Summer 2000

by Robin

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, True Story, Cheating, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Workplace, .

Desc: True Sex Story: A semi-true account of a project on social housing and some hot mums.

My mobile phone rang and vibrated on the desk in my site office. I picked it up and glance at the screen to see if it was a recognised number, perhaps even the caller's name. The screen told me it was the office calling.

"Hello?" I said a second after hitting the green answer button.

"Hello Brad, its Lucy here, I have Mr. Ash on the line for you. Just putting you through." The line went quiet for a moment.

Mr. Ash was the Managing Director of Ash Construction who had employed me as a Site Agent. I had been with them for only six weeks, two of which had been spent on holiday in Crete.

Things had gone bad when I returned to work on the construction of a new annex to a primary school. As I walked on site, I found a seventeen-ton 36o degree digger sitting astride a three-meter deep trench. The sides were crumbling and it had been raining all weekend.

To top it all, no trench supports had been put in place and Murphy was asking for a ladder so he could get down to the bottom to retrieve his hard hat. The machine was likely to topple into the trench and probably bury Murphy at the same time.

To cut a long story short, I stopped the job on health and safety grounds. Tore a strip off the Construction Manager who had been baby sitting my job while I was away and very nearly came to blows with the ground working sub-contractor who owned the machine.

I guess I had been expecting the call from Mr Ash and fully expected to be invited to fuck off.

"Robin, its David Ash here." He didn't sound too pissed with me. "I understand you have stopped the job in Caterham."

I told him I had and the reasons for my calling a halt to the madness. I reminded him that I was ultimately responsible for what went on on-site and I had no intention of being jailed because of some crazy Irishman and a Construction Manager too lazy or stupid to see what was wrong.

"Well yes, I see your point. However, that wasn't what I was calling about..." He paused, perhaps to allow me to stop spluttering.

" ... I want you to come into the office, today, if you would. Your company car is waiting here for you. It isn't a new one, but will do for now. I also want to go over a new project with you. I need someone to run a job we have, one hundred and eighty flats in Deptford that are being refurbished. We are sacking the two site Managers who between them have fucked it up royally. Can you get here within the hour? Oh, and by the way, your probation period is over.

I was flabbergasted; three months probation had just turned into six weeks. I guess stopping the job had been the right thing to do and I was getting a nice shiny car to boot. I called my wife to let her know.

And so, that afternoon, stepping from my Ford Focus, I found the site I was to run. Two large blocks of brick built social housing that had been constructed just after the war as a quick solution to the housing shortage caused by the bombing of London. The flats (apartments) were stacked on top of each other with a shared balcony connecting each front door and a concrete staircase at each end. They were hideous and depressing to look at.

The site compound didn't thrill me too much either. Three converted steel containers formed the site-office; stores and an admin hut all encompassed with steel, mesh fencing. It didn't look promising and I soon found out the extent that the two previous Managers had made a mess of things.

Each of the flats was to have new PVC double glazed windows, a new front door, a new fitted kitchen, a refurbished bathroom and a new heating and hot water system. This was to modernise the living conditions of the flats and bring them up to an acceptable European standard.

The thing was though; each flat was occupied and would be, all the way through the program. The upheaval to their daily lives was incalculable and perhaps, that is where the two Managers and the Council, who was the client, had not understood the effect on their customers.

I knew I was in for a rough ride and asked Mr. Ash a few days later, if this was a punishment. He laughed and then told me it needed someone with balls to run it and dig it out of trouble. I thanked him for his faith in me and told him he owed me one. Big time.

I took me a few days to get myself sorted and to understand the degree of works in each flat. Some were having more works than others and it really came down to my assessment of the existing conditions for the dwellings. It meant that I had to visit every household to survey each room and form a specification and schedule of works. That was when the fun began.

I cannot remember exactly, the job was completed many years ago now, but I suppose it much have been about three weeks into it. I visited a flat on the fourth floor, having made an appointment.

The woman answered the doorbell in her housecoat and slippers which I though a bit odd. It was, after all, gone ten in the morning, a bit late to be undressed. Especially as she would have had to be up for her children, take them to school, feed them and so on. I accepted her invitation to enter with my clipboard and prepared forms for various rooms.

This small woman, just less than five foot with mousey hair and a small frame, offered me coffee, which she put on the table in the living room. The survey its self took no more than fifteen minutes. I was ready for the coffee and sat in her living room to talk her through the program and what to expect. I asked if she had any questions at the end of my prepared speech.

"Any chance I can choose the tiles in the bathroom?" She asked, her head cocked to one side and an enigmatic smile on her face.

I told her that we only did diamond white. She sat opposite me in an armchair and damn! Her smile grew wider and her legs parted to show she had no underwear on. I had a grandstand view of her snatch.

"So no chance of a nice light blue then?"

I don't remember what I said, but in fairly quick order she was on my lap, my hand buried up her hole and her tongue down my throat. Man! But could she wriggle. She smelled fantastic; her perfume was subtle and intoxicating. The housecoat was discarded and her tits, even after childbirth, were well formed, not huge and didn't sag. Her belly was nice and tight and all in all, a neat package and willing to use her body to get what she wanted.

I fucked her over the arm of the settee, plunging into her willing body, our juices squishing merrily at the rhythmic onslaught. I don't know how long it lasted, but I do remember blasting a massive load into her guts and then, her saying we could not allow me to leave smelling of sex. This crazy woman sucked off all of our essences.

Needless to say, her bathroom was tiled in a nice duck-egg blue.

Until this job, casual sex was not something I was overly familiar with. Not through naivety, but more a lack of opportunity; How that was to change over the next twelve months.

Men may think they have the power, not so. The female of the species has the tools to make a grown man beg, cringe or become enslaved, all for the want of cunt. We are such sad bastards really.

A misses Jackson on the third floor of block one showed me just how easily men would snatch at opportunity. My survey appointment took me less than ten minutes, I was getting more proficient at assessing the needs of each flat. She was black. She originated from Guyana and spoke with a typical accent. I was pleased to see she did not carrying the usual 'big booty' favoured by African women. Mrs Jackson was tall, around six foot and slender as a rake handle.

Memory fades what her particular want in relation to the dwelling upgrade was, but I do remember how pink and hot her mouth was as it gobbled up my dick. Her dark eyes never left mine as my pink cock disappeared into her willing mouth. I thought it would never stop. She had my whole length in her mouth and was throat fucking herself on me. She had the hottest mouth I had every come across, or cum down as a matter of fact. Her nose was squashed against me so that every available inch was twitching as deeply as possible. She maintained her stare as her tongue massaged my cock and then, just as I gasped I was about to come, she managed to find a few more millimetres to shove down her red hot gullet. She showed no signs of swallowing, but it was obvious she had and her kiss of thanks carried that taste of man juice. I had never thought about having a black woman before. Any prejudice I might have carried was blown away by her expert throat action.

After her, any woman was fair game.

The most memorable though was Sally. All she wanted was a choice of colour for her front door. Simple enough and just a matter of juggling the palette of specified choices.

I sat at her kitchen table on a wooden stool, explaining the process she and her family were going to be subjected to when the kitchen was ripped out and her bathroom was totalled. Sally kept her flat very clean and scrupulously tidy. It was one of the larger units with three bedrooms. Her flat had the advantage of overlooking the communal garden with a grandstand view of the swing park.

We were on a third week of a super hot June, when even breathing was a trial. Instead of my usual suit and tie, I was dressed casually, in a short sleeved, open neck shirt and slacks. Sally had a pair of brilliant white hot-pants on and a gingham print blouse, open at the front and tied under her breasts exposing her stomach.

.... There is more of this story ...

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