They call him “Mr. Fix-it”.
If it’s broken, he can repair it. If it’s sick, he’s got the remedy at the ready.
He isn’t just a handyman, in spite of how this sounds. Yea, he can tune up a car, lay brick, or fix a leaking pipe. He has a special way of fixing me when I’m broken.
“So what’s broke, Tina?”
I fidget a bit at his question. Not because of his intense stare or the pulse of arousal I feel, but because I feel a bit broken today and I don’t much like it.
“Can’t help you if you don’t speak up, love.”
His voice makes me shiver. I have to swallow my sudden nervous before I can speak.
“I’m having a little issue with anxiety.”
He stares me over for a beat, letting me squirm under his gaze. I feel my heart pick up when he turns away to his toolkit.
“Over the bench.”
I scramble to turn, missing the implement he has chosen. My palms sweat a little as the press into the leather and I jump when I feel his hands at my waistband.
“Can’t fix anything with this in the way.”
I feel the burble of fear, anticipation, and fierce desire race from my stomach to my cunt as the air hit my bottom.
“Don’t you want me to fix you, Tina?”
His hand rests on the lower curve of my butt and I want him to fix me so desperately I tremble with the need
“Yes, please, Mr. Fix-it.”