One beautiful Saturday morning, I had just gotten up and had breakfast when a neighbor knocked on my door. I opened the door, and we exchanged greetings, chatting for a few moments. I didn’t mind; I knew Sylvia would get to the reason for her visit sooner or later. She always needed time to get to the point. Sylvia and her husband, Martin, were new to the area. They were friendly enough, and Sylvia turned out to be a little flirtatious but always quite polite, never going too far or embarrassing anyone. She was in her early 20s, quite attractive, with fair skin, very blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and, as I would say, generously gifted in the bust area without being overly so.
Eventually, she mentioned that Martin wasn’t home—he had left for a conference the day before and wouldn’t be back until Monday. She then asked if I could help her with something. I agreed, curious about what she needed. She explained that the kitchen faucet was dripping and driving her crazy. Knowing I repaired things myself, she wondered if I could replace the faucet for her. It wasn’t a difficult task—just unscrewing the faucet, replacing the gasket, and screwing it back on. I assured her it was no problem and offered to do it right away. She went to turn off the water while I gathered my tools.
When I arrived, I checked that the water was off, disassembled the faucet, replaced the crumbling gasket, and reassembled it. The job was done in a couple of minutes. Sylvia turned the water back on, and the faucet worked perfectly without a single drip. She insisted I stay for coffee, and I agreed, not minding the chance to chat with a pretty woman. As she prepared the coffee, she reached for mugs in a high cabinet, standing on tiptoe, which caused her robe to lift slightly. I approached her quietly from behind, and things took an unexpected turn. My hands explored her body, and though she protested verbally, her body responded differently.
Afterward, she seemed conflicted, expressing guilt over her actions, blaming me for making her feel terrible about betraying Martin. I suggested that if she felt guilty, she needed to be punished to feel satisfied that justice had been served. She was hesitant but eventually allowed me to “punish” her, which led to another intimate moment. Later, she questioned whether I had also behaved badly, but I dismissed the idea, saying I wasn’t married and therefore allowed to do such things. She eventually kicked me out, and I went home, reflecting on the day’s events. Sylvia likely went to bed, perhaps to catch up on lost sleep caused by the dripping faucet.
