Jack Parker - Photo orgy

I don't know about you, but when I'm trying to do a job and there's a hundred and thirty-five pounds of sex-appeal looking over my shoulder and asking a lot of questions in a deep, husky voice, I find it hard to concentrate.

"Have you hit anything yet?" she asked.

"Not yet, Mrs. Stanyon," I said, looking up at her. I was on my knees next to the toilet, running the snake down. She had called my boss an hour before and he sent me out on the job.

Suddenly the snake made a loud, grinding sound and for a few seconds stopped going down. Then it broke through and I reeled it back in.

"That oughta do it," I said, standing. "We'll give 'er a few flushes just to make sure."

As I flushed the head I looked over at her. She was leaning against the wall by the door, watching me closely. She smiled at me in a way that made me tremble all over and wonder if this was gonna be my lucky day.

I've had me a lot of lucky days since I started working for Tony's old man. Believe me when I tell you that all the stuff you hear about the milkman and the mailman is no bull. And now the plumber. Of course, to really make it with these suburban broads you gotta have looks and a way with words. And I got both up the ass. In the last year alone, I been in and out of more holes than the Roto Rooter man.

But this broad was something special. I followed her out of the john into the kitchen, with my eyes firmly planted on her big tail.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked.

"Sure, that would be just right about now," I answered, picking up the cue. She pulled a chair out for me and I slid in under the table. "Thanks, Mrs. Stanyon."

"Oh, that sounds so stuffy," she said, as she pulled down a jar of Maxwell House. "Why don't you just call me Doris?"

Beautiful. "OK, Doris," I said. "I'm Pete Novak, but you can just call me Pete."

Then I caught her looking at me funny and I knew for sure I was on the right track. I had been just checking out the kitchen sort of, letting my eyes wander while I waited, when all of a sudden I looked over at her as she put the pot on the stove. She was staring at me in the damnedest way, kind of looking me up and down with her mouth open and her tongue licking her lower lip. As soon as our eyes met she blushed and snapped out of it, smiling and making a big show of being busy, rattling stuff around, getting sugar and milk, and setting out the cups and spoons.

"Beautiful day out today, isn't it?" she said.

I looked up at her. "Yeah," I said. "It's supposed to hit near ninety by mid-day." A good day for screwing. Sometimes I like it when it's good and hot and your bodies are all sweated up and greasy-like, sticking to each other and making wet, smacking sounds.

I watched her closely as she brought the water over and poured it out. This broad had a body like nobody's business. She stood a good five-feet-eight and had long, wavy red hair. And when I say red, Charlie, I mean red. Like a Goddamn carrot. This had me turned on from the first minute I saw her. There's something about a red-headed broad that makes my blood boil. And you don't run into many of them, either. As I looked at her I noticed that her shoulders and chest were covered with freckles.

She was wearing a pair of short-shorts and a kind of form-fitting stretch halter, both light blue. Nothing else, not even shoes.

"Tell me when," she said. She was leaning over me, pouring the water into my cup and doing a very good job of pressing her tits into my back. Damn, but she smelled good. It was all I could do to keep myself from jumping up right then and there and…

"Oops." She pulled the pot away just in time to keep the water from going all over my lap. I watched her as she carried it back to the stove and then returned and sat across from me.

She had one of those hourglass figures, with a waist so small I coulda wrapped my two hands around it and a man-sized portion of goodies above and below. Her tits were big and firm and widely spaced. I could see just a hint of cleavage and freckled tit, since her halter was doing a job of covering her up. This broad was about thirty – ripe as hell, the way I like 'em – but you'd never know it from looking at her tits. I could just picture them with the halter and bra off, big and juicy and hardly no sag to them at all. Just like a girl of eighteen.

Down below, her waist filled out into a big, solid pair of hips. The short-shorts didn't leave much to the imagination. Her thighs were milky-white and just as shapely and meaty as the rest of her long legs. And from the way her pussy bulged and outlined itself against the material of her shorts, I could tell she had one hell of a big one.

"How old are you, Pete?" She looked at me and smiled; I almost blushed. From the look on her face, it was plain she knew what was on my mind.

"Twenty-three," I said.

"That's a good age," she said. "You're just coming into your own." She leaned forward to get the milk and her tits settled on the edge of the table like two big gourds. I shuddered all over and felt queasy in the balls. What a pair she had. They say all you need is a handful. True, but I got big hands.

"Would you like some doughnuts?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Doris."

She got up and went to the closet. I kept my eyes on her all the way. Another thing about her that got to me was her posture. She was one of these broad-shouldered, straight-backed women, healthy looking as hell. She had that look to her where you could imagine her out plowing the fields, going off in the bushes to have a baby, and then, half an hour later, going back to the plow.

She came back with the doughnuts and laid them out in front of me as she sat down. She had a wet cloth with her and suddenly, as I took a bite and looked up at her, she started rubbing her chest all around with the cloth, even going under the halter and doing the top of her tits.

"It's getting hot, isn't it?" she said, looking at me funny again, sort of smiling.

"Yeah, it sure is," I said. It was. It was just eleven and I was beginning to feel it myself. But the sun wasn't the only reason the temperature was rising.

As she wiped herself, I caught a look at her underarm. A nice red ball of hair peeped out. By now my cock was rising fast – it was time I started making my move.

"Maybe there's a cooler room we can finish the coffee," I said. "That window is turning this room into a hot house."

She didn't lose any time in getting up. "Sure, come on," she said. I followed her, coffee cup in hand, into the living room.

"This sure is a nice place you got here," I said.

"Thank you," she said. "Come on, I'll show you the rest."

She led me through the living room, stopping at a little flight of stairs. She turned around to face me.

"You want to see the upstairs?" she asked. By the way those pale, blue eyes looked up at me I knew for sure now. My cock was as hard as it ever had been and made a big bulge in my work pants. As she turned to the stairs I saw her eyes glance down and take it in.

I followed her up the stairs and wondered what the hell a hot number like this was doing married to a creep like her husband. He was a tall, skinny, middle-aged guy without much hair on his head, an IBM, white-collar type. I can't see how so many of these sharp suburban dolls get mixed up with these characters. I mean, if you were a broad and you knew you were gonna be shipwrecked on a desert island, who would you rather be with a guy who is good at shuffling papers behind a desk and bending his elbow in the bar car of the five twenty-nine out of Grand Central, or a guy like me, young, good-looking, who can take care of himself in any company and knows his way around a toolbox. But most of the inroads in these developments were married to real college-type losers. You figure it.