I see the exotic skinned man standing at the same spot where I saw him yesterday.
He looks, and hangs out with other Hispanic immigrants that throng the streets of my town lately. All my fellow housewife friends discuss in whispers if those men have the ‘eyes’ for us.
Well, this one certainly does.
As I stand in my porch, sipping a big cup of my late morning coffee, he stares at me insolently. He does not peek a look the way most stranger would. But every once in a while, he would break eye contact with the man he was chatting up, and turn his gaze on me. It would linger on my blonde hair, pale white face, my slightly sagging, but still attractive breasts and my long legs. He is dressed in a dirty white shirt, unbuttoned almost all the way to his hairless waist, and a pair of equally dirty and worn jeans. Yesterday he hung around in the same spot for about an hour before leaving. I assumed he would have some kind of transient job.
Today I smile at him. He responds with a smile that almost succeeds in concealing his surprise at my smile. Then he casually breaks away from his group, and walks to my house. I casually glance around to ensure no nosey neighbours on their porch, and give an almost imperceptible nod to him towards the backyard. He does not break stride, but casually walks across my neighbour’s lawn. I go inside my house, and wait for him in my dining room. It opens in my backyard.
He walks in and touches his slicked back, dirty mop of hair in a gesture of salutation.
“Hot day, can I have drink Miss?” heavy accent, no grammar. Perfect.
I nod and turn around to go in my kitchen. I mix him a glass of lemonade, and turn to give it to him. He is standing right there. I fake surprise. He has actually taken his shirt off. I smile and show as if I am surprised at his undressing, but it does not last long.
He takes the glass from my hand and gulps down about 2/3rd in a thirsty gulp, then he eases me against the wall and pins both my hands above my head with only one hand. Up close, he smells of hair gel, sweat and last night’s cheap booze.
His arms are incredibly sinewy, the hardworking lifestyle he leads does not allow a lot of fat. He stares me in the eyes and notices my heaving bosom. His hand moves on my slim neck and then rests on my top. He still does not kiss me. I am shaking with passion and pent up desire. He pops the top button of my dress and pushes his hand inside. He is in no hurry. He cups my white breast through my brassiere and then finally, oh sweet Lord finally, puts his lips on mine. I am in a hurry, I am shameless. I thrust my hips at his crotch. I need him.
He raises my dress to my waist and slowly kneads my buttocks. As my hands are free now, I pull him closer to me in an embrace. He keeps my lips locked, as his hands raise my dress to my stomach. His hands are everywhere, on my stomach, on the flare of my hips, on my breasts.
I do not remember discarding my dress and guiding him to my bedroom. He tells me his name is Guido, and I do not believe him for a minute. I do not care.
Standing before him in my bra-panties, I feel surprisingly shy for a housewife who is fucking a stranger at eleven in the morning. I am aware of the small yet noticeable roll of fat just below my navel. I am afraid, Guido will see my breasts sag when he takes my bra off. He is stripped to his underwear and his strong body and beautifully, evenly dark skin only makes me conscious of my pale, soft body. Guido moves closer and fumbles for my bra hook. I help him and let the straps fall. Guido murmurs something in a tongue I don’t understand but his expression tells me it is a compliment. He bends down to take my nipples between his teeth and bite on them gently. I collapse in the bed that I share with my husband of fifteen years. Guido rolls on top of me.
Now Guido is done being patient. He yanks my panties down in a savage jerk that leaves a gash of his dirty nail on one of my thighs. I scream in pain, and that scream becomes a long moan of passion as he thrusts his cock in me without bothering to check if I am ready.
His hands again pin my hands over my head and he grips my legs in his own strong ones. I am almost pinned to the bed in this position, and as Guido thrusts at a frantic pace, all that I can do is to let out long moans, and thrust my hips at him. His mouth is hungry, it is everywhere. It is sucking at my neck, it is giving a love bite on my breasts. He even kisses my armpits and that just sends me over the edge. I am begging for him to let go of my hands. He does not understand or cares, and keeps banging away.
Ladies, did your man like flip you midway through sex lately? Guido does exactly that. He makes me sit on my hands and knees, facing away from him. Then without any warning or provocation, he slaps my rump hard. ‘Oh I am fucking him exactly like he wants and he is still hitting me? And why am I getting so turned on by that?’ When he enters me from behind, my scream is loud enough to be heard across the street. He grabs my breasts through my armpits and hammers away again. The bed is creaking the way it has not creaked in, oh, last ten years or so.
Guido takes maddeningly long time to cum and the moment is again preceded by a couple of light slaps on my rump. It is some kind of thing with him, it seems. The brute keeps me pinned beneath him while murmuring unintelligibly.
I wish to take a shower with him, but know better than pressing my luck. I follow him downstairs dressed only a hastily pulled cotton tee. I pull him down and kiss him hard for one last time, before letting him out of the house. We make no plans for the next day. He may return tomorrow or never again in his life.
I walk upstairs and before jumping in the shower check my messages. My husband has texted reminding me that we have to attend a rally in the town this afternoon. I stand near the window and text him back while watching Guido walk away. He pauses only for a moment to touch the Trump 2016- Making America Great Again bumper sticker on our family station wagon.