The Maintenance Man

I came instantly. A ripe and aimless shivery thrill launched itself from the well deep inside my belly and surfaced in a breathless “hello” as I answered the door and saw him standing there.

Cold air rushed in and I watched him dust snow off his boots, thudding one against the other. His cheeks were flushed from the winter freeze, black beanie on his head pulled down just below his brow, revealing a pair of sleepy-lidded blue eyes that locked my gaze with an intensity so flagrant it made my face blush and my pussy drip. 

I’m not kidding. Have you ever met someone who made you instantly wet? It’s disarming and I was dumb struck as he introduced himself, Henry O’Dell. I knew who he was though, before he even said it.

I’d heard his name 10 times that day. We were new, you see, hired just a month earlier to work as “house parents” at a big prestigious boarding school in the richest town on the island. My then-husband and I moved in that very night and Henry had come to welcome us, introduce himself, whatnot. It’s so cliche when I think about it now—the plot of a caricatured porno—but he was “the maintenance man”. 

I had a picture of him in my mind before we ever met, and a funny feeling I would know him in the close kind of way you know someone after exchanging sorrow, spit and breath.

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