The Handyman
That was the first Sunday morning mum didn't insist I go to the cemetery
with her. After all, I barely knew my dad; I was six when he died. How
heavenly it was to be home alone. I loved it. If I'd have felt like it, I
could have taken a voluptuous bath, done naughty things to myself, even
shouted with ecstasy.
I celebrated my freedom by taking a walk. I planned to amble past the barn,
through the pasture, and into the wood. In the wood, I might even take down
my pants and play with my pussy like I'd done when I was twelve. It was so
naughty, but so exciting out in the open like that, where you could be seen.
I passed behind the barn and savored the smell of the animals and the hay in
the lofts. Swallows darted in and out of the eaves. The twittering of birds
and the busy buzz of insects filled the air...and then I heard the grunt.
At first, I thought it was an animal, but that would have come from the
other side of the barn. I stopped and listened. It came again. I approached
the back of the barn, where the maple tree had started as a sapling that
same year I was born. Now it supplied shade to the old tackle room where the
handyman lived.
We had had three handymen that I could remember. This latest one was the
youngest -- perhaps twenty-eight. His name was Rick, and he was stupid as a
rock. It wasn't his fault, of course. When he was 18 (my age), he fell
off a windmill and landed on his head. Everyone considered it a miracle that
he'd lived, even though afterward he had lost most of his wits. He may have
been mentally slow, but that didn't detract from his being able to do the
work of a horse. I don't know what mum and I would have done without him.
I heard a muffled groan, and I stole up to the tackle room's single window.
It stood open. A worn checkered curtain had been carelessly stretched across
the opening. Another sound, like a quiet rush of air, drew me closer. I
peered past the curtain and into the darkened room. When my eyes had gotten
used to the dark, I saw a stunning sight.
Rick lay on his back atop his bed. He had pulled his dingy trousers down to
just above his knees. In contrast to his tanned face and muscular arms, his
flat belly and thick thighs were white. A lush patch of black hair filled
his crotch. I could see his testicles, which appeared the size of a bull's,
and his prick, which he was fondling.
The sight shot a thrill through me. I felt damp between my legs, as if I'd
forgotten and started my period in my pants. My left hand went immediately
to my left breast and my thumb circled the nipple. I gripped my belt with my
left hand.
Rick had a huge prick. Up to that time, I'd seen many hard animal pricks --
horse pricks in particular. Rick's was not much smaller than those, and he
was slowly stroking it through its full length from base to head. He held
his lips in the shape of an O. His eyes were half open and glassy. They
stared at the ceiling, but didn't appear to see. He made soft grunting
sounds as his hand slid the sheath of skin on his prick slowly up and down
on the rock-hard shaft beneath. Each stroke made his body jerk, his legs
quiver, and his back arch.
"Oh," he said. "Oh...oh..."
I let go of my belt and moved my hand down to the crotch of my jeans.
There's a bump there made by a seam. I worked the bump down until it set
over the hood of my clit. I began to rub in time with Rick's right hand. My
legs became weak. I leaned on the side of the barn. My breathing quickened.
Rick's hand increased to two strokes a second, and it covered only the top
third of his swollen prick. I knew at that moment that something had to
happen. It couldn't go on like that much longer.
I wanted Rick inside of me. I thrust my right hand down into my pants. It
was very wet and juicy down there. I rubbed a few times, and then I stuck in
a finger up to the first knuckle. I wanted to cry out. Instead, Rick did.
He said, "oh...oh...uh-uh-uh-uh..." he held his breath. His face turned red.
A milky stream of semen spurted from his prick. Two seconds later, he shot
three more powerful spurts of sperm as far as his chin. He continued to
stroke frantically at four strokes a second, slinging globs of semen in all
directions.
I wanted to climb through the window and lower myself onto his prick. I
wanted to squeeze it inside of me. I wanted to...
I felt myself coming. I stepped away from the window, turned, and pressed my
back against the wall of the barn. I rubbed my clit, pinched my left nipple,
and gritted my teeth to keep from crying out.
For just that moment, as I had my orgasm, I craved to feel Rick thrusting
his pricked into me up to the hilt.
Then it was suddenly over. I stole away from the barn and went back to the
house. In my room, I could look out my window and see the barn. I thought
about what I must have looked like, standing outside Rick's window,
masturbating to orgasm. Then I lay down on my bed and fell asleep, feeling
no guilt, and hoping it would happen again, soon.