Cheating with a repairman

My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls. Andrey, however, would irritably reply that he was in a meeting when I asked him to "at least hold the stepladder." He preferred to ignore his wife running around with tea for the handyman and picking out grout colors. "Why does he come to see us every day?" Andrey asked on the fourth day, noticing that I was preparing lunch for Timur. "We don't have a dining room at home." "The man works all day. This is basic hospitality," I snapped. "And anyway, you should have been standing here, not him." Andrey just snorted and buried his face in his phone again. On the fifth day, things collapsed. Andrey announced he was going to his mother's for a week. Simply because "the house was a mess, it was suffocating, and he urgently needed to finish a project." I stood in the paint-smelling bedroom doorway and watched him pack his suitcase. At that moment, I think for the first time, I clearly understood that our marriage wasn't falling apart because of the renovations. Timur, who was mixing glue in a bucket, didn't say a word. He simply looked up at me and nodded curtly: "We'll manage, Vera Pavlovna." That evening, I lost it. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty glass in my hands, and felt a helpless anger boiling inside me. I couldn't cry in front of strangers. Timur came in to wash his hands. He saw my face, took off his work jacket, tossed it on a stool, and sat down silently across from me. “He’s had enough of you,” he said, not as a question, but as a statement. "A little," I chuckled, amazed at my own frankness. "Did you hear everything, Timur?" "The walls are thin, I work quietly," he replied calmly. "Sorry for intruding. But seeing such a beautiful woman staring into an empty glass, as if into an abyss... It's not right." He spoke simply, without fawning. I glanced at him. Thick black hair, dark skin, biceps clad in the sleeves of a black T-shirt. He smelled not of office air conditioning, but of dust and a woody, tart masculine scent. "He's gone. The renovations are in limbo," I said, waving my hand. "And to be honest, I don't care anymore. I hope the walls just fall into place." "It won't work out," Timur shook his head. "I know my job. It will be beautiful. But it wouldn't do for you to be sad. Come here." I didn't understand what he meant. I stood up and walked over. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the wall. Suddenly, his huge palm landed on the back of my head, and his dry, hot lips crashed onto mine. I froze. He smelled faintly of tobacco. My knees buckled, not from weakness, but from a razor-sharp surprise and something else. Something I hadn't felt with Andrey in a couple of years. “What are you doing?” I breathed out when he pulled away a couple of centimeters. “I’m fighting the mess,” he chuckled. His voice was low. “You have too much of it in your life. Your husband is a wimp. I see everything. Let me help.” I wanted to protest, to say he was overstepping his bounds. But the words stuck in my throat. Simply because I was pinned against a freshly polished wall by a huge man who looked at me not as a client, but as a woman. And I fucking loved it. He kissed me again, this time deeper and hungrier. His tongue was in my mouth, and his hands slid down, squeezing my buttocks. I squealed through the kiss, feeling the strength in those hands. "I want you right here," he whispered against my lips. "I don't want to wait for the putty to dry." “The door...” was all I could say. "I locked it," he replied, pushing the straps of my sundress off my shoulders. The fabric slipped down, leaving me in just my lace bra. The cool air from the open window sent goosebumps down my spine. He didn't waste time on affection, like Andrey did, always asking if I was "enjoying it." Timur simply took. He lifted me up, sat me down on an empty stovetop crate, lifted my sundress, and ripped my underwear with one rough tug. I screamed. "Quiet, the neighbors will hear," his eyes flashed. "Although I don't care." I grabbed his shoulders, ripping his shirt off. I needed to feel his skin. I ran my nails over his sculpted chest, feeling the muscles ripple. Andrey was soft; he didn't like sports. Timur, on the other hand, was as hard as the stone he kept in the bathroom. He pulled down his work pants, and I saw his arousal. His cock was big, dark, throbbing. My insides clenched. “You’ll have to work hard,” Timur grinned, noticing my gaze. He didn't give me time to think. He turned me around and bent me over the makeshift table. I heard the packaging crack—it definitely wasn't film. His palm landed on my lower back, pressing down. “Your mouth is faster than your thoughts, Vera,” he said and entered abruptly. I moaned so loudly it echoed throughout the empty room. He wasn't gentle. He was primal. He moved hard, powerfully, pounding into me without any regard for the fact that we were "renovating." I clung to the edge of the drawer, biting my lips, and he drove deeper and deeper. Heat grew inside me, my brain melting with the sensation of being filled. Andrey had always been cautious, brief, and impersonal. Timur took me so brazenly, like a master, and this dark, animalistic feeling made me ready to scream. "Do you like it?" he growled, slapping my buttock. The sound was loud, like the blow of a spatula. "Yes... yes, fuck!" I screamed, not recognizing my own voice. He grabbed my hair, wrapping my ponytail around his fist, forcing me to arch further. With his other hand, he squeezed my breast, which had slipped from my bra. Rough fingers twisted my nipple, sending jolts of electricity straight to my lower abdomen. Timur didn't tire. His pace only increased. I felt my orgasm approaching. It was like an avalanche. - Now... Now! - my groan turned into a scream. “Come on,” he pushed especially deep, and I shattered into a thousand pieces. But he didn't stop. While I was shaking, coming to my senses, he pulled out his cock and roughly grabbed my chin. “Finish it,” he demanded. Without thinking, I climbed off the box and onto my knees. The floor was cold, but I didn't care. I took him into my mouth. He was still hard, slick with my juices. For the first time, I wanted to please a man so much. I sucked obediently, using my hand as his fingers gripped my hair. “Swallow,” he commanded briefly, and a couple of seconds later I felt hot, salty-bitter sperm in my mouth. I swallowed it all, then looked up at him. He stood over me, breathing heavily, smiling. I smiled back, even though my lips were burning. “Now the room will definitely be aired out,” he joked. When he went into the bathroom to wash off the dust and my smells, I stood up. My legs were shaking. I went to the bucket of paint. The renovation was proceeding as usual. Andrey called in the evening. He asked how things were going. I said everything was fine, the technician was coping. “Well, that’s great,” he yawned. “And I’ll rest up at Mom’s for now.” After hanging up, I glanced at Timur, who was laying the laminate flooring. Catching my gaze, he winked slyly. I felt ashamed. But this shame was so sweet.