Mr. Electric: Part 2 – An Erotic Story

The holiday season went well. The turkey and pumpkin pies were gobbled up. The Christmas parties were full of salacious highlights that would make for intriguing conversations well into summer. My girlfriends and I popped off a couple bottles of champagne for New Year’s and made a night of it. Despite it all, several remarks just after Thanksgiving overshadowed all the parties and food of the season—in a good way.

Mark Walker and his wife, Jenny, who live on my street, complimented the Christmas decorations on my house.

“You have a great sense of design,” Jenny said, holding a plastic cup of spiked apple cider.

And the compliments kept coming.

“When we go out, we take the long way, so we can go by your house and stare,” Mark said.

“It’s dolled up beautifully.”

“And we go slow when we drive by.”

“I’ll be disappointed when you take them down. Consider decorating for the next holiday.”

“What is the next holiday?” Mark asked, putting his arm around Jenny’s narrow shoulders.

“We’ll find out soon,” she said. “The grocery store should be selling candy for it in a week or two.”

The three of us laughed politely, and I thanked them graciously for the compliments. We didn’t talk anymore that evening, but their comments honestly shook me. Mr. Electric had done his job well, and the whole neighborhood saw it. They just didn’t know everything that he had done well.

Before New Year’s came, I had an appointment with Mr. Electric to take down the decorations. You might say, have the house stripped. But I’ll get to that.

The small cargo van with the name Mr. Electric set on the lightning bolt easily pulled into my driveway. I was excited to see this man again. He left me last time wanting more—demanding more—but that damn emergency call stole him from me.

This year I was ready. The bed had clean sheets and the pillows were puffed up. I had my hair up in a ponytail to show off my favorite gold, hooped earrings. I could have had on a dress—a short skirt—to make an obvious statement about my ultimate intent. I didn’t want to give myself away too quickly. A man needs to work a little bit for a treat. While the dress was out, last time, skinny jeans didn’t help in the fun. They almost snuffed it out, because they were so hard to peel open and pull down. The best option was loose trousers. I added a white fit top hidden under a zip cream knit jacket with an oversized collar.

I let him ring the door bell and held back for a moment to avoid being a puppy dog panting at the front door. I waited just around the corner, out of sight.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, hoping to ease the tickle in my tummy. I had the desire to simply tear off his clothes and get down to business. I had to remind myself to be a good woman, respectable, willing to give or willing to withhold, yet having that ulterior motive and the high card in her hand, a deviant all the while.

I pulled open the front door and pushed the storm door, so he would have to pass by me closely.

He looked so good with his stolid mouth and rich eyes.

“Happy new year,” I said when I opened the door for him. I nearly cheered the words as my excitement was ready to explode through my chest, but I chilled in time.

And he gave his white glistening smile. “Same to you.” 

He passed by me into the house, leaving behind a sweet scent. Not the smell of leftover Christmas cookies or chocolate candy bars. But a deep, elemental scent.

“You did a great job decorating the house,” I said. “The neighbors really liked it.”

“You told me what you wanted, and I did it. We might be a good team.”

“I hope so.” I loved the comment and what it could mean. But today wasn’t about that.

I turned toward the kitchen.

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea … Johnny Walker?”

He smiled so nicely. I think he caught my message—that I remembered what had happened last time.

“Coffee please. First we have a place to strip.”

That word made my heart skip. Mr. Electric’s first zap.

“Let me put on a pot.”

He followed me into the kitchen and settled on the opposite side. He leaned against the counter by a can of wooden spoons.

“How do you want to proceed?” he asked.

I knew what my answer could be, but there was no free play.

“If you can take down the lights outside—the ones along the roof and the Grinch and the flood lights—I will get my storage containers from the attic. Double-teaming gets things done faster.”

“All right. I will get my ladder and start.”

“What about coffee?” I slid my finger down the handle of the kettle. “We don’t have to rush to work.”

He crossed his arms.

I smiled.

“I called you a few months ago for installing Christmas lights. I forget the price exactly. I don’t know the cost for taking them down—the decorations, I mean. Is it the same price?”

“Same as last time.”

“So we’re working per hour with the minimum amount guaranteed.” I accidentally showed him how much I remembered.

“Yes, $45 or something like that. I’m flexible. Taking down decorations isn’t as hard as getting them up.”

I leaned against the counter opposite of him and crossed my arms too.

“I bet some clients are so particular about each and every, single light.” I shook my head.

“They can be. Others aren’t so bad. It’s hit or miss.”

We then were quiet. There was only the steady burn of the flame on the gas stove. And the refrigerator’s hum. He wasn’t as interactive as I had expected. I had a general idea—a fantasy, maybe—that he’d come in, consume me, fuck the shit out of me, and, after it all, remember what he’d actually been called to do.

“Everything been good lately? Have a good year of business?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.” He spoke like we were at a business meeting. “Mr. Electric made a profit. I can’t complain at all. Did you have a good year?”

“Can’t complain either. Nothing spectacular as far as business. But spectacular ever year turns out to be average.”

He cocked his head. “I never did find out what you do. You own your own business?”

“An interior design firm.”

His forehead squeezed and his hands set on the countertop to push him upright. He looked all around the kitchen, breakfast nook, and the living room.

“And you, complimenting me on a sense of design? You had me help to set up your decorations inside. You asked my advice?” he asked frankly with a bit of lighthearted confusion.

He remembered all that, not just the sex. Not bad for a guy.

“I can design,” I said. “I can’t climb ladders. And I liked …”

“Liked what?”

The boiling water squealed like a pig.

I grabbed the pot.

“Oh god …” I slapped my hand over my mouth while holding the handle.

He shrugged and laughed.

The coffee maker was a foot away.

“I wasn’t sure what you were doing when you turned on the stove. I thought it may have been a new-fangled way to make coffee. Pinterest and YouTube have all kinds of new ways to do old things.”

I laughed with him, although feeling my cheeks warm. I was so juiced up about him, about sex, about our last get-together, that I completely messed up.

I turned off the burner and slid the kettle to the back burner. His easy laugh calmed my ditzy mind.

“Well, do you drink tea?”

“Bailey’s and Earl Grey don’t have the same ‘go-together’ as Bailey’s and coffee.”

“True.”

“Let’s get started ‘un-Christmas-izing’ the house.”

I stood up. “I’ll get the plastic containers while you get your ladder.”

“I can help get the containers,” he offered quickly. “I don’t want you to climb into the attic and haul things down. No slipping.”

“There’s a door to the attic on the second floor.”

“I can help haul them out.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Are you just trying to milk more money out of me by working longer?”

“Money doesn’t matter today—to me, at least.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ll get started outside.”

He headed to his truck, and I went to the attic. The containers were empty, and I was strong enough to carry two at a time, steadying the top container with my chin.

But he wanted to be by me, helping me, looking at me. I had decided to keep him at bay for a little bit. I wanted sex, his sex, but there’s nothing like making a man wait, to put him in limbo. It’s almost orgasmic in itself.

I had the containers down in a couple of minutes, so I went outside to watch him. He was near the top of the ladder, stretched out to the farthest attached lights.

I plucked the light-up candy canes from the ground right in front of him, like last time. They were aligned with his ladder, so he’d have a good view. It would be fun to toy with him again by bending over. It worked.

“You look really good down there,” he said.

I stood upright immediately. He was resting his elbows on the top step of the ladder as he stared.

“You can look but don’t fall. I can’t catch you from way over here. And I don’t want to drive you to the emergency room.”

I dragged the candy canes to the edge of the lawn and laid them in the container that was labeled “Candy Canes” in specific order, so the cords would not tangle.

He climbed down the ladder slowly and safely. 

He began to wrap the green cord, pocked with the pointy lights, the length of his forearm—palm to elbow.

“Wait, wait!” I stopped him. “I have a certain way to store the lights. I do not want them tangled.”

“How do you do it?”

“I’ll show you.”

We went inside, dragging the lights.

“See this.” I lifted a long piece of cardboard with slits. “DIY storage strategies.”

He nodded.

“I’ll wrap them,” he said. “You can get the ornaments off the tree. I’ll help with the tree lights when I get these lights wrapped.”

I moved around the tree, reaching high and low, to remove the decades-old memories and set them in small boxes cushioned with cotton balls.

I arranged the small boxes in the large container with “Ornaments” scrawled on the top in black marker. When I came back, he tossed a strand of tinsel around me, like a scarf. It was simple, but, nonetheless, another spark from Mr. Electric. It burned perfectly.

“Do I look good in tinsel?” I turned to model the silver.

He stepped to me when my back was to him. He slowly lowered the zipper on my knit jacket.

“Looks really good.”

I turned. There was that smile of his.

Mr. Electric shot a bolt and hit me wonderfully.

I further lowered my zipper to the bottom stop. He would have to do the rest. Before he could, I asked for something.

“There was one ornament I couldn’t reach. Can you? It’s near the center of the tree.”

He peeked through the branches. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s in there. Just reach in. Feel around.”

His hand disappeared into the green darkness. “I still don’t …” Reaching deeply, he looked toward the ceiling.

“I think I felt it. Is it, like, two marbles in a Santa Claus bag?”

It’s sort of what he assumed it was.

“Yes, that’s it. Got it?”

He dragged out the ornament from the prickly branches into the light. He held out a little brown sack with the marbles, letting it dangle from the tiny string.

“Oh my! It’s missing a piece!” I said.

“I didn’t feel anything else back there. Could it have fallen?”

“Don’t tease me. I know you have it.” I wagged my finger at him.

He put up his hands in innocence. “Why would I take it? What is it?”

“It’s a special ornament.” I stomped. “I’ve had it since I turned sixteen. Oh, I hope it’s not broken.”

“I didn’t …” he said.

“All right, turn around.”

He put his back to me slowly and awkwardly. He tried to peek over his shoulder.

I patted the back pockets of his jeans and then the front ones and then found his belt buckle. My hand slid down.

“Found it.” I whispered into his ear, “I knew you had it. You’ve got the dick.”

He stiffened—both his spine and his cock. I had him.

Pressing against him, I unbuckled his pants, unzipped them, and slid my hand into the fly. This was his cock, the one that I had wanted for almost two months, the one for which I avoided all other horny guys at holiday parties. It felt so good.

“I did steal it, didn’t I?” He opened his pants for easier access.

“You left with it the last time you were here,” I said.

He twisted to me. He opened the jacket and admired my chest. I knew my nipples were pushing hard against the thin fabric of the shirt. His grin was so obvious.

His hands felt so good moving all over me.  They were still large and his fingers were thick. Strong, rough, dry. Just what I had dreamed of. They left no place untouched.

We kissed, pressing our bodies together. My breasts squished against his chest, and his hard dick pushed against my stomach.

His lips were so full that they were like putting my lips on a pillow, like I had as a girl when pretending to kiss. So focused on his lips, the whoosh of cold jolted me when my pants fell. His warm hands covered my butt. They clutched it and squeezed. Then they slid lower and down to my thighs. That’s when I took flight.

I lifted off and locked my legs around him.

I broke our make-out. “Upstairs … first door on the right.”

“I remember.”

With he-man strength, he hauled me to the bedroom. I splashed once again onto the bed. He climbed on top, but I shoved my hand into his chest.

“Wait.”

The worse word a man can hear in such a moment.

The Christmas joy melted from his reddened face.

“You stole from me. I want to see if it’s the real thing.”

“It is. But you can check.” He stood upright.

I slid from the bed to the floor. I bent the long, mean dick so it pointed directly into my face. Its head was as reddened as his face. I gently kissed each side of its head, like a kiss when meeting an old friend.

His callus hands grabbed my hair and pulled me forward. His cock went deep into my mouth. He wasn’t one for introductions. We knew each other and there was no need to pretend we didn’t.

He thrust deeper. I gagged and kept going for him and for me. My tongue fondled the underside of him, running from head to its base and back up. Suddenly he had had enough. His arms scooped me up from the floor, like a forklift, and plopped me on the bed once more.

He crawled on.

He was so tall, a Roman god, a giant, Goliath. It was frightening. A man of such height was ready to fuck me. No remorse, no regret.

I sat up, neck strained, when he pushed inside of me. I had forgotten this part. His body slapped against mine.

All the world oozed away. He took me back to my wobbly world of pleasure. Only two things were for sure: his dick and his forearms that I held onto for dear life.

A tide of sensation washed from my pussy to my neck, flooding each vertebra on the way. I pushed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to offset the fucking pressure happening below. I also didn’t want my tongue flapping from my mouth like the puppy that I was.

He readjusted, giving me a brief break. He separated my feet, opening wide my legs, exposing all of me just as I wanted. He rammed into me.

I tried to reach to my nipples to tug for more pleasure, but my hands would not release the blanket as if in fear of flying away.

I heard a distant grunt and felt a faster rhythm. I opened my eyes to watch pleasure of my pussy flood him.

There was a shimmer of perspiration along his hairline, and he was biting his lower lip.

“Come on, you can, yes,” I encouraged.

Immediately, he fucked me harder, having been given permission.

“I want it. I want all of it. All of you!”

He forced me to squeal the words. I sounded like the kettle of water, boiling.

He pulled out in time to hit me in the face with a hard shot of cum on the side of my mouth, followed my several gooey jolts on my chin and forehead. He plopped next to me exhausted.

“I’ve been waiting for that,” he said between breaths. “For months now.”

I reached out my tongue to drag in a bit of cum. I then wiped my chin and smeared it on his forehead.

“I’ve waited too. Do we have to wait until next Christmas?”

“I do house inspections all year round.”

After a shower and a little more playfulness, all his jobs were done, and I had scheduled a house inspection for next week.