My neighbor Lena needed her fan fixed

It was a hot summer day, when my neighbor, Lena, knocked at my door. She stood there in a simple, damp tank top and loose linen shorts, her dark curls escaping a messy bun. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path from her temple, down the column of her neck, and disappeared into the shadowed valley of her cleavage.

“The fan in my bedroom just… quit on me,” she said, fanning herself with a hand. A flush colored her cheeks. “Would you mind taking a look? I’d be so grateful.”

Her gratitude had a way of making me feel ten feet tall. I grabbed my toolbox. “Lead the way.”

Her house smelled of vanilla and warm fabric. The bedroom was dim, the still air thick and oppressive. A brass ceiling fan hung motionless above her unmade bed. She dragged a wooden step-stool into the center of the room, its legs uneven on the plush carpet. “Is this okay?”

“Perfect,” I mumbled, my throat tight.

I climbed up. The stool wobbled, forcing me to brace my knees against the edge of the mattress for balance. The new vantage point was a revelation. From here, I could see the full, soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath beneath the thin cotton of her tank top. The neckline gaped just enough to hint at the dark lace beneath.

“Probably just the capacitor,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. I fumbled with the screws on the fan’s housing.

“Here, let me get that for you.” She bent at the waist to rummage in my open toolbox on the floor.

The movement was my undoing. As she leaned forward, the neckline of her top fell away completely, offering me an unobstructed view of her heavy breasts, cradled in black lace. I saw the deep, warm shadow between them, the curve of her soft underbelly pressing against the fabric of her shorts. Heat exploded in my groin. I felt the insistent, undeniable swell in my trackpants, the material straining.

I tried to focus on the wiring. Colors blurred.

“Found it!” she chirped, straightening with a screwdriver. She turned, her eyes level with my thighs. She didn’t look up at my face. She reached up, her fingers offering the tool.

Her forearm, warm and deliberate, brushed against the hard ridge in my pants.

The contact was electric. A jolt shot straight up my spine.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. Her arm stayed there, pressed against me for a heartbeat too long. Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible flex of her fingers, she gave my bulge a tiny, secretive squeeze.

My breath hitched. The stool wobbled violently.

Her eyes finally lifted to mine. They were dark, wide, and held a spark of pure, knowing mischief. No pretense now. No innocent neighborly facade. The air between us crackled, thick with unsaid things.

She took a slow, deliberate step closer, until her body was a mere inch from my legs. The stool made me just tall enough that her mouth was perfectly aligned with my waist. I could feel the heat radiating from her.

“You seem… distracted, sweetie,” she murmured, her voice a low, husky thing. Her gaze dropped back to my crotch. “Is something… in the way?”

Before I could form a word, her hands came up. Not to push me away. To steady me. Her palms settled on my hips, her thumbs hooking into the waistband of my trackpants. The feel of her hands through the thin fabric was agonizingly good. I could only stare down, mesmerized, as she leaned in.

Her breath, warm and moist, ghosted over the straining fabric. I groaned, a raw, helpless sound.

“This old stool is so unsteady,” she whispered, her lips now a hair’s breadth from me. “We should be careful.”

And then she did it.

She closed the minuscule distance and pressed her open mouth against me. Not a kiss, but a firm, wet press of her lips right over the head of my cock, which was now painfully hard and outlined against the cotton. The heat of her mouth, even through the fabric, was shocking, exquisite. I bucked my hips involuntarily, a shudder wracking my body.

“Lena…” I gasped.

“Shhh,” she soothed, nuzzling me. Her hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place on the wobbly stool. “Just… let me help you concentrate.”

Her tongue came out, a slow, broad stroke along the length of my shaft through the trackpants. The wet spot bloomed, cool at first, then searing. My knees trembled. She did it again, lapping at me, her nose nudging against my lower belly. I tangled a hand in her hair, not to guide her, but to anchor myself to this spinning reality.

With nimble fingers, she tugged at my waistband, pulling it down just enough. My cock sprang free, thick and eager, bobbing in the humid air mere inches from her face.

She didn’t hesitate. No shyness, no teasing pause. She looked up at me, holding my gaze with those blazing dark eyes, and opened her mouth.

The first touch of her tongue to my bare flesh was a lightning strike. A slow, luxurious lick from base to tip that made my vision speckle. Then she took me in, her lips forming a perfect, hot, wet seal around the head. A groan tore from my chest, guttural and deep.

Oh god.

Her mouth was heaven. She sucked gently, her tongue swirling, her head beginning to bob in a slow, devastating rhythm. From my perch, I could see everything—the way her cheeks hollowed, the flutter of her lashes against her skin, the way her own neck flushed with desire. One of her hands left my hip and slid up under my shirt, her nails scraping lightly through the hair on my stomach. The other hand wrapped around the base of me, her grip firm and knowing, working in tandem with her mouth.

The sensations overloaded me. The wet, hot suction. The sight of her, a voluptuous, confident woman on her knees—or nearly—devouring me. The faint vanilla scent of her mixing with the musk of my own arousal. The precarious wobble of the stool beneath me, making every movement, every suck, feel dangerous and illicit.

She picked up the pace, her head moving faster, taking more of me. A soft, hungry sound vibrated from her throat and through my cock. My fingers tightened in her hair.

“Lena, I’m not going to last,” I warned, my voice strangled.

In response, she hummed, the vibration shooting straight to my core. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, locked on mine. She was telling me she didn’t care. She was telling me to let go.

Her other hand slipped lower, past the waistband of my pants, her fingers finding the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, then cupping and gently squeezing my balls. The dual assault—her mouth, her hand—shattered my last shred of control.

“I’m… fuck…”

The climax ripped through me, violent and all-consuming. My hips jerked forward off the stool as I spilled into the wet, welcoming heat of her mouth. She took it all, a soft, satisfied murmur escaping her as she swallowed, her tongue milking every last drop from me until I was twitching and oversensitive.

She released me slowly, with a final, tender lick that made me shudder. She leaned back on her heels, wiping the back of her hand across her glistening lips. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face.

“Well,” she said, her voice rough and wonderfully used. “Now that that distraction is out of the way…” Her eyes drifted back up to the broken fan. Then back to me, still trembling on the stool. “…maybe we should find you a more stable place to work.”