Bound by Desire

The Set Up

REID’S POV

I have no desire to dance tonight, much less have a one-on-one encounter with a middle-aged, lustful woman who would most likely approach me for s*x later. People may think less of me because of that mentality, but in my opinion, it's just like hooking up in a bar. I'm not picky about the time or location. Do not, however, assume that I am some sort of gigolo. My earnings as a private stripper are used exclusively for my stripping services; they are not used for any subsequent extracurricular activities. That is a completely different matter. They're called "Encore dances" by the guys who work for me at Callboys 4 Hire. A benefit for the women, and undoubtedly for us as well. However, I simply don't feel it tonight. I would much prefer be drinking a beer or two while playing Call of Duty than be grabbed while someone shoves cash into my Tommy Hilfigers, perhaps for the first time since I began C4H with my best pals Lance Lindasy and Roley Rex when we were undergraduate students .I'm not focused on the game. It's related to certain problems I've had with my other firm, a construction company that I've expanded over the past few years with the help of the expertise I acquired from my pricey business degree. The city has put a large contract on hold for me right now, and it's tangled in more f*****g red tape than I could break .We're currently well behind schedule, and it's making me anxious. When you have to woo a woman, whether in real life or your imagination, it's not a good mood to be in.In front of the flat number I was given, I stopped and quickly cleared my head. If I want to finish the task without the client noticing that I'm thinking about anything other than dry-humping her into next week, I need to get in the correct frame of mind. It's showtime. I raise my fist, knock on the door, roll my shoulders back in my navy blue handyman boilersuit, and wait for my client to let me in. A female voice asks through the door, "Yes?" I frown and see that there is no peephole. I introduce myself as the handyman, Ms. George. "I'm here to help you with anything you need." I anticipate the door slamming open. There is a lengthy pause instead. "That is incredibly ambiguous." She sounds suspicious in her tone. "What specifically were you called for?" Smart girl, requiring me to demonstrate that I am her anticipated guest without causing me to act out of character. She had stated that she "needed a handyman to fix her pipes" when she had called earlier. Clients occasionally like to provide us with plot points to follow. We all don't mind because it's our responsibility to sell them the fiction, whatever it may be. I respond, "To fix your pipes."But I won't do you any good with this door"—I hear the lock rattle through its tumbler just as the door swings open—"between us." The lady I had anticipated—or rather, who I had anticipated—was clad in lust like a thick fur cloak that nearly engulfed her. An extremely underdressed woman who would eye-f**k me before stepping aside to let me in so we could discuss my purpose for being here rather I saw a woman with a zipped-up sweater, soft slipper socks, and yoga pants. Her long brown hair is secured on her head in an untidy knot. She is wearing no makeup and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses to finish off her at-home, carefree image. I stand in the hallway looking foolish with my d**k in my hands as she walks more into the flat without even looking up from the heavy hardcover book she is holding. I close and lock the door behind me as I enter, overcoming my first surprise. She walks past it and gestures towards a corridor that leads from the little dining room adjacent to the kitchen. That's where the bathroom is. Please let me know if you require my assistance in any way. All of a sudden, it clicks. Even though Amby Powell was listed on the credit card, she called herself Phoebe George, and she wanted to be seduced. She aspires to be that innocent, gullible girl who is wooed by the handyman who isn't thinking about the "problem" she phoned him about. I nearly blew it when I asked her what she wanted me to do, damn it. I approach the dining table and respond, "Sure thing," while surreptitiously observing her. Her ability to ignore me is really good. I would assume she wasn't interested in what I was doing if I didn't know any better. I put down and opened my old red toolbox. It has tools specific to this trade rather than the usual types of tools. A change of clothes, a portable speaker that syncs with my phone's playlists, a few bottles of water (to drink or pour over my body), a box of condoms and some flavored lube for the occasional "Encore dance," and a new can of whipped cream that I picked up on the way. My gut tells me that for this one, I probably just need the speaker and a bottle of water to sip afterward. However, if I'm being completely honest, there's something about Phoebe/Amby that appeals to me. I'm hoping she's just acting uninterested, and if we click as much as I believe we can, we can talk more seriously after I dance for her. There is a chance that tonight won't end badly."Do you mind if I play some music?" With her glasses hanging from the earpiece she's holding between her teeth, she looks up from her book and furrows her brow as if she's forgotten why I'm there. Her obvious disdain for me makes my c**k twitch with curiosity, so it must be on the fritz. "I know you're reading, but when I'm feeling down, music helps." For dramatic effect, pause. "Work." Phoebe places her open book on her glasses. "Yes," she replies. "I'm not bothered. I dislike it when she ignores me. I want her to pay attention. To each touch and every motion. I place the tiny speaker on the table, start my favorite song, and glance over to find her snuggled up in the corner of the couch, already apparently lost in that blasted book once more. My ego is in grave danger of collapsing if she continues this act for very long. I stroll over, letting the music flow through me as my movements naturally sync with The Weeknd's seductive beats. Dancing has always been my passion, and I've always been good at it. It makes sense to dance for lustful women and earn money for a few hours of enjoyment. I wait for her to glance up by placing my feet in front of her, and she does. She begins at my thighs, eye level, and then slowly proceeds north. Her eyes widen as she climbs higher and higher until she reaches my face. Phoebe, be careful— I've decided to call her that because I like it better and it seems to fit her—she puts her spectacles back on and her mouth relaxes. Finally, f*****g. I attempt to conceal my grin at her response, but it most likely comes across as arrogant. That works, too, given that I'm portraying the arrogant handyman who is going to defraud my gullible client. Her voice cracks at the end as she says, "Do you need something?" Yes, I do. Please take a look at my pipe wrench. Verify that it functions to your satisfaction. "Pardon me?" "You heard me, lovely." Pulling her ass to the edge of the couch cushion, I throw her book aside and then put my foot between her legs. "I want you to look at my large, sturdy tool." The mechanical snaps erupt like far-off fireworks as I tug the front of my boilersuit open and shake my hips to the beat of the music before she can voice any objections—and she is about to do so, opting to play her part to the very end. A skintight wife-beater who isn't long for this world gets exposed as I take the upper half off my shoulders and let it hang around my knees. I almost moan at the warmth emanating from her smooth skin as I take both of her hands and hold them to my chest. I move them slowly down and over the ridges of my abs after flexing my pecs under her palms. Her soft exclamation makes all the effort to keep this level of muscular definition well worth it. I begin to glide our connected hands fluidly from side to side as they reach my hips, letting her feel the rhythm of the music as it flows through me and listening to my body offer her the type of promises that are whispered in the dark between sheets soaked in perspiration. Phoebe is agitated, and it doesn't even appear to be staged. Perhaps she is more innocent than I thought. I can tell exactly what kind of girl she is by looking at her reactions. She is the quiet one in the back of a group of women at a party where strippers are the entertainment, hoping that no one will notice her. She lets go of her hands and scuttles off the end of the couch, saying, "Whoa whoa whoa." "I believe that something is wrong. I apologize if my strange blinking previously gave you the impression that I was winking or something, but I assure you that I wasn't flirting with you. All I want is my washbasin fixed. I take a few fast strides forward, pressing her back against the wall and making her tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "You mean it's just your washbasin? So you don't want any of this, then? So I undulate over her much smaller physique to show what “this” is. To make our heights work better, I need to broaden my stance. After that, I press my chest into hers and roll down. Holy Christ, I can feel the heat from her p***y radiating through her flimsy trousers, from the sternum to the stomach to the pelvis. "Oh my God. Well, It's unbelievable that I'm saying this. She clears her throat and squeezes her eyes tight for a moment. "No, I'm grateful. It would be fantastic to just unclog the sink. Confused, I stand back and look closely at her, searching for signs of enthusiasm in her face that contradict what she is saying. At last, I made the decision that it's better to be safe than to end up with a s****l harassment lawsuit. It's time to act out of character.Perhaps you have a different definition of a Handyman Special, Ms. Powell. If I knew exactly what you wanted from me, it would be really helpful. "Ms. Powell? No, I'm not. After two seconds of looking perplexed, she covers her face with her hands and mumbles, "Oh my God, I'm going to kill her."