This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults. If you're not both of those, don't read it. Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die. You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe. The fictional characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.
If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.
This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact, but if you make money off of it without my permission, you're breaking the law and pissing me off.
"It's out here," the buxom brunette told me, leading me through the richly appointed interior of the house with her generous buttocks threatening to split the fabric of her bikini."It just gets too hot in the summer."
Unlike many of the trophy wives in Emerald Glen, Candy apparently didn't spend a lot of time at the gym, or money on plastic surgery. Not that she needed either. She was just one of those generously proportioned women who seem perpetually on the edge, without quite going over, of being fat.
In Candy's case, breasts an buttocks overflowed the skimpy material of the suit she wore, and there was a layer of softness around her belly and sides, but nothing bulged where it shouldn't, and her body was a perfect match for the natural wantonness of her face. There was no hint of cellulite in her buttocks or thighs, and though I suspected her breasts would sag a bit without the suit for support, it would be primarily because of their weight. The woman simply overflowed with sensuality, and my cock was making me wish I hadn't tucked it down the leg of my jeans.
Given my other experiences with the horny housewives of Emerald Glen, I had to wonder what Candy really had in mind for me, but I wasn't about to screw things up by starting things myself. Emerald Glen had become kind of a captive market for my newly formed handyman business, and while it was quite a lucrative market, it had fringe benefits that I was loathe to lose, as well.
As we exited the french doors onto her natural stone-paved patio, the sun struck like a physical blow after the coolness of her home's interior. The stones of the patio were nicely crafted into a couple of steps down to a matching stone pool deck that looked like it would measure about two acres, not counting the large, free-form pool in the middle. That's an exaggeration, of course, but it was rather a large pool deck. On the other side of the pool, a slender, auburn-haired young lady pretended to be reading while she watched us over the tops of her sunglasses. If this was Candy's daughter, she didn't carry many of her mother's genes. Short and slender, with barely visible breasts, I initially placed her age about fifteen, so I was a bit shocked when Candy called her over to introduce us.
"Bree, I want you to meet Hank," Candy called as the girl gracefully rounded the end of the pool in her bare feet. "He's going to build us a cabana back here so we'll have some shade when we need it."
"Will it be done in time for my party?" Bree stuck her hand out palm down, not looking at me, as if she expected me to kiss it, so I squeezed a little harder than necessary when I shook it perfunctorily. That drew a satisfying wince and an appraising glance filled with speculation.
"Of course, dear," Candy told her. "We want your eighteenth birthday to be special."
"I still don't know why we can't have it on my birthday instead of three days later," Bree pouted.
"You do want people to attend, don't you dear?" Candy asked. "You know very well that parents don't let their children party on weekdays, even in summertime. We'll have it on Saturday, as planned, and Hank will have finished the cabana by then, and will make it really special for you, won't you Hank?"
I grunted noncommittally and asked, "Where do you want it?"
Candy was far from stupid. She saw the look her daughter was giving me and noticed how I was studiously avoiding looking at Bree, but she said nothing except, "Over here, I think. The sun comes from this direction in the hottest part of the afternoon, and if we have it facing East, we'll be able to enjoy the morning sun but have the shade in the afternoon when it's hot."
"I'll keep it back here against the edge of the patio so it won't cast a shadow on the pool until the sun is well down. Do you want to be able to close the front and sides for privacy?"
It was Candy's turn to give me an appraising look, and she wore a teasing smile when she answered, "Now why would anyone need privacy out here?"
"I just assumed you might want to use the cabana for massages occasionally," I told her without turning my gaze from hers, "and Bree might want to screw her boyfriend in there once in a while."
I heard the gasp from the teenager but didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on Candy's face, and Candy, if she was at all shocked, didn't show it.
"Hmm," she answered, with the same half-smile, "you have a point. Okay, let's make it so the sides and front can be closed up. Close your mouth, Bree. There are flies about this time of year."
I took some measurements, and showed them, using my measuring tape, the approximate dimensions of the unit I intended to build. We discussed it a bit more and I made some minor adjustments to the planned dimensions, took note of the design of the awnings on the windows at the back of the house, then headed home to work up my plans and an estimate for Candy to show her husband.
On the face of it, a cabana like this is little more than a framework to hold some fabric (they vetoed the idea of palm fronds, to my immense relief) but I wasn't given to doing the simple or mundane and added a few touches that I thought they would enjoy, given the proclivities of most of the women I had met in Emerald Glen.
For one thing, I made the frame sturdier than it needed to be to hold up the fabric, then I added a changing room to the design, and a convenient place to keep a cooler of drinks.
Once I got approval of my estimate, I sent my order for the fabric panels that would match their home's awnings to a sail maker, and headed back to Emerald Glen to start building the frame. For a standard beach style cabana, that wouldn't have taken me more than a day, but for this one, I sank the two posts that would support the back of the frame into the ground at the edge of the pool deck and used them to anchor the rest, with cross bracing that would stand up to a hurricane. I bolted the pieces together with carriage bolts and made sure that everything was plumb and square.
Each day that I worked on the thing was hot, and I worked with my shirt off. Each day, Bree was there, pretending to read her book and sunbathe as I worked. On the first day, she wore a virginal white one piece suit that, when wet, clearly showed the shadows of her small, pink areolas and her pubic bush.
Several times, she made it a point to slowly wade into the pool up to her neck, taking care not to wet her stylishly coiffed hair.
Candy came out at noon with a small birthday cake and sang 'Happy Birthday' to her daughter in a pleasant contralto. I was eating my own brown bag lunch at the time, sitting on a sawhorse, and after a good-natured altercation of the, "You do it," "No you" variety, Candy came around the pool and handed me a piece of the cake.
"It's my daughter's eighteenth birthday today," she said, "and she wanted you to have a piece of her cake."
"Tell her I said 'thank you'," I replied, setting the paper plate with its generous serving of cake on the sawhorse beside me. I went on eating my sandwich, and left the cake where it was.
Candy only spent a few more minutes with her daughter, then went back into the house. Bree seemed agitated as I left the cake on the sawhorse and went back to work. At the end of the day, as I was cleaning up, I put the cake, its butter cream frosting now melted in the hot sun, into the trash bag with the detritus from my construction. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Bree stomp petulantly into the house.
After noon on the second day, Friday, as I was fitting the fabric and lashing it to the frame, Candy came out in a white blouse and shorts that hid little more than her bikini had. Carrying a cocktail glass half-filled with an amber liquid that smelled very much like single malt scotch, she made a show of inspecting my work. In the process she found occasion to lay her unoccupied hand on the bare flesh of my torso several times. Finally, she nodded approvingly, and started back toward the shelter of the french doors. After two steps she stopped and turned back to me.
"You know she's legal now, don't you?" she jerked her head toward where Bree sat on the other side of the pool, today wearing some kind of thong thing that might as well not have been there, for all the flesh it covered.
"Yes," I answered, continuing to concentrate on lashing the fixed panels tightly in place.
"So why don't you screw her ass off and put her out of her misery? The little bitch has the hots for you so bad I can smell her cunt from here."
.... There is more of this story ...