The Pizza Deliveryman
It was a rare evening. Her husband had taken their children to stay with his parents for the weekend.
She was home alone.
There was a ring at the door. She opened it to find a young man standing before her. He was tall and well-built, with broad shoulders and a ruggedly handsome face. The attraction was immediate. She stared in wonder. Was such a thing possible?
She felt the pull and the guilt at the same time. But there was no turning back now, for within his muscular arms and well-shaped hands there was…a freshly-baked pizza. And not just any pizza. A spinach, garlic and ricotta pizza. The kind she never ordered when her family was home because they always only wanted pepperoni or ham.
As she handed him the money, the young man drew his strong jaw back in a broad smile. "Is there anything more I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked temptingly.
"You've been wonderful," she said breathlessly, closing the door.
Then she sat down on the sofa, watched an episode of "House" and ate the entire pizza all by herself, as ripples of pleasure coursed through her trembling body.
The Repairman
He was on his knees, working the wrench with the strength of his mighty arms.
She watched him. He obviously knew what he was doing when it came to laying pipe and unclogging drains. And not bad to look at either, she thought. Nice eyes. Such a man is hard to find. Worth keeping, perhaps, whatever his price.
He rose swiftly to his feet with the agility of a wild deer, then turned to face her, wiping the sweat of his labor from his brow with the tattered sleeve of his checkered flannel shirt.
"All fixed, ma'am," he said. His voice was deep and soulful.
"How can I ever thank you?" she asked breathlessly.
"Well," he began, then paused as if unsure how far he dared to go with her. Finally, he said, "That'll be five hundred crowns."
She felt as if she might faint. Her husband had said it would cost at least a thousand to have a repairman come, and that the problem probably couldn’t even be fixed. Her hands so quivered with excitement and anticipation that she was barely able to pay him.
"Will that be all, ma'am?" he asked her. "Or do you have some other trouble that could use my assistance?"
Her mind was a blur of ecstatic possibilities. She pictured him with his chiseled torso bent over in the kitchen, repairing the constantly dripping faucet. She imagined his powerful legs straddling the bathtub, his strong fingers caulking its cracked edges.
It was all she could do to resist these urges, for there was only one inescapable desire pulsing in her wildly beating heart.
She hurried him out the door, then tore off her clothes and rushed to the bathroom, where for the first time in three weeks she was finally able to take a shower without the hot water suddenly switching to cold.
Ripples of pleasure coursed through her trembling body.
The Servant Girl
It was the strangest feeling. She had never been attracted to another woman before, yet there was something about this young maiden which was hypnotically alluring.
She wondered what it was that stirred these powerful feelings inside her as she watched the girl work. Was it the way the young woman was dressed, with her oversized blouse revealing her ample bosom as she leaned forward on her knees to wipe the parquet floor with a damp cloth? Was it the strands of her lustrous dark hair that fell gently across her face as she dusted the bookshelves?
Or was it perhaps simply the fact that, for the first time in her life, instead of coming home after working all day and then cleaning the apartment all evening, she had finally found this girl who now cleaned the place twice a month for a reasonable price?
Yes, she thought. I'm in love with her. But she also wondered how far she could go in pursuing the ultimate satisfaction which she sought.
The girl finished her work, then smiled shyly, held her hands folded in front of her submissively, and asked, "Is there anything more you would wish, ma'am?"
Her response was filled with nervous hesitation. "You don't…um…by any chance…do windows, do you?" she asked.
"Yeah, sure," the young woman answered. "I can even hang the curtains, if you want."
Ripples of pleasure coursed through her trembling body.
The Masseur
She had come to him for a full-body massage. A friend had recommended him. "He'll change your life," her friend had said.
He was attractive in a strange, foreign way. He looked Spanish or Arabic, with a full head of dark, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. But of course it was his hands that commanded the greatest attention, for they were the tools by which he had earned his reputation. They were large and manly, surprisingly hairless considering his Mediterranean looks, and with perfectly manicured nails.
He began by rubbing her neck, then moved to her shoulders, slowly wiping away all of the aches from carrying her heavy shoulder bag all day long. He worked his way down her sides and back, erasing with a series of powerful strokes the strains she had from standing up on the bus to and from work every day.
He moved on to her thighs and calves, both outer and inner, until she almost cried with the ecstasy of muscular release. Finally, she was limp, barely able to move. At that moment he could have done anything to her that he wanted, and she would have been unable to resist his advances.
"Is there anywhere else you would like me to rub, ma'am?" he asked. "Anywhere at all?"
She looked into his dark brown eyes and decided to risk it all.
"Could you…do my feet? she asked pleadingly.
"Certainly," he replied, as he began taking her to a paradise of physical sensation she had never known before. Ripples of pleasure coursed through her trembling body.
And after that she had sex with him, which was pretty great too.
