My Cup of Tea

My Cup of Tea

Plumber needs a mate

For Michael

(Thank you to Charlie the Wanker for suggesting I vary up my vocabulary on breasts.)

I lie cocooned in the warmth of the summer morning and the sheet, drifting back and forth between snoozing and waking. Sometimes I think you might be making me a cup of tea and my soft lower lip pouts in anticipation. Then I doze off again and my lip slackens in sleep.

"Come and hold this for me," you say suddenly from the door.

"Uh?" I open my eyes to see you standing in the pearlescent morning light of rosy-fingered dawn.

There is no cup of tea in your hand. I roll over and nuzzle back into the sheet, the drowsy peace of those moments before proper getting up time.

There is a sharp smack on my arse and you say: "Come on, you lazy slut."

Oh for Chrissake. I crawl out of bed, very grumpy. I'm so grumpy I can't be bothered to get dressed. I'm in these shorty pyjamas with a vest top anyway, there isn't much cloth to get dirty helping you with whatever job you decided to finish off before the builders arrive for the day.

I found the cottage. Close enough by the river that you can hear the waters softly gurgling. It nestled alongside the green tree-hung pathway, roses coiling round its derelict doorway.

You said: "That will be a bloody damp cold place in winter."

I said: "Oh yes, my darling, so it will."

We couldn't find anywhere else we could afford. We bought the cottage to do it up and sell to some other silly dreamy woman unable to resist its charm in the dog days of summer, when people cycle freely to and fro along the tree-hung pathway, without getting trapped by fallen branches and bogged in mud.

I barely know one end of a box spanner from the other end of an adjustable wrench, LOL. You're in charge and I do as you say. Like I always do, my darling. OK, nearly always.

I'm following you across the landing into the bathroom. (We have to use a primitive downstairs outside toilet while we sort the bathroom out.) The floor is littered with bits of rubble so I go back to put on some shoes. I don't bother to change out of my shorty pyjamas. A pair of high heeled black shoes happens to be lying on the floor near the door so I slip them on. Surely they'll do to keep my toes out of the rubble.

Oh dear, should I have put some proper clothes on? You're giving me a look when I come back but you just say: "Hold this in place for me." You hand me a grab rail and point at the tiled wall above the bath. I try to get it in a good position, although leaning over the bathtub (which is full of bits of grout from when the tiling was done) is kinda difficult while wearing high heels. By jiggling my arse I manage to get my balance. Now I'm stretched right over the bathtub, I can't twist my head to look at you without letting go of the grab rail. "Is that OK?" I ask anxiously past a big tit hanging down like fruit in the dimness inside my skimpy vest top.

"Uh, that's fine," you say from behind me.

I'm wondering if after we've done this thing I can hop back into bed before the builders arrive. Maybe you'll even make me a cup of tea if I'm holding the grab rail nicely for you? So I balance on my high heels -- although my thigh muscles are feeling the strain -- bent over with my arse in the shorty pyjama shorts sticking up in the air and my tits hanging in my skimpy vest top. I stand there like this holding the grab rail patiently to the wall for ages.

"For fuck's sake!" I say at last. "Are you going to screw this fucking thing or what?"

You make a choking noise, then say: "I have to mark out where the screws are going first."

You lean over me. To keep your balance, you put your fucking hand on my butt, curving it round the firm muscle of my buttock, cheeky bugger. I can feel your body brush lightly on my back. Jesus, I'm rocking in these stupid heels and you're breathing on the nape of my neck where the fine hairs coil, my long hair falling away over my shoulders. Fucking Hell, I'm going to lose my balance and drop this fucking grab rail and fall in the bathtub in a minute. I better get a cup of tea after all this.

At last you've inserted your marker through the holes of my grab rail and are standing back up again. My breasts do the grand fandango as I scramble backwards to my feet, hoping to drop the grab rail and scamper back to bed.

"Just a minute," you say, producing your drill and waving it at me.

What the fuck do you want now? That better be a cup of finest Oolong in fucking gilt-edged Sèvres china with a fucking sugar biscuit in the saucer.

"You can put that grab rail down," you tell me. " Hand me a 3/16 inch drill bit."

A what-y what what? I squat down on my heels by the case of drill bits. My tits press into my thighs, my legs are slightly apart otherwise I'll topple over backwards in these stupid shoes. I can feel my cunt straining against the seam of the shorty pyjama shorts. There's probably even a wet patch starting to form along the seam.

I look at the curled metal drill bits, pick one out and wave it hopefully at you. As I do this, I sweep a length of hair back off my face and smile because I know you find that sexy so maybe you won't care if I got totally the wrong bit of metal out for you.

You're laughing, you fucking bastard. Getting me out of bed to root through your bits like this, fuck you! You come over and squat down behind me and reach round. You put your hand over mine. Your long fingers entangle with my little fingers and guide them to the specific curling bit of metal that you want. It's pleasurable feeling you press up against me and your fingers tangle in mine. You brush your lips on my neck too, so I start to think maybe I'll even accept that cup of tea in a mug.

Now you're taking the drill bit and inserting it into the clasping hole of the drill. You're screwing it tightly into place in that hole. I watch you put the drill to each of the marked places in the tiles. Squatting on my heels in shorty pyjamas among the bits of rubble, I stay with my breasts pressing into my thighs and my arms on my knees, staring meditatively at your lean jeans-clad butt. Slowly, carefully you screw the drill into the tiled wall. You come back for a different size bit. You seem to be spending a long time choosing the right one from the case by my high heeled feet, squatting in front of me with your head down and your eyes nearly on a level with my cunt straining at the seam of my shorts.

I'm kinda resigned to just watching now. I'm almost in a trance, still soft with sleep, wondering if I can get back to bed and will you bring me a cup of tea (maybe with some toast?). A blackbird is singing outside, notes as liquid as the waters gurgling past the cottage. I see you've finished because you stand back and put the drill down, brushing your hands on the butt of your jeans in a satisfied way.

"Come and lean your weight on the rail," you say. "See if it'll take your weight."

I rise up awkwardly on my heels. My boobs are jiggling freely in the skimpy vest top. My leg muscles have got cramped and I totter in the heels over to the bathtub, my boobs going jiggle jiggle as I go. I give a big sigh as I lean over the bathtub once more. What a sight I must be in these stupid heels with my inadequately shorts-clad arse sticking up in the air, my body all stretched out and my little hands grasping the grab rail. I tug down on it so hard that my shoulder muscles all stand out.

"OK, it's fine," I say, starting to let go and stand up.

"You're not pulling hard enough," you say. "Put all your weight on it."

Oh for fuck's sake! By now the sun is coming full through the windows. The landing and the bathroom are awash in a golden summer glow. Birds are singing in the trees outside. Jesus H., soon the builders will be here banging around and I won't get my morning snooze.

"I am so pulling on it as hard as I can!" I say indignantly. I hear a zipping noise behind me, like what? you're going to take a piss now while I hang on this rail with my tits dangling over the bathtub? The fucking toilet doesn't work in here, idiot! Then there is a rustle which I recognise as a condom packet being ripped open. One of your hands slides down in the top of my shorty pyjama shorts and cups my arse cheek.

"Keep holding that grab rail," you say in that tone of voice that I always do what you say.

Oh my gosh. There's no way I'll be letting go of the rail. Your hand is easing the shorts down over my arse, fingers parting my cheeks to feel between the lips of my cunt. You make a satisfied murmur to find my pussy already wet.

I'm trying to spread my legs for you but what with the shorty shorts and my fearing I'll fall over in my high heels among the bits of rubble, I'm going to have to stand like this -- quite tight.

"Come on, cock tease," you murmur. Your fingers are as busy screwing my clit and my cunt as they were with the drill bits. I moan and push back to get the tip of your finger into me. You hypocrite, you cunt tease, you pull it quickly out and carry on teasing my soft creaming pussy.

I feel your body brush on my back, like when you were putting your marker in the holes of the grab rail. You start fingering my breast while still fingering my cunt. You tease at my nipple, at my clit. Both are starting to tingle, to stand proud and hard. I'm quivering and grunting with pleasure, with desire. The sensations are dancing between nipple and clitoris as bright as sparkles of sunlight off the grab rail which my little fingers grip hard.

Oh for God's sake, fuck me, fuck me. I'm still trying to spread my legs, I'll be tearing these fucking shorts to shreds in a minute. Just give me a finger, even just one.

I feel the head of your long thick rod nudge at my cunt. I make a thrilled chuckle, you grunt with pleasure. Slowly, you push and slide the length of your cock up into the grasp of the tight wet muscles, shoving deep up.

That grab rail sure is getting a testing now as I grip it and lean my weight off it and pull on it. Fuck me, fuck me, you're sliding deep in and pulling back, deep in and back. Your hips push to my arse, you press hard against the crack as you go in deep, your hands are gripped on my hips, you squeeze my hips as you pull back. I feel your thickness pushing up in the tight grip of my creaming wet slippery muscles. I'm grunting and moaning as the pleasure ripples out from your thrusting. My thigh muscles are feeling the strain as you shove into me, holding up on the high heels. You're grunting and moaning: deep in, pulling out; deep in, pulling out.

You quicken the rhythm. I cry out as I feel a huge orgasm building up inside me. There's nothing I can do, balanced on my high heels with my legs spread only so far as the pyjama shorts will allow, hanging off the grab rail. You're thrusting up and hitting that spot in the particular way that you can do if you enter me from behind.

You let go my hips and lean over to grasp my tits, too far gone yourself to tease the nipples. You grip the soft flesh of my breasts, thrusting up harder into me.

I'm quivering, I'm going, I'm gone, uttering the helpless cries of orgasm, the feelings flooding out from deep inside me, waters gushing and squirting, deep up where you're thrusting as you cum yourself with passionate cries.

I hang trembling from the grab rail. You're still thrust up into my cunt with your hands gripping my tits. Slowly, carefully, you let my big tits go and stand up, resting one hand gently on my back. You pull back and out. I feel the juices soaking out through my shorty shorts and trickling down my thighs.

I can hear the builders' van pulling up outside. There is a zzz-iiip as you do your jeans up. You give my arse a slap. In a bad imitation of the builders' accent, you say: "Get the kettle on, love, and make us all a nice cup of tea."