Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories) (4 page)

One night while reading in bed, Mel finally noted his wife kneeling over all the carpet swatches that she had strewn across their bedroom floor.  She had been to The Carpet Depot—twice in two days.  Mel hadn’t remembered a time when Chloe took such a keen interest in anything, much less carpet samples.  Chloe forced a smile.  She was determined to replace the carpet in their master bedroom, a cheap tufted carpet originally installed by the developer.  It was beige, horrible and ugly, and scratched her bare feet like pebbles every time she walked across it after her shower. 

Instead, she considered the three swatches to replace it: Adobe Dust; Honey Buff; Sailor Blue.  She considered how each texture would feel against her shoulders, lower back, and ass when she would ask Tommy to pin her hands over her head and forced his way inside her.  She thought about how “Sailor Blue” would complement his eyes when she mounted him in the missionary position and climaxed from atop.  She savored the idea that its plush 100% heatset polypropylene fibers would cushion her knees rather than skin them off like sandstone.

Chloe settled on Sailor Blue.  Later, she confirmed it was the correct choice.  She did, after all, fuck Tommy twice that day.  That morning, she watched him rip up the cheap bedroom carpet with his hand-chisel, chipping away the glue from the subflooring, his bare hands peeling up the frayed beige layers like dry skin.  It was a new beginning.  A process of rejuvenation.  And Chloe loved watching him work.  She loved watching the muscles in his forearms flex and contract.   She loved the way he balanced himself on one knee.  She loved the way his veins bulged in his wrists.  And she loved the anticipation within their silence as he rearranged her bedroom furniture, toppling over her queen-sized mattress and bedframe against the wall in order to make way for their Sailor Blue sex adventure. 

After he lay out the carpet, he approached her with determination.  They both knew what came next.  It was an unspoken understanding.  Their eyes locked.  He ripped open her blouse, popping off buttons like scattering pearls.  Chloe held her breath; the violence of his desire shocked and excited her.  She had intentionally worn that blouse, imagining him tearing it off her body, the same way he tore off old fragments of the carpet from her subflooring.  Now, she panted with titillating fear.  With one fierce motion, he had exposed her tits, the pump arcs of her breasts and nipples popped out of the ivory cups of her satin bra.  His arms constricted around her waist, an anchor towing her down onto the sailor blue carpet as if he was pulling her under the sea.  He grabbed her hair from behind, allowing her scratch his forearms with her nails as his tongue forced itself deep into her mouth, releasing her for air only when she unzipped his fly and cupped his cock in her palms.  He was always swollen, firm, determined to thrust his way inside her.  Chloe loved the fact that she caused instant excitement in him.  She never caused that kind of excitement in Mel, not even on their wedding night, when Chloe came out of the bathroom in her black corset and matching thong panties only to find Mel drunk, face-down, on the waterbed of their honeymoon suite.  But with her carpet installation man, she always felt the proof of his excitement between her fingers, and it made her wet and wanting more.

Tommy spread her out on her back, her long black hair fanning outwards like a mermaid, and peeled up her A-line skirt past her pink panties.  He pushed down his own jeans. Tommy never wore briefs.  Chloe always loved surveying his long muscular torso and maroon erect cock.  He wedged his hand under backside, forcing her hips and pelvis higher.  Then, he thrust inside of her without warning, forcing her to feel the burn, deeper and deeper, until she begged him to stop before begging him for more.  Chloe braced her palms against the carpet, undulating dark imprints into its velvet finish with every vibrating tremble and release, tremble and release.  Tommy pushed up her knees and pinned them under his armpits.  She was trapped under the weight of his body, unable to escape how he was building her up, deeper, faster, rougher, while grinding against her G-spot.  Chloe lost focus on the ceiling fan, whooshing through the air, accelerating faster and faster with rhythmic beats.  Her fingernails dug into his shoulder blades.  She bit into his neck to mute her scream.  He was pumping and pumping inside her, harder, faster, as if he was going to break her in-half, slice her open with seismic vibrations until she burst into a thousand pieces from the inside out.  Then, everything ceased—including her own breath—as she felt the release of his body rolling away from her and into the ocean waves of her new carpet. 

They fucked a second time that day.  It was after they finished the master bedroom’s installation and replaced all the furniture.  There was no expectation that it would happen again.  No words or signals that would indicate to Chloe that Tommy desired her twice in one visit.  Instead, it started with a gesture of politeness—an offer to clean up the dirt and dust from his work.  He asked if she had a vacuum.  She had three.  Which did he prefer?  The one with the longest hose and strongest suction.  Chloe nodded, attempting to close up her blouse with the two remaining buttons.

Her favorite vacuum was in the upstairs storage closet: the Gladiator.  It was a European brand, bagless and beltless, and slurped up caked mud from his son’s tennis shoes like a growling beast.  Pennies, paperclips, dried cereal, petrified wads of bubble gum—they were no match for the Gladiator.   It was a housewife’s best friend and a gift from Mel after one of Chloe’s fits of depression turned into an argument about her crappy old Hoover vacuum cleaner.  The new vacuum cleaner—a three-hundred import from Greece that Mel spent hours researching on the internet, not to mention the small fortune it costs in shipping fees—was Mel’s way of validating his wife’s importance to the family.  Chloe remembered crying when she opened the package.  Instead of validating her importance, it confirmed her biggest fear: no one expected her aspire beyond the daily grind of cooking, cleaning, ironing, laundry, and vacuuming.  Instead, she was expected her to be satisfied with her life as a glorified maid, so long as she had the most state-of-the-art cleaning paraphernalia.

But now, as Chloe wheeled the upright vacuum into the master bedroom, she considered how much she enjoyed using the Gladiator to dust her furniture with its micro-fiber centrifuging suction brush head, and how often she used its expandable retractable nozzle hose to suck up the pink, moldy residue encircling the bathroom ceiling fans.  Although she despised it initially, reviling it as a symbol of her domestic bondage, she had since grown fond of it.  So fond of it that she proudly presently it to Tommy, certain it would serve his cleaning needs better than anything else she could have offered. 

But the moment Chloe plugged in the vacuum’s power cable to demonstrate its four main suction settings—gentle, swift, cyclone, and industrial—it became clear that Tommy had little interest in using the Gladiator to clean her newly installed carpet.  Instead, he had every intention of using the vacuum on her.  He stepped towards her, removing the nozzle hose from her hand and flicking the machine onto its lowest setting.  The Gladiator whirled with a dull roar.  Then, he moved closer to Chloe.  His chest brushed against the torn folds of her blouse.  He slipped his palm behind her back, kissing her neck with whispers.  Chloe closed her eyes, trying to resist him.  She had just finished dressing again.  Her children would be home in two hours.  She still needed to go grocery shopping for dinner, run the dish washer, and make cookies for her daughter’s charity bake sale.  She didn’t have time to have sex again, even if he was trying to seduce her with naughty playful foreplay by placing the tip of the nozzle on her exposed bra.  The swoosh of cool air suctioned the tip of her tit.  He teased it with a tug and a twist, rotating the nozzle left, then right, while kissing around her earlobe—an erogenous zone of weakness that he had discovered earlier that morning.   Chloe felt herself dissolving with desire.  She pressed her fingertips against his pecks.  It was meant as a sign of restraint; instead, it encouraged him more.  He dropped the nozzle hose down to the hem of her skirt, slipping it slowly up her inner knee.  The suction nipped her flesh with pricks of pleasure and pain, the same way he ran his teeth between her legs earlier that day, pinching skin between his teeth, intentionally marking her with red love bites, hidden deep between her inner thighs.  He was luring her in again, seducing her with forbidden pleasure, slipping the tip of the vacuum wand deeper and deeper between her legs.  She knew what he wanted because she wanted it too. 

Chloe sighed and leaned forward against his hard body for balance. She relaxed her thighs and allowed the suction to creep closer and closer to the folds of her panties.  She relaxed even more before hearing the hiss of cotton.  Then, there it was.  A deep vibrating suction on her clitoris.  Chloe rested her forehead against his shoulder and sighed.  She titled her pelvis forward, trying to force him to place the nozzle’s tip squarely over her pussy.  But he resisted.  He circled it around her, breezing the cool air off the surface of her thighs, the waffling noise of the vacuum’s suction hovering over the single point that Chloe wanted sucked the most.  She was gushing now, craving what he was keeping from her.  He registered the desperation in her moan.  He was going to make her beg for it. 
Please
…  she asked with silence, pressing her body against his own. 
Please
…  her fingernails ran through his sandy brown hair. 
Please
…. her head dropped backwards, her eyes falling up to the ceiling. 
Please
…  she whispered one final time—a surrender.

It was enough.  He flicked the vacuum cleaner’s setting to cyclone, and thrust its nozzle over her clit.  Chloe opened her mouth with a gasp, the rushing suction of the vacuum sending her into a frenzy.  She tried to writhe away, but he grabbed her waist, holding her steady with a cruelty that she had seen before… it was a merciless determination to bring her to a climax whether she thought she could bear it or not.  He pressed the nozzle harder over her clit.  She was trapped, forced to endure the reeling tremors with heaving breaths.   Chloe wanted to escape.  She knew she didn’t know how to come, how to release the throbbing pressure inside her.  Over her eleven years of marriage to the same man, she had never climaxed once.  She had never learned how.  Now, he was going to force her to
truly
come.  He wasn’t going to stop until he built her up, and released her, before building her up again.  Suddenly, Chloe felt it.  For the first time in her life, her whole body quaked, a sexual seizure that started at the base of her spine, quivered through her pelvis, sparked her pussy, and sizzled up her stomach, chest, shoulders, neck.  Blood flushed her skin and rushed to her head, and the final convulsions of ecstasy escaped from her mouth with a primal scream.  Chloe slunk against Tommy’s chest like a flimsy rag doll, overwhelmed with the sensation of relaxation.  It was the best natural high she had experienced in years, and no matter how wrong it was, it couldn’t be more necessary because it finally made her feel alive again.  

For the first time in years, there was a significant shift in Chloe’s attitude.  She was calmer, less resentful of her husband when he forgot to take out the garbage or left up the toilet seat.   The listlessness of her routine had not changed, but she didn’t seem to mind anymore.  The incessant routine of household chores; the grating whines of children; her husband’s old-fashioned expectation of eating a home-cooked dinner every night.  It didn’t bother her now.  Instead, she carpooled her children to school; she met the other mothers for lunch; she hustled through the crowds of the grocery store, and she helped her older son with flash cards while Mel read books to their daughter and prepared her for bed.

It was a never-ending cycle of days dissolving into nights.  The only thing that had changed was her carpet, and even though she hadn’t seen Tommy in over a month, she hadn’t forgotten what it meant to her.  Every night, when her household wound down and settled into its silent brooding slumber, Chloe would tour the lower floor of her house, locking doors and flicking off all the lights.  Then, she would remove her slippers and socks, and wiggled her bare toes through the sensual carpet fibers of each room, revisiting the exhilaration of each session with Tommy.  It wasn’t his body or his face that she recalled the most.  It was the way he reminded her that she wasn’t just a wife or a mother—but also a woman.  

After an hour, she would retreat to her bedroom and slip under the covers and snuggle against Mel, who was already snoring with his reading light still on and his cozy mystery novel, crumbled against his chin.

The warmth of her body would rouse him, and he would always ask her the same series of questions through sleepy breaths.

“Did you lock up?”

“Yes.”

“The lights?”

“Yes.”

“And your new rooms?” 

Walking through her newly-carpeted rooms had been a nightly routine for the past four weeks, and although Mel knew she would spend hours of the day, admiring her new carpet, Chloe never suspected that he knew exactly why.

“Yes.”  

Then, there was a shift in the script.  Chloe noted it as her husband smothered her hand with his own.  

 “You know, honey, I’ve tried for years to find a way to make you happy.  I’m glad to see you’ve finally found something that does.”

Chloe kissed her husband on the cheek and turned off his reading lamp.  As she rolled away under the sheets, she wondered—for a brief moment—if he knew.  She wondered if somewhere along the way the condom didn’t flush properly, or if she forgot to properly clean the cum-stain left on the emerald carpet in his den.  But Chloe was certain she had never been careless in that way.  Instead, maybe her husband was simply acknowledging the change, a change that Chloe recognized in herself—she was a wife, mother, and
woman
who deserved to be happy, and the only person who could make her happy was herself.  And as she drifted off into slumber, listening to her husband’s light rabbit snores and replaying her children’s gleeful smiles when she let them lick the cookie batter bowl, she considered the possibility of switching out all her new carpet to hardwood flooring.