Mrs. Makepeace is the hotwife alter-ego of a British lady who lives in the USA. She's married to a wealthy American man, yet enjoys sex and many extramarital affairs. There is no shortage of willing partners because her ripe, voluptuous figure attracts men like bees to honey. This book sees her with a young mechanic who takes her fancy.~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~I heard the thunk of the car door and, a few seconds later, the door bell sounded its chime.Using the button on the handset I unlocked the door. Spoke into it the mouthpiece. Told Paul to come in and close the door behind him.His shout came up the stairs not long after.“Hey!” I heard. “Hello? Mrs. Makepeace…? I’ve got the keys. To the car,” he added. “I’ve left it out front right there. Is that okay?”I examined myself in the mirror. There wasn’t a lot of clothing to check, a very brief and ragged pair of Daisy Dukes which were little more than a scrap of denim belt around my hips with a black bikini on top. My hair was loose, the blonde waves way down past my shoulders while my lipgloss glistened in the afternoon light. In the style of Barbara Bach, the original Daisy, I was wearing high heels, their height putting tension on my calves in a way I thought really made my already long legs look even better.“Oh, God,” I breathed, nervous.It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, how many men I’ve been with, it’s always a buzz when it’s a new one.“Hello? Mrs. Makepeace!” Paul called again.
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Copyright © 2016 by Tia Lascivo
All Characters are 18 and Over
“You do know I’m married?”
He sat in the chair. The exact same sprawl as when I’d first walked in. His arms were folded across his chest, legs thrown out in front and crossed down at his ankles. He wore tan work boots, one heel resting on the rough concrete floor. It was an arrogant pose. Confident. Almost belligerent. The look on his face suggested he didn’t care about my marital status. Or maybe he liked it that way?
He grinned and said, “That’s the deal.” I watched him make a skating motion with the palm of a hand while he went on to add, “If you want to get bumped to the front of the line.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said, looking him over.
And while I felt a compulsion to smack the grin off his face, I still liked what I saw. Young. Somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties. Short, dark hair cropped close to the wood. Good-looking in the physically menacing and dangerous kind of way I can’t resist. His expression was mischievous, like a cheeky young boy’s while his physique suggested he’d move like a jungle cat on the prowl. His dimpled smile and twinkling eyes already had my pussy clenching with need.
“You don’t even know me,” I added. “Of all the nerve…”
I stared at him for several more seconds before turning my head to survey his untidy kingdom. I Saw bare walls and grimy windows. Last year’s calendar on the wall behind him. Something with bosoms and butts. It was the middle of the morning outside, but the light within came from three rows of over overhead fluorescents and, under the falsely bright lights, I saw some heavy-duty machinery bolted to the floor. Big, specialized machines. The kind of equipment about which I had no clue yet which was very likely essential to his trade. Dirty and oily and very useful in the kind of way that just isn’t part of my world. Maybe lifting a car’s engine out of its well? I saw a pegboard and tools. Tires stacked in a corner. Some trash scattered around. An inspection pit and hydraulic ramp.
There was an old metal desk behind him. It looked to have had years of use and a lot of neglect. The chair he was sprawled in was almost as abused as the desk. Had the look of an item scrounged out of a dumpster, something saved from the junkyard. Picked up and dusted off and set to work in a mechanic’s workshop. Casters and torn black fabric, with the ancient yellow foam padding showing in places like an overfilled sandwich. As he sat with his legs in front, his hands were resting on his stomach, fingers locked together. He stared at me and then shifted his backside and sat upright. Looked at me as though he was getting ready for some hard-nosed negotiating.
“It’s business,” he told me.
I glared at him and said, “What is? You call it business when a lady comes in to ask you about her car and you ask if she’ll give you a look at her breasts?”
He shrugged and pulled a face. Said, “Just a bit of fun.”
“You’re disgusting,” I said, injecting as much venom as I could muster into the words. Then I looked at him, suspicious as I asked, “You are Paul, aren’t you? You do run the place? You’re not just some jerk trying it on?”
“I’m Paul,” he said. “Honest.”
I gave him another look, still dubious.
“Well … Paul,” I went on as I looked around. “You’re not very busy.”
“Got a big job coming in,” he said. “Some limo outfit out of the city. Have to be ready to go as soon as they say. Whole fleet. Gonna get busy.”
“You know you’re not the only mechanic in town. I could go elsewhere.”
He just gave me a look and didn’t reply.
My heels went pick-pock as I shifted my feet and folded my arms beneath my breasts. It was make-your-mind-up-time. I could turn and walk out. He was rude and cock-sure and appeared to have a very high opinion of himself. The way he’d casually propositioned me had been a surprise, downright indecent. Although I don’t know why I was so taken aback, it wasn’t the first time I’d been hit-on that way.
It became a contest between us. I glared hostility at him while he returned the look with an implacable stare of his own. I didn’t particularly like the guy, but still felt the pull of sexual attraction.
And, for me, sex makes the world spin.
So I looked at him and made up my mind.
“If I do it,” I said, “you’ll look at the car today?”
His eyes went wide, just for a second.
“Front of the line like I told you.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said with a sigh.
I kept up the charade of being offended. Like I was only doing it because I was desperate to get the brakes on the Mercedes repaired.
My fingers were at the bow holding the wraparound blouse closed when I added, “I just don’t believe I’m going along with this. It’s revolting…”
I was going to do what he asked, but still wanted to make him work a little before I gave it up.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” he told me. “I just wanna look is all.”
I slipped the knot and felt the blouse go loose, then eased it open to expose my breasts.
“There,” I said, watching his face.
He reacted just like I’d expected. When he saw my boobs his eyes bulged and his jaw fell slack.
“Fuuuck,” he drawled, agog.
I’m what they call well-endowed. I’ve got large, round breasts, which is probably what prompted him to ask in the first place. But what he hadn’t known was I was wearing a shelf-bra underneath the blouse. I hate those visible lines from a conventional bra under my clothes, so I wore the quarter-cup apparatus for a bit of support while leaving my tits all bare.
His response wasn’t unusual. I’ve seen that same look many a time, and, predictably, as normal, he gawked for several moments. Which is a common reaction from men. They all stare at my tits.
I felt smug when I saw him boggle. Even though my boobs have always been a magnet for men, more so as I get older, it never gets old seeing them looking. I get a buzz out of the teasing and leading them on, but, having said that, there’s no way I could ever be called a prick-tease. I see a guy I like the look of checking me out, I’ll play up to him and definitely make it worth his while. So I was quite happy that my big breasts and shelf bra had the mechanic’s mouth hanging open. I’d been confident about what was going to happen the very moment I’d made up my mind to show him the girls. I couldn’t help my smirk when his throat went tight and he gulped down on the astonishment I saw in his face.
He gawked and then eventually spluttered, “Jesus Christ … How big are those tits?”
“34G,” I told him, putting some contempt into my tone.
He pushed out of the chair, dark intent in his eyes.
“Oh!” I blurted, startled by the sudden lunge.
“I just want to feel,” he said, as he came forward.
“Oh, God,” I sighed, rolling my eyes to give the impression it was biggest bore in the world before going on to add, “What is it with men and tits?”
He cupped my boobs like he was testing the weight of a couple of melons.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “These are friggin’ fantastic. Shit,” he went on, palms under my breasts. “Perfect size,” he breathed. “Their shape. Perfect…”
“So, you’re a fan,” I quipped. “A lot of men are.”
He fondled my breasts a little while longer.
“I bet,” he gasped. “Jesus,” Paul added, letting me go. “I’m not surprised.”
I decided I enjoyed his enthusiasm, so let him keep looking.
I asked, “So you’ll look at my car? The front of the line, right?”
Paul continued to stare, like my breasts were magnets drawing his gaze.
“Yeah, front of the line,” he said, distracted.
When he said it, I stepped back a couple of paces to ask, “What time will it be ready?”
He finally looked at my face and stroked his chin while sucking at his teeth the way those guys do when they’re about to rip you off.
“Today you mean?”
I nodded, suspicious.
He looked around the workshop. Must have seen the same lack of industry I’d observed yet still had the gall to say, “Well, I dunno about today.”
I glared at him and put ice in my tone.
“We had a deal. I don’t believe you’re doing this. I’m standing here in your grubby shop with my boobs out. You asked to see them. That was what you wanted. I did it. There they are.”
To emphasize the point – and just to mess with him – I hefted my breasts in both of my hands and jiggled them up and down so they shivered like jellies.
When I let them go I saw him focus on their hefty sway.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Those really are fine ta-tas.”
He looked at me again with what seemed to me to be an immense effort to drag his focus up from my chest.
“Tell you what,” he said with a leer. “Lose the skirt and I’ll think about maybe doing it today. Right now. As soon as we’re done.”
I stared at him, making out I was revolted.
“My skirt?” I said, aghast. I looked down along my front, past the thrust of my breasts to examine the pencil skirt tight against my hips and thighs.
“Yeah. Maybe walk around a little, too,” he said. Paul made some vague scribbling motion with a forefinger. “You know, strut. Show me some moves.” He grinned and finished with, “Make ‘em bounce.”
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