Chapter 2: Sink Shock
The next morning, Reese’s stomach was a tangled nest of wires. The image from the porch—the glistening, puffy proof of Dee’s interest—had replayed behind his eyelids all night. He’d dressed with extreme care, choosing stiff, dark jeans and a loose hoodie despite the humid promise of the day, a feeble attempt at camouflage.
Her house loomed. It was a sprawling Victorian with a wraparound porch, but to Reese, it looked like a carnivorous plant. Every spindle seemed to curve like a bone, the flower boxes overflowing with blooms that smelled too sweet, cloying. As he climbed the steps, the floorboards groaned under his weight, a sound answered by a higher, more musical creak from inside.
The door flew open before he could knock.
“There’s my handyman!” Dee sang. She was a vision in distress. Her jorts were sliced off at the thighs, frayed threads brushing skin that looked like poured cream. A simple white t-shirt was knotted high under her ribs, leaving a wide band of her taut stomach exposed and pulling the neckline into a strained ‘V’ that plunged into shadow. The fabric was thin, worn. He could see the dark, broad circles of her areolas pressing against it, the tips pronounced.
“Uh, hi. You said a sink?” he managed, eyes darting to a spot just over her left shoulder.
“A leak, sugar. A downright tragedy. It’s under the kitchen sink, and I just cannot make heads or tails of it.” She stepped back, beckoning him into a dim, cozy interior that smelled of vanilla, wax, and something muskier underneath. “Come on in, don’t be shy.”
The kitchen was all yellow laminate and old appliances. She pointed to the cabinet doors beneath the sink. “It’s all yours. I was tryin’ to have a look myself, but I’m afraid I just don’t have the right… tools.”
Reese nodded, dropping to his knees on the linoleum. He opened the doors. Pipes, a bucket, some bottles of cleaner. He could see a drip from a joint. “Probably just needs a new washer, or some plumber’s tape,” he muttered, more to himself.
“Is that so?” Her voice was right above him. He could feel the heat of her body, could see her bare calves and feet enter his periphery. Then she was bending, leaning over him to peer into the cabinet, her head beside his. The weight of her breasts, unrestricted by a bra, hung down, brushing against his shoulder and arm. The soft, heavy warmth of them through the thin cotton was an electric shock. The smell of her—perfume and clean sweat and that underlying, earthy sweetness—filled the cabinet.
“Can you see it, sugar?”
“Y-yeah.” His voice cracked. He fumbled for the pipe wrench he’d brought. “I just need to tighten this coupling. Might need to drain the trap first.”
“You’re speakin’ Greek, but it sounds smart.” She didn’t move. Her breath was warm on his ear.
He reached in, the wrench clumsy in his hands. He wasn’t a plumber; he’d watched a video. The metal jaws slipped on the slick chrome. He adjusted his grip, put more muscle into it, and turned.
It was the wrong direction.
With a sharp pop, the coupling separated completely. A jet of cold, pressurized water shot straight out, hitting Dee square in the middle of her knotted shirt. She shrieked, a sound of genuine surprise that turned into a bubbling laugh. The water soaked the thin cotton instantly, plastering it to her skin, rendering it completely transparent. The water beaded and streamed over the full, heavy shapes, making dark nipples pucker and stand in stark relief.
It also drenched Reese. The cold water soaked his hoodie and his jeans. The fabric of his pants clung to him, outlining the substantial, confined bulge at his groin, the sheer scale of it unmistakable even in the chaotic spray.
Dee’s laughing stopped. Her eyes, wide and blue, went from his shocked face, down her own revealed body, and then to the pronounced, tented fabric between his legs. Her smile changed. The bubbly neighbor vanished, replaced by something hungry and direct.
“Well,” she purred, her southern drawl thickening. “Looks like we got us another leak to fix.”
She didn’t stand up. She sank down, her knees hitting the wet floor on either side of his hips. The soaked, translucent shirt was in his face, the smell of her skin and water overwhelming. She pressed her body against his, the cool wetness of her shirt giving way to the stunning heat of her beneath it. He could feel the hard points of her nipples against his chest.
“Dee, I—” he started, but she silenced him with a finger on his lips.
“Shhh, honey. You just relaxed. Let Dee handle this.” Her hand slid down his stomach, her fingers making quick, sure work of his belt and button and zipper. The pressure release was immediate. As she freed him, her eyes widened slightly, a soft “oh my” escaping her lips. It wasn’t shock. It was appreciation.
She positioned herself above him, one hand guiding him, the other bracing on his shoulder. “This here’s the real troublesome pipe,” she whispered, and then she sank down, taking him inside her in one slow, breathtaking, impossibly wet descent.
Reese gasped, his glasses fogging. The sensation was a tidal wave, obliterating thought. She was tight and fiercely hot, a slick, gripping velvet glove. She began to move, a steady, rocking rhythm that made the water on the floor slosh beneath them. Her soaked shirt slapped against his chest with each motion. Her breasts, freed from even that minimal constraint, swayed and bounced heavily, droplets flying from their tips.
“That’s it, sugar,” she cooed, her head thrown back, neck corded. “You’re a natural.”
He was lost, hands moving of their own volition to grip the full, swaying curves of her hips. The world narrowed to the sound of her ragged breathing, the slap of wet skin, the squelch of their joining, and the creak of the floorboards beneath them. He felt a pressure building, a coil tightening in his gut.
She sensed it. With a grunt, she lifted herself off him, turning onto her hands and knees on the wet linoleum. “Come on, now. Don’t be gentle.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He moved behind her, the view staggering. Her ass was a monumental, round expanse, and she was completely bare, glistening and open for him. He pushed back inside, and this time the angle was deeper, sharper. She cried out, a sharp, joyful sound, pushing back against him with each thrust. The sound of their collision was a wet, rhythmic smack that echoed in the small kitchen.
It was frantic, graceless, and overwhelming. Reese’s vision whited out at the edges. The coil snapped. With a choked sound, he drove into her one last time and held there as the release tore through him.
She craned her neck, looking back at him, her eyes glazed with pleasure. She watched as he pulled away, then looked down at herself. Rivulets of his release were already streaking down her inner thighs. She gave a low, guttural laugh.
Then she did something Reese would never forget. She cupped one of her own immense, heavy breasts, lifting the weight of it, and bent her head. Her tongue, pink and wide, snaked out to lick a stray, pearly droplet from the slope of her own flesh. She sucked her nipple into her mouth, her eyes closing in a mimicry of ecstasy, cleaning herself with a sensual, deliberate slowness.
“Mmm,” she hummed, releasing it with a pop. “Every bit as handy as I hoped.”
Reese could only stare, his mind blank, body humming, clothes sopping. He fumbled with his jeans, hands trembling.
Dee stood up with a fluid ease, as if they’d just shared a cup of tea. She untied the knot of her ruined shirt, peeling the translucent fabric away and dropping it on the floor with a wet slap. Completely unselfconscious, she padded to a drawer, pulled out a dishtowel, and tossed it to him.
“You might wanna… clean up a bit before you head home, sugar,” she said, her bubbly personality sliding back into place like a mask, though her eyes were still dark with satisfied knowledge. “That leak was a lot bigger than I thought.”
She smiled, looking at the still-dripping pipe under the sink, then back at him.
“I’m sure glad we got to the bottom of it. I’ll have a few more chores for you tomorrow. The garage door’s actin’ up. Real stubborn.” She winked. “Might need a strong, steady hand to really… lubricate the tracks.”
Reese caught the towel, his brain finally sputtering back into a feeble imitation of function. He could only nod, the reality of what just happened—the sheer, graphic absurdity of it—crashing down on him. He’d fixed the leak. And unleashed something else entirely.
He left her house ten minutes later, the dishtowel damp in his pocket, the smell of her and sex and cheap vanilla clinging to him. As he crossed the lawn, he heard the distant, contented hum of a lawnmower from several yards over, a steady, throbbing purr that seemed to sync with his own racing heartbeat.