summery : bored and miserable in an unhappy marriage, a frustrated housewife attempts to end her secret affair with the attractive neighborhood mechanic, only for a unexpected home repair visit to explode into a fiery, passionate encounter right in the master bedroom.
pairings : mechanic!natalie x housewife!reader
warnings : affair/infidelity, married reader, housewife/mechanic dynamic, toxic husband (mentioned), heavy oral/eating out, clit play, vaginal fingering, g!p cock, rough/hard sex, bed sex, over-stimulation, multiple orgasms, praise, lingering aftercare/spooning
The heavy silence of the house was a sound you had learned to dread. Every single morning played out in the exact same soul-crushing routine: Tom’s heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, the harsh clatter of his coffee mug hitting the counter, and the sharp, dismissive way he spoke down to you before slamming the front door at precisely 7:00 AM.
"Did you even bother to iron this shirt properly?"
"Make sure dinner is actually hot on the table when I walk through the door at six. I don't pay for this house so I can eat lukewarm slop."
God, you hated him. In fact, you were pretty sure you hated men in general. They were loud, arrogant, and treated every room they walked into like they owned it. So, for eleven hours a day, while Tom was off at the firm pretending to be important, you filled the endless, suffocating quiet with work.
You cooked. You swept the hardwood until it practically reflected the ceiling. You dusted the baseboards. You made more food, cleaned more dishes, and folded laundry until your hands felt dry and numb. It was a monotonous, lonely cycle designed to keep you from thinking too hard about how trapped you actually were.
Until Natalie moved in next door three months ago.
She was the new neighborhood mechanic—a concept that made Tom sneer into his evening newspaper the moment he heard about it. But to you, Natalie was a thunderstorm in a neighborhood full of fake, manicured lawns.
She didn't walk around trying to fit into anyone's box. She wore greasy denim coveralls, drove a matte-black pickup truck that rumbled so loud it shook your kitchen windows, and spent her mornings out in her open garage, dark hair tied up, muscle shirts clinging to her frame as she worked on engines.
And, somehow, against every logical thought you’ve ever had, you ended up in an affair with her.
It started with a broken lawnmower you couldn't figure out how to start. Then it was a cup of iced tea on her porch. Then, one hot Tuesday afternoon while Tom was at work, it was Natalie pressing you up against her workbench, her grease-stained, calloused hands sliding up your floral sundress, driving you completely out of your mind with a fiery, desperate passion Tom had never even come close to sparking in you.
You weren't a lesbian. You couldn't be. You were a housewife. You were married to a man. You had spent your entire life believing you were straight, just caught in a miserable, loveless marriage.
At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself every time you sneaked out your back door at 1:00 PM to go spend two hours melting beneath your female neighbor.
It was 1:15 PM. Normally, you’d be across the fence right now, sitting on the edge of Natalie’s workbench, laughing at some dry joke she made while her thumb traced lazy, hot circles over the inside of your thigh.
Instead, you were sitting at your polished dining room table, staring blankly at a spotless kitchen island.
The guilt had finally caught up to you two days ago. It wasn't even guilt for Tom—he didn't deserve an ounce of your sympathy—it was the terrifying realization of what you were actually doing. You were a married woman letting another woman ruin you in the middle of the afternoon. It made your chest tight. So, you had swallowed your heart, walked over to her garage, and told her it had to stop. That you couldn't keep coming over. That it was a mistake.
Natalie hadn't yelled. She’d just wiped her grease-stained hands on a rag, looked at you with those heavy, dark eyes, and nodded once. "If that's what you want," she’d said, her voice quiet and even.
Now, the house was agonizingly silent. You had already vacuumed the entire downstairs twice. The pot roast for Tom’s 6:00 PM dinner was already simmering in the slow cooker, filling the kitchen with a rich scent that suddenly made you feel nauseous. You leaned your chin in your hand, tracing a pattern in the wood grain of the table, bored out of your mind and miserable.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sharp, sudden sound echoed through the foyer, breaking the silence like a dropped glass. You jumped slightly, your heart leaping straight into your throat.
Tom never came home early. Delivery drivers usually just left packages on the porch.
You slowly stood up, smoothing down the front of your pristine, pastel apron, and walked toward the front door. Through the frosted glass panel, you could see a tall, broad silhouette waiting on the porch.
When you pulled the heavy door open, your breath hitched completely.
Natalie was standing there.
She wasn't in her work coveralls today. She wore a fitted gray tank top that hugged the strong cut of her shoulders, her dark hair slightly messy, a faint smudge of black grease high up on her cheekbone. She had one hand shoved into the pocket of her worn jeans, while the other held a heavy, red steel toolbox.
She didn't wait for an invitation. Her dark eyes swept over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and the quiet house behind you, before locking right onto yours with an intensity that made your knees turn to water.
"Your sink line," Natalie said, her voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right in your chest. "Saw your husband at the gas station this morning. He mentioned the kitchen faucet was leaking and complained about how much a plumber would cost." She took a single, slow step across your threshold, forcing you to back up a pace. "Told him I’d swing by and take a look for free."
She reached out with her bare foot, kicking the front door shut behind her. The lock engaged with a heavy, final click.
"So," Nat murmured, setting the heavy toolbox down on your polished entryway floor with a dull thud. "Show me where the leak is."
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird as you nodded and led her back toward the kitchen. Every single step felt agonizingly loud. You couldn't stop your eyes from darting down to her arm, watching the way her thick, flexed biceps shifted beneath her soft tan skin as she carried the heavy steel toolbox effortlessly at her side.
Just yesterday, those same arms were pinned over your head, those same broad hands gripping your hips so tightly they left dark, delicious bruises that were currently hidden under your sundress.
"Under the sink, right?" Nat asked, her low voice snapping you out of your haze.
"Yeah," you squeaked out, quickly stepping back toward the kitchen island. "It’s... it’s the hot water pipe. It’s been dripping into a bucket."
Nat didn't say a word. She set her toolbox down with a heavy metallic clatter, crouched down, and opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink. She pulled a heavy pipe wrench from her kit and slid flat onto her back, her upper body disappearing under the dark sink while her legs sprawled out across your pristine kitchen floor.
You leaned your lower back against the opposite counter, crossing your arms to try and keep your hands from shaking, but you were completely helpless to stop where your eyes were wandering.
Her worn, dark denim jeans were stretched impossibly tight across her thighs and the firm, heavy curve of her ass as she shifted beneath the pipes. A sudden, hot flash shot straight down to your core. Your mind immediately flashed to two days ago—how it felt to have that heavy, weight pressed flush against your back, the raw power behind every thrust as she worked you over her workbench until you were sobbing her name.
Under the sink, the strain of her effort made her fitted tank top ride up just an inch, exposing the smooth, toned muscle of her core and the thick flex of her shoulder blades every time she turned the wrench. The sight of her—so unbothered, so strong, and so effortlessly attractive in the middle of your miserable, pristine kitchen—made your throat go bone dry. Your cunt gave a sudden, hard throb, slick already starting to pool in your lace underwear despite the crushing guilt you were supposed to be feeling.
"Found the problem," Nat’s muffled voice came from under the sink, the metallic clink of her wrench echoing in the small space. "Loose fitting. Easy fix if you actually know what the fuck you're doing."
She slowly slid back out from under the cabinet, her chest heaving slightly as she sat up on her knees. She wiped a stray strand of dark hair from her forehead with the back of her forearm, leaving a faint streak of grease across her brow.
She caught you staring red-handed. Her dark, heavy eyes locked right onto yours, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she took in your flushed face and heavy breathing.
"Liked the view, sweetheart?" Nat purred, her voice dropping into that dark, gravelly tone that always made your knees go weak.
"No!" you choked out, your cheeks burning with a sudden, wild flush of panic. "No, I wasn't—I wasn't looking at you."
Nat raised an eyebrow, staying crouched on her knees, her dark eyes glittering with amused disbelief.
"If you don't pick up your tools and leave right now, I swear I'll tell Tom," you stammered, your voice trembling as you tried to muster a stern, threatening tone. "I'll tell him you made a disgusting, inappropriate comment to me in my own home."
Natalie froze, her smirk completely vanishing. Her dark eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise, a flash of hurt and cold disbelief flickering across her features. She looked at you as if you had just struck her across the face. She had spent weeks holding you, loving you, and hearing you whisper how much you hated your husband—and now you were threatening to use him against her?
"You'd tell him?" Nat asked quietly, her low voice dropping an octave, completely stunned.
The weight of her stare was too much. Panic seized your chest, a suffocating wave of anxiety and guilt washing over you. You couldn't be near her. You couldn't look at her.
Without waiting for her to respond, you spun on your heel and bolted out of the kitchen. Your heart hammered violently in your throat as your feet pounded up the carpeted stairs, running straight into the master bedroom you shared with Tom.
You slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind you, twisting the lock with a frantic, trembling click. You leaned your back flat against the door, your chest heaving as you slid down to the floor, wrapping your arms around your knees in the quiet, sterile bedroom.
You sat there on the floor for what felt like an eternity, the heavy silence of the second floor pressing in on you. Slowly, you forced yourself up, your knees shaking as you crossed the room and sat on the edge of the large mattress you shared with Tom. You buried your face in your hands, taking ragged, uneven breaths as the quiet house suddenly felt ten times bigger and colder.
Click.
The lock on the bedroom door disengaged with a faint, effortless turn. You raised your head, your heart dropping straight into your stomach as the door slowly swung open.
Natalie was standing in the doorway. She held a thin metal pick in her hand—the kind she used for lock rings in her shop—before sliding it casually into her back pocket. She stood there, tall and broad, her dark eyes filled with a heavy, raw mixture of regret and quiet intensity.
She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.
"I'm sorry," Nat said softly, her gravelly voice completely stripped of its usual cocky edge. She walked across the hardwood, stopping right in front of where you sat on the edge of the bed. She looked down at you, her expression vulnerable. "I shouldn't have teased you like that. I shouldn't have pushed. I just... I missed you so fucking much today."
Looking up at her—at the faint streak of grease on her forehead, her chest rising and falling, those broad hands that had held you through your darkest afternoons—the last of your defenses completely shattered. You hated this house. You hated your marriage. But sitting right here in front of you was the only person who made you feel alive.
Without saying a word, you reached up, grabbing the front of her gray tank top, and pulled her down to you.
You locked your lips onto hers in a deep, desperate kiss.
Nat let out a soft, surprised gasp against your mouth before her hands immediately slammed onto your waist, pulling your body off the edge of the mattress and flushing your front straight against hers. The kiss was hot, messy, and frantic, all the built-up tension and guilt from the last forty-eight hours dissolving the second her tongue slid past your lips.
You broke the kiss for a split second, gasping for air, your hands sliding up her strong shoulders to cup her jaw.
"Screw the sink," you whispered breathlessly, your eyes wide and dark as you looked up into hers. "Fuck me, Nat. Right here. On his bed."
Natalie’s dark eyes turned pitch black at your words. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in her chest as her hands tightened on your waist, lifting you up slightly before shoving you backward onto the high mattress.
You landed hard against the pristine white comforter you spent every morning carefully smoothing out. Before you could even catch your breath, Nat crawled onto the bed after you, her heavy, powerful frame hovering over yours. She grabbed the hem of your pastel sundress and dragged it up over your stomach, bunched it past your chest, and tossed your lace underwear across the room where it hit Tom’s bedside table with a soft thud.
"You're driving me fucking crazy," Nat growled, her breath hot against your inner thigh as she forced your legs wide open.
She didn't waste another second. Nat dropped her head between your knees, her large, warm hands wrapping around the back of your thighs to hold you completely still.
The moment her hot tongue dragged up your drenched slit, your head snapped back into the pillows, a loud, shattered scream ripping from your throat. She started right at the bottom, licking a thick, slow line of slick all the way up to your hyper-sensitive clit, where her lips clamped down with a firm, sucking pressure that made your hips instantly vault off the mattress.
"Nat—god, Nat!" you sobbed out, your fingers tangling frantically into her dark, messy hair.
Nat didn't ease up for a single breath. She buried her face in your drenched heat, her tongue working you with a heavy, flat-paddled rhythm that drove you straight over the edge. She drank you in, making loud, filthy, wet swallowing sounds as she ate you out right in the middle of your husband's bed.
She thrust two thick, calloused fingers deep inside you, stretching you open and establishing a fast, relentless curling motion that hit your internal sweet spot with every single flick. At the same time, her lips locked tight around your swollen clit, her tongue swirling around the throbbing nub in fast, precise, agonizing circles.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
The wet, frantic sounds filled the quiet master bedroom. Every flick of her tongue sent a blinding electric jolt straight up your spine. You rolled your head side to side on the pillow, crying out as your thighs shook violently against her cheeks, but Nat held you pinned down with an iron grip, forcing you to take every second of it.
"Look at how wet you are for me," Nat purred against your wet folds, her voice thick and muffled, her fingers pumping into you even faster, driving deeper into your tight heat. "You're soaking my face with his ring on your finger. Tell me who this cunt belongs to."
"Yours! It's yours, Nat, please!" you screamed, your hips bucking helplessly into her face as the pressure in your lower stomach built into an unbearable, explosive peak. "I'm gonna cum—I'm coming!"
"Cum for me, sweetheart," Nat commanded growling right into your center, her tongue flicking frantically over your clit as her fingers shoved in to the hilt one last time. "Drench my mouth."
The command shattered you completely. Your internal walls violently clamped down around her fingers, spasming in intense, uncontrollable waves as a deafening shriek tore from your lungs. Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, hot fluids pouring out of you directly into her mouth.
Nat swallowed every single drop, keeping her lips locked tight around your clit, sucking heavily through the peak of your orgasm and licking every last inch of your wetness clean while your entire body shook helplessly on the bed.
Nat lifted her head from between your thighs, her lips glistening wet with your slick and a dark, primal hunger burning in her eyes. Without giving you a single second to recover from the intense climax still pulsing through your lower body, she shoved herself up onto her knees between your sprawling legs.
She unbuckled her leather belt with a sharp, metallic snap, shoving her jeans down past her hips. Her cock sprang free, thick, heavy, and throbbing, already slick with pre-cum at the wide tip. The contrast of her female form with that impressive, heavy length was intoxicating, sending another sharp throb straight down to your core.
"You like being fucked in his bed?" Nat growled, her voice a low, gravelly rumble as she grabbed her length in one hand, alignment the wet head right against your swollen, hyper-sensitive entrance.
Before you could even form a response, Nat shoved her hips forward, burying her thick cock all the way inside you in one heavy, uninterrupted drive.
"Ah—god!" you screamed into the quiet bedroom, your toes curling as her thick shaft stretched your drenched walls to their absolute limit.
Nat didn't wait for you to adjust. She locked her large hands around your thighs, lifting your hips slightly off the mattress, and began pounding into you with a brutal, relentless pace.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
The loud, wet sound of her hips slamming hard against your rear echoed through the room. The headboard beat rhythmically against the wall with every punishing thrust, shaking the picture frames on Tom's nightstand. She drove her heavy cock into you deep and hard, bottoming out against your sweet spot over and over until your vision went completely blurry with pleasure.
"Nat—oh fuck, Nat, it's too deep!" you whimpered, your fingers digging into the pristine white sheets as every heavy stroke sent shockwaves right up your spine.
"Not deep enough," Nat growled back, her dark hair falling into her face, sweat glistening on her broad shoulders as she picked up the pace, her cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt with loud, filthy squelching sounds. "You're taking every fucking inch of me right where he sleeps."
The force of her final, punishing thrusts drove you right over the edge again, a second shattered scream escaping your lips as your internal walls clamped down like a vise around her thick length. Nat let out a low, guttural growl, burying her cock to the hilt and holding herself deep inside you as her own climax hit, her entire frame trembling against yours until you both collapsed onto the mattress.
Slowly, Nat slid her slick length out of your drenched center and pulled you back against her chest, wrapping her strong, warm arms around your waist as she pulled the heavy comforter over your shivering bodies. Her front was flushed flush against your back, her breath warm and steady against the nape of your neck as she spooned you in the quiet bedroom.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the steady, heavy rise and fall of your breathing.
Nat shifted slightly, her nose burying into your hair before her low, gravelly voice broke the silence. "Hey," she murmured softly, her fingers gently tracing soft, lingering circles over your bare hip. "Answer me truthfully... do you really actually like Tom?"
You closed your eyes, letting out a long, quiet breath as you leaned back into her heat.
"No," you whispered into the soft stillness of the room, feeling lighter than you had in years. "I don't."
Nat pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder, tightening her grip around you as you both drifted into the quiet warmth of the afternoon..