Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories) by Aria Hawthorne
Authors: Aria Hawthorne
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Cozma
When Susan woke up in the morning, she knew that her life would be different. She was getting married in two days to her fiancé of two years, Stanley Kirkeberg. After she married Stan, she was going to be stuck with him, and she would never have the chance to have sex with another man again. It was a sobering realization, and one that was subconsciously bothering Susan more than she cared to admit.
Why it was bothering Susan— exactly —she couldn’t say. It wasn’t like Susan was the “fling-her-top-off-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type, so why did she even care? But Susan did care, and for some reason, the knowledge that she would never have the chance to be the “fling-off-her-top-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type was more the point. Why on earth would she ever want to be like them, anyway? Susan despised those “fling-off-their-tops-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” girls and scorned their whorish, cut-off T-shirts and carefree one-night stands, probably just as much as they scorned her prudish pearls and two-caret diamond engagement ring. Susan could think of a hundred reasons why she would never want to be like them, and chlamydia topped her list.
And yet, despite her certainty that she was willing to give up a fair amount of fun and sexual frivolity for the sake of marriage and security, Susan lay in bed, paralyzed. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she would soon become Mrs. Stanley Kirkeberg, destined to be pleasured by Stan—and only Stan—for the rest of her life.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
Susan shot up from her bed.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
It was the most annoying, horrifying sound ever. A high-pitched, nasal squeal, even worse than the grating laughter of her mother-in-law-to-be, whose piglet snort-squeal laughter was still pealing through Susan’s head from last night’s rehearsal dinner.
Susan slipped a robe over her matching pajama top and bottom set—bought for her by Stan as a pre-honeymoon gift from Victoria Secret—and ran into the living room. The tea kettle screeched louder and louder. Oh. My. God! What the fuck was that noise ? Susan flicked on the living room light and threw open the mechanical closet.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
Susan covered her ears and winced. Investigating its source, she followed the noise from the furnace fan to the valve hose, which was screwed into the humidifier’s face plate by a single bolt. Susan clamped her hand around the nozzle of the hose and strangled it, hard. She imagined it was her future mother-in-law’s throat. The whistling stopped.
This was thee absolute last thing Susan had time to deal with today, and for a brief moment, Susan considered calling Stan. Then, she reconsidered. There was no one in the world more un-mechanical than Stan. Besides, they were leaving for their Los Cabos honeymoon right after the wedding, and Susan’s realtor planned to schedule showings of her condo while she was away. It hadto be fixed today. No one was going to buy her condo with a fucking musical furnace . Susan was certain.
Susan dressed and applied her make-up while simultaneously flipping through the yellow pages. God, the fucking yellow pages. She was exasperated. Her smartphone charger was in her car. Her internet service had been disconnected, and her laptop was stuck over at Stan’s place. She was moving into his larger, two-bedroom condo when they returned from Los Cabos. Empty boxes were huddled in the corner and her suitcase was sprawled open on the floor like a hungry monster, waiting to be fed clothes. But Susan hadn’t packed a single thing—not for her honeymoon, or afterwards, when she planned to permanently move in with Stan.
She checked to see if her landline was still working, then dialed the first listing in the phone book under REPAIRS: AAA-Sir Speedy Home
When Susan woke up in the morning, she knew that her life would be different. She was getting married in two days to her fiancé of two years, Stanley Kirkeberg. After she married Stan, she was going to be stuck with him, and she would never have the chance to have sex with another man again. It was a sobering realization, and one that was subconsciously bothering Susan more than she cared to admit.
Why it was bothering Susan— exactly —she couldn’t say. It wasn’t like Susan was the “fling-her-top-off-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type, so why did she even care? But Susan did care, and for some reason, the knowledge that she would never have the chance to be the “fling-off-her-top-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type was more the point. Why on earth would she ever want to be like them, anyway? Susan despised those “fling-off-their-tops-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” girls and scorned their whorish, cut-off T-shirts and carefree one-night stands, probably just as much as they scorned her prudish pearls and two-caret diamond engagement ring. Susan could think of a hundred reasons why she would never want to be like them, and chlamydia topped her list.
And yet, despite her certainty that she was willing to give up a fair amount of fun and sexual frivolity for the sake of marriage and security, Susan lay in bed, paralyzed. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she would soon become Mrs. Stanley Kirkeberg, destined to be pleasured by Stan—and only Stan—for the rest of her life.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
Susan shot up from her bed.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
It was the most annoying, horrifying sound ever. A high-pitched, nasal squeal, even worse than the grating laughter of her mother-in-law-to-be, whose piglet snort-squeal laughter was still pealing through Susan’s head from last night’s rehearsal dinner.
Susan slipped a robe over her matching pajama top and bottom set—bought for her by Stan as a pre-honeymoon gift from Victoria Secret—and ran into the living room. The tea kettle screeched louder and louder. Oh. My. God! What the fuck was that noise ? Susan flicked on the living room light and threw open the mechanical closet.
TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
Susan covered her ears and winced. Investigating its source, she followed the noise from the furnace fan to the valve hose, which was screwed into the humidifier’s face plate by a single bolt. Susan clamped her hand around the nozzle of the hose and strangled it, hard. She imagined it was her future mother-in-law’s throat. The whistling stopped.
This was thee absolute last thing Susan had time to deal with today, and for a brief moment, Susan considered calling Stan. Then, she reconsidered. There was no one in the world more un-mechanical than Stan. Besides, they were leaving for their Los Cabos honeymoon right after the wedding, and Susan’s realtor planned to schedule showings of her condo while she was away. It hadto be fixed today. No one was going to buy her condo with a fucking musical furnace . Susan was certain.
Susan dressed and applied her make-up while simultaneously flipping through the yellow pages. God, the fucking yellow pages. She was exasperated. Her smartphone charger was in her car. Her internet service had been disconnected, and her laptop was stuck over at Stan’s place. She was moving into his larger, two-bedroom condo when they returned from Los Cabos. Empty boxes were huddled in the corner and her suitcase was sprawled open on the floor like a hungry monster, waiting to be fed clothes. But Susan hadn’t packed a single thing—not for her honeymoon, or afterwards, when she planned to permanently move in with Stan.
She checked to see if her landline was still working, then dialed the first listing in the phone book under REPAIRS: AAA-Sir Speedy Home
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