Scarlet men tell us their sauciest stories. Chris reveals what plumbers get up to with their big wrenches.
Tell people you’re a plumber and they automatically go into nudge-wink mode. All those bored housewives, they say, and wait hopefully for you to tell them about being invited to check out the U-bend on the old boiler at Number 49.
But listen; if I did have stories to tell, I wouldn’t – firstly because I have a reputation as a decent feller you can trust to have in the house, and secondly, because if any nice lady was thinking of making an offer, I’d like her to know I’d keep my mouth shut. But seeing as this is anonymous, I can tell you that I do occasionally pick up the vibe that no-strings sex is a common interest. There you are, frustrated pussy and visiting cock, shut up behind closed doors together, and you’re bound to think about each other now and then. Nobody quite knows how to broach the subject, though, and then you start thinking about the complications, and one way or another it just doesn’t happen most of the time. It takes an intervention from the Fates of Fucking to break the impasse. The story I’m going to tell you is about a time that it happened… or did I just dream it?
I had a job putting a new bathroom in an attic in a house shared by three girls; young women, I should say. It was a tricky job and I told the lass I was dealing with, a solicitor I think, that I needed to work over the weekend. She said they’d be having a party, but if I didn’t mind that was fine, as long as the downstairs loo kept working. The new toilet, meanwhile, had just a six-inch waste pipe sticking out of the floor, waiting for me to plumb the throne into it. It was the first thing you saw when you opened the door. I was already at work when people started arriving mid-afternoon, and I was still up there by the time it settled into a steady bubble of chatter and laughter. They’d bought a free-standing bathtub in an antiques yard and the only way I could get it in involved making some tricky pipe connections close to the wall opposite where the toilet was going to be. I lay up against the wall and got myself wedged in the gap behind the end of the bath, so I could get at the tap nuts from underneath. It was getting a bit dark but I was doing the job more or less by feel, so I didn’t bother switching the light on.
I heard somebody running up the stairs. The door burst open and one of the girls who lived in the house bustled in. She hoiked up her skirt, bunched it around her waist, turned around, squatted over the open waste pipe and started to pee like a horse. There was late sun coming through a skylight onto that end of the room, so I had a clear view from where I was lying. By the time I had had half a thought about what to do it was too late to do anything, except hope it would all work out somehow.
Down to the waist, she looked like a proper ice maiden – dark blonde hair pulled back tight and a big sweater with a polo neck coming right up to her chin. But under her smart skirt, she was wearing just white stockings, a white garter belt and an all-over tan. No pants. She pulled her bush back tenderly, either to keep it away from the splash of her piss or just because she wanted to feel a hand there. The action splayed her pussy open and I could see the gleam of a clit stud against the shine of her inner lips. She dipped a red fingernail in, just slightly, and rubbed it back and forward a couple of times as she pulled the skin tight to shake out the last drops from her pee-hole. It was then that she looked up and saw me and I saw her register what I had seen.
Well, what do you think two Brits did? I said sorry and she said sorry at the same time. I wanted to explain, and I started to try to wriggle back out of where I was more or less trapped. She dropped her skirt and walked over, then stopped me gabbling by pressing a white leather toe into my crotch. She snorted at the bulge she felt there.
“Not that sorry,” she said. Then she bent down and reached inside the fly of my overalls, felt for my swollen cock, pulled it out and made an approving noise as it unfolded in her hand.
“Evens,” she said. And went.
On my way out later that evening the landlady called me in for a drink and introduced me to some of her friends. Miss Pussy made sure she was in the circle.
“You’ve met Tiffany?” said the hostess. I nodded and smiled.
Tiffany said, “We’ve seen each other.” And she smiled, too.
I got a call just now to say she’s got a house of her own and she wants to know if I’ll pop round. She has a leaking compression joint and asks if I can bring the right tool. Arf arf. Nudge nudge. The answer is yes, of course. But I won’t be telling you all about it.
