Chapter 1

There's a couple of things you need to know before I get to the point. The first is, a lot of my customers are single women or 'grass widows'. I mean, what else? Odd jobs around the house? Okay, there are men who can't, or won't, fix things around the house, but on the whole, it's women on their own who need the sort of practical assistance I can provide. On the same track, they tend to be suspicious of men so if you get a reputation of being 'safe', then word gets around; ninety percent of my work is either repeat customers or word-of-mouth recommendation ... and that's good. The sort of sexual nirvana you read about in erotic literature, doesn't happen in my experience. On the other hand, my wedding ring may have discouraged some, and it's quite possible my naivete missed the odd come-on. The point is, up until my wife left, I had no extra-marital sex.

Okay, then, point two ... I don't find big boobs a turn on. You don't believe me? Suit yourself. They say it takes all sorts, and my sort prefers average proportions. Actually, appearance is way down my list of criteria when it comes to women. I mean that, really. Now, okay, I see a woman with a big chest, I look. I mean, you can't help it, can you? But if I had to describe my physical ideal ... my wife ... my ex-wife ... perhaps I'd better not go there.

When she left ... I can't really blame her, and I can't complain about the way she treated me in the divorce ... I've got to be fair. She said, apologetically, that I was boring. She left me the house – almost paid for – my car, the older of the two, that I needed for work – and a few thousand of our savings. She reckoned she didn't need what we had...

It was a few weeks before I even thought of taking the ring off my finger. Whether it was that or something in the way I behaved that changed, I did detect a change in the way my female customers related to me. I didn't do anything about it, though. I thought about it; who wouldn't ... but I was ... Okay, let's be honest ... I was scared of rejection or even accusations of assault. I'm nobody's idea of a 'hunk'; not particularly good looking and rather shy ... not to mention, in my wife's judgement, boring.

So to get to the beginning of the story, now you've got a bit of background. I was visiting a terraced house to repair some broken attic stairs. For some reason, the turn in attic stairs is not very strong structurally and I've had a few calls where steps have partially collapsed. Repair isn't exactly straight forward, as you usually can't get into the space behind, but I've come up with some methods that work quite well.

Anyway, most of the time, it's no good going to the front door of terraces; they open directly into the living-room, so folks tend to use the back door. There I was, ringing the bell and waiting for an answer. The door opened, and I was confronted by Barbie, life-size. Not, definitely not, my ideal. Very pretty, yes, but to me at least, disproportionate.

She smiled brilliantly and invited me in, showed me the problem, and I set to to fix it. As I said before, it's not a particularly straight forward repair. It was a hot day, and not a very comfortable situation. I wouldn't usually drink while working, I mean alcoholic drink, so when she appeared with a glass of ice-water and a bottle of lager out of the fridge, I was in two minds about the lager. The water went down very nicely, thank you, and I eyed the bottle before deciding to down it before it warmed up too much. The work did go better after that, I must admit. Anyway, I finished the job, tested it by jumping up and down on the steps, replaced the carpet and went downstairs.

This is where it gets interesting. She waved me into the front room, saying she wanted to show me something. I had no reason to be suspicious. Until, that is, she moved right into my personal space. Like I say, I'm shy. I backed up a bit, but she followed. Before I knew what was happening she gave me a shove in the middle of my chest and I fell back onto the settee behind me. I clocked my head on the wooden arm and the next thing I knew, she was straddling me, one hand on my upper chest. The other rummaging behind her at the zipper of my overall. Can I be blamed for my erection? Or my inability to think of anything to say or do? Anything, that is, except to co-operate with ... well, I don't know if you could call it rape. I mean, I didn't actually consent, but neither did I fight her off. I'm almost sure I could have.

It was pretty weird. I mean, no foreplay, both of us almost fully dressed (obviously, she had no panties on under her skirt) and I hardly moved. I hadn't had intercourse for rather a long time, so I was done in minutes. She got off me immediately and left the room, leaving me to cover up as best I could.

I mean to say ... what to think? I didn't have much time to think, because she was soon back in the room.

"How much?"

I'd wondered if I was going to be paid at all.

"Um ... thirty." I said.

She handed me some notes, that I stuffed in my pocket – it was certainly more than thirty pounds. Actually, when I looked later, it was a hundred and thirty. I left and went on my way wondering what had hit me.

For a few weeks after I wondered if I was going to be accused of rape, or something, but nothing happened. I had a couple of invitations to supper, which I accepted and enjoyed. Either of those might have come to something in time.

But then, I was called back to Barbie. (Not her real name, of course.) Sticking doors, this time. Usually, the problem is with the hinges, often associated with the build-up of paint around the jamb and side of the door, and so it was. I cleaned off paint, replaced hinges and re-aligned striker plates and at the end of the day, she had six doors that shut smoothly and latched properly.

This time, when she wanted to 'show me something' in the bedroom, I was slightly better prepared, and dodged. What do you mean, you wouldn't? Like I say, it takes all sorts. I wanted more out of ... whatever you'd call it ... than a quick fuck.

"Can't I reward you?"

I thought she looked as though she was going to cry.

"My bill for today's work is ninety pounds," I said. "That's all the reward I need. I have no objection to a bonus, but it's quite unnecessary."

She was definitely going to cry. Shit. What the ... I mean, what was going on here?

"Tell you what," I said, "do you like curry?"

"Don't know," she said. At least, I'd distracted her from bursting into tears.

"Have supper with me," I said. "I'll pick you up about seven-thirty."

I have to admit, she looked pretty spectacular when I picked her up. Not that she was showing much décolletée, but her dress certainly appeared to emphasise her ... unusual figure.