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I said sleepily, “I thought you were working today.” No answer and the finger had moved to my clit and was rubbing it. I rolled over to give my husband better access to my now soaking pussy and I nearly screamed when I saw it wasn’t my husband.To my surprise, it was a guy in jeans and a t-shirt, about twenty-five, built like brick shit house. He begged me not to scream, that he wasn’t going to hurt me. He said his name was Steve and he was there to start working on our roof. He said he was on his way up the ladder with he glanced in the window and saw me laying there. He said he only wanted to give me pleasure and fuck me. I was so turned on by then that I couldn’t have asked him to leave if my life depended on it. And by the look of his hard cock he held in his hand, he was pretty turned on, too.He said he had started to just go ahead and climb up on the roof and get started working but he stopped and watched me for a few minutes and by then his cock was so hard and he started. The man shouldn’t be in the room while I’m here. Or I shouldn’t be in the room while he’s here. One of the two. But I’m so shocked by his attire that my brain can’t decide which it is. The man is wearing only a long undershirt and he appears to have no drawers on and he’s talking to me as if he’s in a three-piece suit crowned with a hat. I stand like an óinseach with a rag in one hand and a jar of beeswax in the other, trying not to gawp.‘Throwaway!’ the man says. ‘Can you believe it?’The man doesn’t sound Irish. He may be English. Or perhaps even American. His arms are white beneath a fur of black hair. He has a gloomy expression, a father-of-sorrows way about him. His bare legs are bandy and fat, like a baby’s. I feel my face scald hot so I turn my back to him and look for somewhere to put down my rag and polish.‘A twenty-to-fucking-one outsider,’ he roars, and I jump. ‘And all my money thrown away on that damned nag Sceptre.’He starts to laugh, a mirthless cascade of sound. Then.
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