that a wild, breathless laugh escapes my lips.

Cole steps forward until his shins hit the edge of the sofa cushions. The heat radiating off him is like a furnace.

“Wyatt,” Cole says, his deep voice vibrating through the room. “Hold her still. I don’t want her sliding away from me.”

“You got it, buddy,” Wyatt replies cheerfully.

Wyatt moves around to the back of the sofa. He leans over the top cushions, reaching down to grab my wrists. He pins my arms gently but firmly above my head. His tattooed forearms brush against my cheeks. I am completely trapped.

“Look at me, Nora,” Ben commands from his chair.

I turn my head toward my husband. His dark eyes are shining with that feral, possessive heat.

“Open your legs as wide as you can,” Ben whispers. “Let him in.”

I swallow hard. I let my knees fall completely open, exposing myself totally to the giant standing over me.

Cole doesn’t rush. Despite his intimidating size, his hands are surprisingly gentle when they grip my bare thighs. His palms are rough like sandpaper, callused from years of manual labor. He strokes his thumbs along my inner thighs, parting me wider.

“God, Wyatt wasn’t kidding,” Cole murmurs, his voice thick with awe. “She’s already dripping.”

“I told you,” Wyatt says from behind me, shifting his weight so his own growing erection presses against the top of my head. “The boss has her perfectly trained.”

Cole aligns his thick, broad head against my completely saturated entrance. He doesn’t just shove forward. He presses in slowly, testing the waters.

I let out a loud, high-pitched gasp. The stretch is unbelievable. It feels like I am being pushed to my absolute physical limit, and he is barely an inch inside of me.

“Take a deep breath, baby,” Ben says. He leans forward in his armchair, setting his coffee mug down on the coaster. He is totally captivated. “Relax your muscles. You can take him.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to exhale. I relax my hips, sinking deeper into the beige cushions.

Cole groans. It is a deep, guttural sound of pure male satisfaction. He drives his hips forward, sinking another two inches into my tight heat.

“That’s it,” Cole grunts, his heavy hands gripping my hips to anchor me. “Just like that, pretty lady.”

It takes a full, agonizingly slow minute for him to completely bottom out. When his hips finally meet my thighs, I feel completely, totally full. The sensation is so heavy and overwhelming that tears actually prick the corners of my eyes. It doesn’t hurt, but the absolute fullness of it makes my brain short-circuit.

“Holy shit,” I whimper, my head thrashing against the cushions.

Wyatt shifts his grip on my wrists. He leans down, his mouth right next to my ear.

“You doing okay down there, Cole?” Wyatt teases.

“It’s tight,” Cole grits out, his entire massive body trembling with restraint. “So fucking tight.”

“She’s a good girl,” Wyatt murmurs. Then, Wyatt reaches down with one hand. He grabs my jaw and turns my face straight up toward the ceiling. “But I think her mouth is getting lonely.”

Wyatt climbs completely over the back of the sofa. He straddles my chest, his knees sinking into the cushions on either side of my ribs. He reaches down and frees his own thick length from his work jeans.

I am staring straight up at Wyatt’s erection, while Cole’s massive weight is completely filling my lower half.

I look frantically over at Ben.

Ben has his phone out now. He isn’t using the hidden camera anymore. He is holding his phone up, recording the entire thing like a proud dad at a school play.

“Take him, Nora,” Ben commands, his voice dropping into that dark, filthy octave I love so much. “I want to see my wife serving two men at the same time.”

I open my mouth. Wyatt guides himself past my lips.

The sensory overload is absolute madness. Cole starts to move his hips, pulling back and driving forward in long, slow, devastating strokes. Every time Cole hits my cervix, a jolt of electricity shoots straight up my spine. At the exact same time, Wyatt is thrusting into my mouth, setting a completely different, faster rhythm.

I am entirely consumed. I can’t think about the kitchen remodel. I can’t think about the HOA. I am just a warm, wet vessel for these two massive construction workers, entirely for my husband’s viewing pleasure.

“That’s it,” Cole growls, his rhythm getting slightly faster. The sofa groans loudly in protest. I silently pray the warranty covers structural damage from blue-collar gangbangs. “Fuck, she milks it so good.”

“Swallow it, Nora,” Wyatt grunts, his hips snapping forward against my face. “Take it all the way down.”

“Beautiful,” Ben murmurs from the chair. “You are such a perfect slut for them, baby. God, I love watching them use you.”

The dirty talk, the overwhelming physical stretching, the smell of their sweat mixed with Ben’s coffee — it all crashes together. A massive, rolling orgasm starts to build low in my belly. It feels totally different from yesterday. It is heavier, darker, and completely uncontrollable.

I start to hum frantically around Wyatt’s length. My hips buck upward, completely losing any sense of rhythm, just chasing the intense friction Cole is providing.

“She’s getting close,” Wyatt pants, his hands tangling in my hair.

Cole lets out a feral roar. He loses his slow, careful pacing completely. He hammers into me with his massive weight, his chest heaving, his beard scraping against my bare stomach.

“I’m filling her,” Cole shouts, his eyes squeezing shut. “Boss, I’m doing it.”

“Do it,” Ben commands sharply, his phone recording every second. “Ruin her.”

Cole bottoms out so hard it knocks the breath out of my lungs. A scorching, unbelievably thick wave of heat floods my insides.

The second Cole finishes, my own climax rips through me. I scream around Wyatt’s cock, my body violently convulsing. My inner walls clamp down on Cole with the force of a vise grip.

Wyatt doesn’t last another second. He groans loudly, his hips locking against my mouth as he spills his hot release directly down my throat.

I swallow frantically, my entire body shaking, tears of pure, overwhelming euphoria streaming down the sides of my face.

The living room falls dead silent, save for the sound of three people gasping for air.

Cole collapses forward, resting his massive weight entirely on my chest. Wyatt slumps over the back of the couch, his forehead resting against the top cushion.

I am completely flattened beneath them. A total, utter wreck of a suburban housewife.

Ben slowly lowers his phone. He stands up from the armchair. He walks over and gently pats Cole’s sweaty, broad shoulder.

“Well,” Ben says cheerfully, surveying the absolute mess of his living room. “I’d say that was a very productive morning. But I really think we should talk about getting that drywall hung.”

Cole and Wyatt leave ten minutes later. They actually shake Ben’s hand on the way out. It is the most bizarrely polite exit I have ever witnessed.

I am still wrapped in the ruined pink silk robe. I am a puddle of exhaustion on the sofa cushions.

Ben locks the front door. He walks back into the living room, completely bypassing his briefcase. He scoops me up right off the beige upholstery.

“Time for a bath, Mrs. Nora,” Ben whispers. He kisses my forehead.

He carries me up the stairs. He draws the warm water. He washes my hair, my back, and every single inch of skin the contractors touched. He does not ask for anything in return. He just looks at me with a soft, completely devoted reverence.

When we finally crawl into our bed, he pulls me flush against his chest.

“You gave me everything today,” Ben murmurs into my damp hair. “You are my perfect wife.”

I fall asleep feeling completely safe, totally loved, and entirely ruined in the best possible way.

Three months later, our kitchen is finally finished.

It is absolutely gorgeous. The white shaker cabinets are flawless. The tile backsplash is perfectly aligned. Every single time I stand at the island to chop vegetables, I feel a hot, heavy flush creep up my neck. I remember exactly what it cost to get the job done so quickly.

Ben is sitting at the new island. He is drinking his Saturday morning coffee and tapping away on his iPad.

We are back to our normal, boring suburban lives. We buy organic milk. We go to bed by ten. The neighbors think we are the most vanilla couple on the block.

They have absolutely no idea what is securely locked in a hidden folder on my husband’s phone.

Ben sets his coffee mug down. He looks up at me with that familiar, dark twinkle in his eye. My stomach does a completely involuntary flip.

“Hey, Nora,” Ben says casually.

“Yes?” I set down my paring knife.

“I was looking out the back window this morning,” Ben says. He taps the screen of his iPad. “The grass is getting a little out of hand. I think we need to hire a professional landscaping crew.”

I swallow hard. The familiar, wet heat pools instantly between my thighs.

“A landscaping crew?” I ask. My voice is already a little breathless.

“Yeah,” Ben says. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “I found a local company. Three brothers. They specialize in really deep, thorough yard work. I scheduled them to come by on Tuesday morning.”

I grip the edge of the pristine quartz countertop.

“Tuesday morning,” I repeat softly.

“Exactly,” Ben says. He stands up, walks around the island, and kisses me hard on the mouth. “Make sure you wear those tiny denim shorts I like. I have a feeling these guys are going to require a very hands on approach.”

I watch him walk out of the kitchen. He looks so handsome, so completely in control.

I look out the window at our slightly overgrown backyard. I smile to myself. I am definitely going to need a lot of sunscreen.

The End.

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