Clean

“Outside,” Chris texted.

“Down in a min,” I texted back, smoothing my skirt in the elevator of our soon-to-be-old apartment building. My shirt was deliberately just slightly see-through to my lace bra’s faint pattern, and the swell of my breast visible if the buttons gaped a certain way. I’d spent several minutes deliberating over sheer cream bikinis or a simple black thong, finally settling for pink lace French cut. But who was I kidding? We were driving to Brooklyn to pick out tiles.

I knew it was a hackneyed scenario: the cable man, the refrigerator repairman, the tool belt coming off to reveal the other tools. But those were fantasies. They involved women who lolled about during the day in pink silk robes. This was my real life. The one where my breasts were still full and firm but my stomach hadn’t been as tight since my last baby. The one where I still made a point of wearing sexy underwear but I wasn’t sure why. The one where my husband and I still had satisfyingly hot sex, but I wasn’t sure how closely he looked at me anymore: was I just a body that knew how to work with his, did he fuck me simply because that’s who was around to fuck.

The contractor’s van was double parked in front of my building and when I saw Chris in it, waiting for me, my stomach dropped to between my legs.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, gesturing to the chaos of paint cans, 2x4s and various discarded clothing in the back of the van. But the passenger seat had been cleared and as he lifted the seat belt holder for me to click myself in our fingers touched. They stayed connected, rubbing, a beat, another beat, and when he moved his hand away my fingers burned. We chatted idly for over an hour through the clogged highways of summer traffic, but even with the AC blasting the wet in my panties would not cool or dry. It was as if there were two conversations going on, the one between our mouths, and the one between the rest of our bodies.

When we parked he seemed to hesitate a moment before turning the van off. He kept both hands on the wheel before removing one to turn the ignition. I sat very still. My breath was shallow and I could see his chest rise and fall again. I did not move as he moved his hand and un-clicked my seat belt, gently pulling it over my head. Then in one movement he swept me into his lap. His arms, his body encompassed me, his hands running up and down my sides. Kissing me. Hard. His hands on my breasts. I wondered if his cock was like his tongue, thick and hot as it captured my mouth with confidence. If he had been unsure, he had now made up his mind. Mine had been made up a long time ago. I swung my leg to straddle him, the steering wheel pressing into my back, and started to rub myself across the hardness down the length of his thigh. He had a hand on each breast, his thumbs caressing the nipples through the softness of my blouse and as they hardened under his fingers I sucked in my breath.

“Your tits have been teasing me since the second I saw you,” he breathed into my neck and then roughly started undoing my blouse buttons with one hand while the other squeezed and rubbed. I moaned.

I put my hand on the swell of his cock and began to fumble with his belt buckle. I realized his jeans had a dark stain where I had soaked through my panties. He looked where I was looking and smiled slyly. Suddenly he lifted us both up and still holding me, my legs wrapped around him, tipped us carefully into the back of the van.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said again, looking up at me. “I won’t let it touch you.” He buried his mouth on my nipple, his teeth nipping the tip while his finger pushed inside the crotch of my panties. With his fingers slick with my juice he slid two of them up to the edge of my rim and then back down. Clit to rim. Circling. Pressing. Sliding.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said. I arched my back and thrust myself forward with the rhythm of his fingers, and then came a tightening.

“Come like this,” he panted. I tried to nod and my teeth bit my lip and my eyes closed as the orgasm mounted and swelled, shaking through me.

“Now I want you to ride me,” he said, lifting me up slightly so he could undo his belt buckle all the way. His balls were smooth and small and his cock was enormous, like the truck his body reminded me of. I tugged his jeans down and ran my tongue along his thigh as I came back up, finally working my way up his shaft to enclose my mouth around the tip. He groaned. I put him in deeper and flicked my tongue. His breath quickened and I cupped his balls, scraping my fingernails gently on the smoothness. He groaned again.

“Come here.” He pulled me up, with one hand reaching for his lowered jeans and fumbling in his pocket. He handed me a condom. I took the foil package and looked how to tear it open, suddenly shaking. I had only used one once before, that first time with my now-husband. Who was I and what was I doing right now? Why was I with a stranger in the back of a van? Chris saw my face.

“Come here,” he said again, this time pulling me to his chest and folding me in his arms. “It’s ok, I understand. We don’t have to.”

“But you want to, right?” I asked quietly.

“Fuck, yeah,” he said, stroking my hair, his chest pushing against me as he breathed hard. His cock, even relaxing a bit, was still so big, and I couldn’t resist holding it in my hand. Within seconds it thickened in my palm.

“I don’t want you to get dirty,” he said. “Will you come up here?” This time he pulled me all the way up so that my pussy met his lips. His tongue flicked in and out and he held my ass steady with both hands, gripping it, kneading it. I bucked my hips and he buried his face deeper, sucking. A small scream came out before I realized it had come from me. I screamed again as I came and he sucked it up. I kissed him, hard, tasting myself in his mouth. Shaking I moved back down, grabbing the condom package from the floor. I tore it open and rolled it over his shaft, using both my hands to smooth it. He grabbed my hips and positioned me over him.

He slowly lowered me down and filled me up, like my whole body was a sheath. I felt him swelling even more inside me. I tightened myself and he let out a low growl. I did it again, squeezing his cock inside me. He started to move my hips so that I was riding back and forth, up and down. Back and forth, up and down, like we were one animal. I don’t know how long it went on. A minute. A day. I could have gone on forever. Finally he thrust up one more time and I gripped and arched and he thrust up deep to snake through my whole body to the very edges and then we lay together breathing.

When I got out of the van he was true to his word: I wasn’t dirty. And either way, I didn’t feel besmirched. I still love my husband. I still love when he fucks me in our blazingly conservative style, whether it’s on the kitchen floor or in our marital bed. But until Chris and that summer, I had lost something, and it was Chris who gave it back.

When the renovation was finished and the workers were gone I met Chris in the lobby and we rode up the elevator together one last time. We walked through the empty apartment, smelling of floor varnish and fresh paint, still hot from the end of August and days away from when we’d move in all our stuff and run our air conditioners for the last weeks of Indian summer. I don’t know if I followed him or he followed me or we pushed each other to the guest bathroom.

The shower stall had a glass door now and he opened it. We tumbled inside, kissing and licking and trying to consume each other. I fumbled with his belt and opened him up. He picked me up and I wrapped my legs around him. This time, my morning debate had been between knickers or not and I had gone with not. Without panties to catch my wetness I could feel it dripping down my thighs and onto his. He slid right into me, his thick cock filling me as he steadied us against the wall. He smelled clean and fresh. But at the time I didn’t register any senses except the intensity of my desire. I wanted him to fuck me so badly and I wanted to fuck him so badly nothing else existed. The ridge of the shampoo and soap counter they had built for my guests knocked against my back as his big hands moved me up and down and he pumped me, and pumped me and pumped me one last time.

He peeled off my dress, my bra, kicked off his boots, his jeans, his button down shirt, and turned on the shower. I came up to the bottom of his chest and I ran my fingers over his muscles and through his hairs.

I knew he had to go soon but I couldn’t stop myself. I got down on my knees and squeezed his cock between my tits. I kneaded and rolled, massaging his dick, my dark nipples taut and hard, mini columns to his own stiffening tower. He leaned his head back and I could hear him panting through the running water. He pulled me up and turned me around so he could fuck me from behind, holding me tight as he thrust himself in and out of the ass I raised for him. His other hand placed my hand in my pussy and I fingered myself while he plucked a nipple until I thought between the heat of the shower and the apartment and our lust I was going to faint. I leaned against him, facing him again, and we soaped each other with the soap I had placed on the ridge. He shampooed my hair. And then he rode down in the elevator and I stayed to sweep the floor and do some cleaning before we moved in.

I never saw Chris again, but whenever we have guests, the smell of the soap wafts through the apartment. The clean scent lingers. And I remember that I know how to be a woman.

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