Body Man

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Terry Johnson was a mean man. I should know. I was his wife. We had started our marriage with hopes for a bright future, but I found out the first week that I had made a mistake. We had moved to the city to be closer to his job, so I was far from my family. Terry was jealous and possessive all the time. At first, I thought he was just being protective, but I soon realized “controlling” better described him. We did everything how he wanted and when he wanted.

The first time he hit me, it was because he didn’t like me going out to lunch with a neighbor. When I took a job as a waitress, he derided me for getting such a stupid job. The fact that I loved the job made no difference to him. He thought I looked ridiculous in the uniform, didn’t like my hours, didn’t like the location or the people I worked with. Then he made rules about how I had to hand over my tips to him, how I was never to go to the bank to draw out any money (said he would give me an allowance), how he would drive the car to his job while I took the bus to mine. It didn’t take much to make him angry – the bruises all over my body testified to that. I never knew what mood he would be in. If he was disgusted with me, he made me sleep on the sofa. If he was in his jealous mood, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I lived every day with the stress of trying not to provoke him. I thought more than once about leaving. Only I was afraid to.

It was on a Saturday that I made the worst mistake yet. Since Terry had the day off and didn’t need the car, I took it to run errands. I was coming back from the grocery store when I missed a red light. A pickup truck coming from the left plowed into the side of my car, just behind the driver’s seat. When the terrifying impact of the collision was over, I could see the shattered windshield of the other vehicle and hear its stuck horn. I was horror-stricken by the thought that the other driver might be injured or even dead, and that it would be my fault. It was miraculous that we were both okay.

The police were on the scene immediately and the wreckage cleared from the intersection. “Where do you want us to tow your car, ma’am?” they asked me. I had no idea. “Do you have someone you can call?” Oh boy. The last person I wanted to call was my husband. I knew he would go ballistic over this. But what choice did I have?

“Deal with it,” he said, coldly. I knew he would have more to say when I got home, but for the moment, I had to figure things out.

With no experience in a situation like this, I asked the driver of the tow truck for advice. He recommended that I simply have the car towed to the nearest body shop. He let me ride with him and dumped me and the car off. I was still shaking from the shock of the whole experience.

That was when I met the body man. His kindness was evident from the beginning. Before even glancing at the wrecked vehicle, he looked at me. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked gently. I burst into tears. Since the accident had occurred, not one person had asked me that, not even my husband.

His name was Craig, the manager of the body shop. After he had looked the car over, he said, “I hate to tell you, Mrs. Johnson, but your car is probably totaled. It is too old to be worth fixing.”

At this I panicked. “Oh, don’t tell me that!” I pleaded. “It’s my husband’s car. He’ll never forgive me if it can’t be fixed.”

“Well, ma’am, it’s really up to your insurance company, but I’ll do the best I can for you.”

By some finagling, Craig persuaded the insurance company to pay for the repairs. I think he might have lowered his estimate out of pity for me. I didn’t know why he would do that, but I was grateful. He said he would work on some of it himself to cut costs but that it would take a while.

The next two months were the worst yet for our marriage. Terry was furious at the inconvenience of having to take the bus to work, and he never let me forget it was my fault. His rules for me became stricter, and he hit me more often, even breaking one of my fingers. He declared he was so disgusted with me that when he got his car back, he was leaving maltepe escort town. Him leaving? That was too much to hope for. I just tried to keep out of his way.

I visited the body shop every few days to check on the progress of the repairs. “Hey there, Mrs. Johnson!” Craig would call out over the country music playing constantly in the shop. “I’m glad to see you.”

“How’s my car coming along?” I’d shout back.

“It’s coming.”

He was usually too busy to stop and talk, but he didn’t mind me watching him work. I liked his self-assurance and competence, his cheerful demeanor, the respect given him by his employees. After three weeks had passed, I began to suspect he was drawing out the repair job longer than necessary. Was it because he liked me coming around and didn’t want that to stop? He didn’t know that I was eager for him to finish in the hope that my husband would take the car and leave town.

One day after my shift at the restaurant, I brought him a leftover piece of pie. He took a break to sit by me and enjoy. He told me anecdotes about various customers that made me laugh. I hadn’t laughed in a long time. He treated me in a professional manner, but I could tell by the way he looked at me that he would like to know me better. I might have been interested, too. If only I weren’t married.

Another time I was surprised when he said, “I’ve been wondering, Mrs. Johnson. Will you have breakfast with me before work this Friday?”

I hesitated only a moment. Lately Terry had been in the “You’re worthless so I don’t care what you do” mood and hardly spoke to me. So, I met Craig at a diner near his shop. It felt like a date, which was kind of a strange dynamic, considering that I was a married woman, but it was fun. I enjoyed learning more about him, his kids who lived with his ex, his interest in bow hunting, his passion for old cars. I felt flat and bland in comparison. I didn’t used to be that way, but my marriage had taken all the spark out of me.

Craig insisted he wanted to know more about me, so I described my job – what I liked about waitressing, the staff, the customers, the atmosphere of the restaurant. I mentioned that I used to play the guitar but hadn’t since I got married. I’d left the guitar at my parents’ house. I told him that I used to dance – another thing I’d stopped when I got married – and that I loved to read but hadn’t had time lately. I told him I hoped to go back to college someday and thought maybe I’d like to be a teacher. At some point in the conversation, I was aware that Craig was holding my hand. It felt nice.

The next week, when I visited the shop, Craig called out, “Back here, Mrs. Johnson. Take a look at your car. It’s nearly finished.”

The car looked great! Better than it had before I wrecked it. “I’ll be done by the end of the week and you can take her home,” he informed me. “But I’ll miss seeing you around.” Then he looked me in the eyes and said softly, “I wanted to ask… may I kiss you?”

He guided me backwards until my back was against the car. My breath caught in my throat as he leaned toward me. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I shivered with the anticipation of his lips on mine. His arms went around me, sure and hard, as I lifted my face to his.

I think he had planned to kiss me gently and sweetly, but suddenly I was overwhelmed with need. I pulled his face down to me and kissed him with all the pent-up passion of a year of deprivation. He responded with a groan. His insistent mouth parted my lips, and we were swept up in mutual desire. We kissed open mouthed, tongues dueling, hearts racing. It was like ocean waves rolled over me and I was drowning in that kiss. Nothing in the world existed but the body man. I realized I had fallen for him, completely and thoroughly.

Then our hands were all over each other. His skimmed down my sides, then up again to cup and squeeze my breasts. My arms went around him, then down to his butt, frantically pulling him closer. The kiss grew hotter. I felt the hardness of his erection pressing into my softness. Then his hands were on my ass, bunching up the escort maltepe little skirt of my waitress uniform. His fingers slid up my thighs to my panties and he pulled the crotch aside to gain access to my wet center. I ached with need. Whimpering with desperation, I ground my pussy into his hand.

Craig pulled back to look at me. “I need you,” he rasped. “I need you desperately. I want to take you right here over the back of this car.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes. Yes.”

I rubbed my hand over the outline of his hard cock through his jeans. I wanted it in my hands. I unzipped his pants and pulled it out, hot and eager. He groaned with relief. Something was niggling at the back of my mind, trying to get my attention, but I couldn’t think about that right now. I stroked him up and down, reveling in the softness of his skin and the hardness underneath.

He unbuttoned the front of my uniform and chuckled with satisfaction when he saw my front-hook bra. He undid it, exposing my breasts to his hot gaze. The sensation of his callused workman’s hands on my soft skin made me melt as he tenderly stroked and teased. The thought at the back of my mind was coming into focus, even as my back arched to bring my breasts closer to him. I felt the unbelievable pleasure of his mouth pulling and sucking on my nipple.

“Oh no!” I cried out with anguish as the unwelcome thought finally reached my brain. “Stop! I can’t! I’m still married.”

I held him close and sobbed with frustration and longing. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled my face to his chest. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Shhh. It’s okay.” We stayed that way, breathing hard, my tears soaking his shirt, both of us feeling the torment of our impossible situation. He didn’t press me.

A few days later, I sent my husband to pick up his car. I was still at work when he took it home. By the time I got off, he was gone. I couldn’t believe it. He had actually packed up and left. I wandered around the apartment in a daze, wondering if he would be back or if we were done.

Two weeks later, I still jumped at the sound of footsteps in the building hallway, sure he had come back. But he didn’t. After three weeks, I called his mom and asked her where he was. I figured she would know if anyone did. The next day I filed for a divorce and had the papers delivered to him at his parents’ address.

All this time I continued to breathe, to work at the restaurant, to manage the bills, to survive. But my heart ached whenever I thought about my body man. I needed to get things figured out without distraction, though. I had to get my divorce finalized and my plans made and my heart stable before I could see him again. I took off my wedding band. I registered at the community college for the next term. I looked for a new apartment, smaller and closer to work.

Months had passed since the last time I’d seen Craig. I’d had time to think about who I was, what I wanted, how I felt about Craig. I wondered if he still wanted me, or even remembered me. I was finally ready to find out. On my day off, I dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt and went to the body shop.

“Be with you in a moment, ma’am,” Craig called out as I came in the door. Then he did a classic double take, and a huge grin spread across his face as he crossed the floor to me. “Whoa,” he said. “Are you a dream? I wondered if I would ever see you again, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Not Mrs. Johnson anymore,” I told him. Just Carrie.

“Well, Carrie, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Indeed, he looked like he wanted to eat me up. “Not married?”

“Divorced,” I said. “A few months ago. Free and clear.”

We grinned at each other, unable to wipe the loopy smiles off our faces. I was sure everything I felt for him showed in my eyes. He took my hands and said, “At the risk of being too forward and rushing things, may I see you tomorrow night? Dinner?”

“Not too forward at all,” I replied. “Yes, I’d like that.”

The next day I went back to the shop at closing time, and he drove me to his apartment. It was the first time I’d been there, of course. I was kind of surprised maltepe escort bayan there was so little furniture and no decorative touches at all. Just the minimum – a bachelor’s place.

“I have to take a shower to get this grease off me before I can take you to dinner,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I replied.

With a twinkle in his eye, Craig suggested, “You could join me…”

I hadn’t planned on that, but once he proposed the idea, I discovered I wanted to be naked with him as soon as possible. I waited until he was wet and lathered up, then joined him under the shower spray, feeling a little shy. He looked me over with evident admiration. “Damn,” he breathed. “You are a beautiful woman.” I looked him over just as eagerly. He pulled me into a hug and rubbed his soapy chest back and forth against mine. My nipples were instantly hard with arousal, and so was his cock. He grabbed my ass with both hands to pull me closer.

His eyes were on my lips. He moved slowly, just brushing my lips with his. I yearned for more, but he teased me, touching, tasting, then pulling back. At last his lips connected with mine, and this time the kiss was deeper. It wasn’t the crazy passionate kiss we’d shared that day in the back of the body shop. It was deliberate, sweet, full of emotion. Everything he felt for me was in that kiss, and I kissed him back with the same intensity.

“Everything about you is gorgeous,” he marveled. “I want my hands on every part of you. Let me wash you.”

Instead of using a cloth, he rubbed the soap onto his hands and worshipped my body with his tender touch. He began with my breasts, which was where I hoped he would begin. He circled them gently, stroking, teasing, flicking my nipples with his soapy thumbs until my head dropped back I thought I would die from want. He kissed his way down my neck and breasts, licking, tasting. He left no part of my body untouched. He saved my pussy for last, finally sliding his fingers through my slit, exploring my folds, teasing my entrance as I rocked against him, wanting him inside me. One finger pushed into me while his thumb pressed against my clit. I came against his hand, bucking, soaring, crying out. He had to hold me up as I went limp after my orgasm. He chuckled then, pleased with himself, pleased with me.

“My turn,” I told him once I had recovered my senses.

I explored his body as he had done mine, reveling in the feel of his hard muscles and the thick, curly hair on his chest. My soapy fingers massaged his back, his ass, his chest, his nipples. Then I dropped down to wash his legs, sliding my hands upward toward his hard, throbbing cock. I pushed him down onto the shower seat so I could minister to his beautiful erection more thoroughly. I wanted to feel it in my hands and stroke it, enjoying its hard thickness and the heaviness of his balls.

With soapy fingers, I stroked his penis slowly up and down, up and down, cupping his balls with my other hand. He was deliciously erect as the water cascaded over us. He spread his legs for me, and I knelt between his knees. Looking up at him, I licked my way up his cock from base to head, teasing the ridge around his head with my tongue, flicking and sucking it. Then I took his cock in my mouth and began bobbing my head up and down on him, sucking his dick with enthusiasm. I loved the feel and taste of him in my mouth.

“Fuck, that feels amazing,” he moaned. He held my head as I bobbed faster, using my tongue, sucking, teasing, wanting him to cum in my mouth. I wanted to taste it, to feel it spurting down my throat. “I’m gonna cum,” he rasped. I squeezed his balls and felt them tighten and his cock swell as he came with a shout. I greedily swallowed his hot cum, sucking until I had it all. I grinned up at him, loving having pleasured him this way.

By now the water was cooling, so he brought me out of the shower, wrapped me in a big towel, and carried me to his bed. He dried himself off, and we snuggled under the covers until we were ready for more. I wondered if I would ever get enough of him.

We did finally make it to dinner. And again the next night. And the night after that. Eventually our lives became so entwined that my body man and I decided to make things permanent. And so, the day I wrecked the car – one of the worst days of my life – led to events that finally brought me home.

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