Sexy erotica…
Roxie's Hammer, a sex story by E. M. Arthur
Ali Clemence 2 by Stephen Perry available at ObsessionArt.com The racket outside my house in the mornings has been hell. I'm supposed to be finding Rachel, this hard-living wench who owes the agency a C, so I'm up cruising the bars hunting for her because the word is she's got no real address, maybe lives out of her car, maybe lives off the kindness of strangers, male and female. I've got a file and a profile and list of credit card expenses that show a pattern, and I'm sure it's just a matter of time before her and me make a connection.
But the city has decided that while I'm working graveyard, they need to dig up the street in front of my house, and not just a little bit of it either. All of it.
So, I'm up staring out the window at the trucks coming and going. Looking at the backhoe that when I was a kid I thought looked like a dinosaur, but now I think looks more like a dead man's bony arm grasping at the dirt, trying to dig a hole deep enough to get some eternal rest.
One of the big dump trucks slides away from the curb, and there is a woman running a jackhammer. I'm slack-jawed stupid staring at this woman. I mean, you see them big beefy guys on TV running jackhammers, the guys that just stepped out of gym ads and had grease put on them to make their muscles stand out, and you know they never touched a hammer in their lives let alone a jackhammer, and what you really see on the street is guys with enough gut to give them ballast to hold the damn things steady.
This woman, though. She's perfect. I mean, she's standing half-profile to me and the sun's behind my house, so I get a really good look at her. Blond, but not that bottle of platinum crap. She's honey and smooth and coming out from under her hardhat and half way down her back in a loose pony tail that begs a man to put on some underwear so his hope don't show and he can walk out there and touch her hair. As if that weren't enough, she's got the face of an Icelandic goddess, long and lean and straight-nosed. Her tank top shows the muscle lines in her shoulders and the straps of the sports bra she wears underneath. That jackhammer is pounding, and I mean screaming and ripping pavement, and her tits are tight into her body under that bra, but still, I see the nipples are hard and they're vibrating away. She ain't looking up, and she sure as hell ain't looking at me. She's looking at the bite of that hammer, doing her job, you know, and behind her safety glasses, I catch a bit of green in her eyes. I swear, her lips are pouting and smiling at the same time. Levis cover her tight ass and legs that still show some thigh line through the faded denim. Her work boots are black and hard-used, and she's got an extra inch of heel there, so her ass is up, and she's leaning into the hammer, not like a guy who'd be fighting it with his weight or horsing it around with his huge forearms. No, she's leaning against it with her hips and pelvis, riding it like, guiding it with some finesse, so it dances on the concrete the way she wants it to. Just sitting there, I can see she knows what she's about and she enjoys her work for more than just the thrill of a job well done.
So, I get an eyeful, and then I take her in again, and then I think to look around and see what's what with the competition. Mind you, I'm not even knowing I'm going out there to meet this woman, and I’m already figuring the angles on the street. The little head thinks faster than the big one, you know?
The guys are there. The backhoe operator's pulling up pavement. The truck drivers are moving them big dumpers around. There's some kind of white truck, and a black-tie guy is walking around with blueprints in hand, and none of these guys are staring at the Valkyrie on Thor's fucking hammer. They are, however, all built like brick shit houses.
I'm thinking pretty quick that she's surrounded by good looking hard bodies, sweating and pumping that hammer all day, and none of them are looking at her?
She's a bull dyke, I figure. No percentage in her.
But I stare. Damn.
And a truck goes by so I lose her for a second. Then the truck is gone, and she's standing there looking right at me. Right through my front window. She's got them green eyes out from under her safety goggles and she's wiping sweat from her perfect neck and she's looking right through my front window at the yutz in the bathrobe sipping coffee and watching her like she's some kind of show.
I'm pretty sure I'm all kinds of red, and I'm suddenly crossing my legs so my robe don't tent out.
She smiles.
I mean, damn, she smiles at me. She takes off a big leather glove and puts a long finger to her hard hat and she winks and smiles.
Holeeeey Shit, I'm thinking. I'm still sleeping and this ain't real. Sleep deprivation is fucking me up. She points at me and lifts her hand to her mouth like she's drinking something.
I stare.
She smiles and does the drinking thing again.
I get it. I get it and I nod and wave her up to the house.
She turns that hard, hot ass in my direction. The man in the white shirt waves at her like he's got better things to do than talk to a perfect ten who can ride a jackhammer.
I walk away from the window until I'm sure she can't see me, then I run like hell for the kitchen. Shit! I go through the fridge. Coffee's already there, but she won't want coffee. That bitch is sweating and wet. She's gonna need something cool.
Beer.
No. Working. Not beer.
Juice? Yeah. Juice.
Iced tea?
The knock comes.
I'm at the door in half a heartbeat and opening it to her like this kind of thing happens to me every day, what with the overabundance of goddesses in my life and all. She smiles and says, "I'm Roxy."
I hold out my hand, the coffee still in it. "I'm Farrell," I say.
"I hope so," she says, then she stares at my hand, and I realize I still have the coffee in it. Fast, I change hands and shake with her. "You need something to drink?" I say.
She says, "Please."
The way she says it cuts through my skin and into my skull and scrapes gentle, long fingernails along my lizard brain, and I’m all melted and happy. "Cold or hot?" I ask. "Come in," I say.
She thanks me and steps into the house. "Hot," she says.
My knees almost buckle.
I glance at the street. None of them hunks are watching this girl. Something is really badly wrong, but I don't really give a shit cause the goddess of jackhammers just walked into my house. I close the door and quietly flip the lock so we can't be interrupted.
"Make yourself at home," I say. "Coffee, then?"
"Coffee would be good," she says. Then, she looks me dead in the eyes and says, "I couldn't help seeing that you enjoyed watching us working."
"Yeah," I say. I head for the kitchen, thinking to put a little distance between my telltale dick and the object of its desire.
She follows me.
"I wonder if I could ask you a personal question," she says.
I'm pulling cups from the cupboard. "Sure, but I might not answer," I say.
"Were you watching the men or me?"
Okay, that stops me cold. I turn around to look at her. She's put her hardhat on my table. Her gloves are off and on the hat. She's rubbing at her neck with one elegant hand, a hand I can't imagine could work a jackhammer. And her hand is stroking her long neck and her hair shines under my kitchen fluorescents and the fold in her arm cups one tit and lifts it up and down while she rubs her throat.
"You okay?" She asks. "You don't have to say. I just wondered."
"You," I manage. "Most definitely you."
She smiles. We're talking a full-on white light from Hollywood smile with green eyes sparkling, and that hand slips down from the neck to her tit, right to her tit, and she pinches herself through the tank top and sports bra.
Fuck me gently if I care about my robe tenting now. I'm holding a cup of coffee in one hand and an empty cup in the other, and she's moving closer, working her tits, smiling, and breathing heavy like maybe she's still working the hammer.
"Coffee," I say.
"Hotter," she says. She slips a hand between the folds of my robe and she takes my twitching rod in her hand, that perfect hand, hard and soft and hot and strong, and she give me a little tug.
I put the cups down, and she pushes me back against the counter and goes down on her knees.
God, the feel of her wet heat when she wrapped her lips around my shaft nearly buckled my knees.
She looks up at me and says, "Rachel is my sister."
The only brain I got left is in her hand, and I just nod and say, "Yeah."
Okay, so she misses lunch that day, but she's back out there working after lunch, and a week later, she's living with me, and a week after that, all Rachel's debts are paid anonymously, and I take the paper on her to the "donor."
I'm betting you figure she left me after that. Hell, of course she did. I guess I've just got a hard spot for hard working city employees.
Originally published November 2010