Jo met Tom every Friday after work at the Crown pub on the corner of High Street. This meeting had become her small ritual. She always ordered a single gin and tonic to mark the end of the week and welcome the weekend. Her mother had followed the same habit every Friday evening, although she had enjoyed her drink at home with a bottle of Gordon’s and a slice of lemon. Jo still missed her mum terribly since the funeral three years earlier. The drink carried a quiet comfort. It felt like a thread connecting her to simpler times.

Tom was easy to talk to. He was a married man in his late forties. He had broad shoulders and a quick sense of dry humour. He supervised building crews across the city. His work took him from one site to the next. They never flirted. They never crossed any lines. They simply swapped anecdotes about difficult clients, the unpredictable weather, and their weekend plans. By six o’clock they finished their drinks. They exchanged a final quip. Then they headed home in opposite directions.

Jo was married to Ewan. Their two children had left home years ago. One now lived in Manchester with a steady job. The other was travelling in Australia. The house felt too big now. However, it also felt peaceful. At fifty years old, Jo still turned heads. She maintained her figure with careful eating and twice-weekly yoga classes. Discreet hair colour kept the grey at bay. Strangers often guessed her age at late thirties. She let the compliment slide with a smile rather than correct them. Marriage suited her well. It offered routine dinners, two holidays a year, a reliable Volvo parked in the drive, and enough money for nice clothes and the occasional spa day. On Saturday nights she dressed up for Ewan. She wore a silk slip, stockings, and a spritz of perfume. They enjoyed their regular, predictable sex. It was always followed by a long Sunday lie-in. Sometimes he managed a second round before he went to fetch the newspapers. Weekdays were filled with chores. She did the shopping, the cleaning, the ironing, and tended the garden she loved.

Wednesdays finished early for Jo. She left work at four o’clock instead of five. She liked the slow walk home. She lingered in the precinct. She gazed at dresses in shop windows. She tried on shoes she had no intention of buying. Her one real indulgence was chocolate. She could stand outside Hotel Chocolat for five minutes. The display hypnotised her. Eventually she gave in.

This particular Wednesday the temptation proved too strong. She bought a small bag of mis-shapes. Those slightly imperfect pieces tasted every bit as good as the perfect ones. She stepped back onto the pavement. Fat raindrops began to fall. She popped one chocolate into her mouth to cheer herself up. The rich cocoa melted on her tongue. As always, it sent a faint, guilty pulse of arousal through her body. Chocolate did that to Jo, even on a damp mid-week afternoon.

She hurried from one awning to the next. She clutched her bag tightly. Outside Marks & Spencer she stopped to catch her breath. She shook rain from her coat. Across the road a large building site sprawled. Workers were demolishing an old department store. They were preparing foundations for something new. The foreman’s hut sat near the gated entrance. It was a Portakabin streaked with mud. Tom stood in its shelter. He wore his hardhat. He waved her over. He made the universal gesture for tea with his fingers. Jo felt grateful. She scurried across the road.

Inside the hut the air smelled of damp concrete, instant coffee, and diesel. Tom looked rougher here. His hi-vis jacket was smeared with dust. His hands were grimy. His stubble appeared thicker than it did at the pub. He seemed stronger and more solid in this environment. They chatted about the sudden downpour. He boiled the kettle. Then the door opened again.

The second man was broader. His skin was darker. His weather-beaten face was etched with deep lines. His hands were scratched and callused. His accent was thick and Eastern European. He smiled at Jo. The smile was slow and appraising. She returned a polite smile. The conversation shifted to RSJs and storage bays. Jo felt the newcomer’s gaze travel her body deliberately. It followed the line of her blouse. It traced the curve of her hips. It lingered on the shape of her legs beneath the skirt. The look was blatant and almost insolent. She shivered. However, the reaction between her thighs was unmistakable. Her muscles tightened. A sudden damp warmth spread. Without thinking, she leaned back against the desk. She tossed her head slightly. She let one shoulder drop. The posture lifted her breasts. It accentuated her waist. She had not meant to flirt. The movement felt instinctive.

The builder’s eyes darkened. “Beautiful English Rose,” he said. His voice was low and rough. The words landed like a hand on her skin. Jo flushed. She felt pleased despite herself. She let her own eyes linger on the breadth of his shoulders and the powerful forearms.

Tom’s mobile rang. He listened carefully. He frowned. Then he stood up. “There is a problem on the far side of the site. I will be twenty minutes, maybe more. Stay dry, Jo.” She nodded. The two men left. Their boots clomped on the wooden steps.

Jo was alone now. She perched on the edge of the desk. The hut was a mess. A scabby sofa sagged in the middle. Tabloids and sports papers spilled onto the filthy floor. Empty mugs and crushed beer cans cluttered every surface. Three lockers stood open. Hi-vis vests and lunch boxes were visible inside. She helped herself to another chocolate. The sweetness bloomed on her tongue again.

Curiosity drew her to the back of the cabin. Behind the sofa lay a small stack of magazines. They were hardcore and dog-eared. She picked one up. The pages were explicit. Massive cocks plunged into every hole. Cum was splattered across faces, breasts, and stomachs. One spread showed a woman taking two men at once. Double penetration occurred while she sucked a third. Semen was everywhere. Jo’s breath quickened. She had never seen anything so raw.

“You like?” The Eastern European builder filled the doorway. He watched her closely.

Jo startled. The magazine slipped from her fingers. “I… yes, but I really should go.”

He stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. “Wait for Mike.” He moved closer. He stood too close. His stubble was thick. His skin was grimy. He smelled of sweat and machinery oil. “You like?” This time he meant himself.

She nodded. She felt confused. She stepped back. Her calves hit the sofa. She sat abruptly. He towered over her. “See more?” Her silence was assent. He unbuckled his thick leather belt. He dropped his jeans. His grey-white boxers followed.

His cock was different from Ewan’s. It was not dramatically longer. However, it was thicker. Veins were prominent and ridged. It felt warm in her hands. It pulsed. She peeled the foreskin back. She revealed a deep-red, glistening head. Her tongue circled it tentatively. Then she grew bolder. She cupped his heavy, hairy balls. She stroked firmly. A bead of pre-cum appeared. She licked it away.

He gripped her hair. He guided her mouth down. She took him deep. He pushed past the back of her throat until her nose pressed into coarse pubes. He fucked her face with steady thrusts. Jo surrendered to the control. The helplessness felt thrilling. Her hands rested on his tight arse. She felt the power of each drive. His cock swelled. His buttocks clenched. The first spurt flooded her mouth. It was thick and salty. The second splashed across her face from eyebrow to lip. The third hit her nose and eyelid. She opened her mouth. She extended her tongue. She caught the final jet.

His knee nudged her legs apart. She slid sideways. Her head rested on the armrest. Cum rolled down her cheek onto the stained fabric. The air carried old cigarette smoke and stale beer. Her left hand touched the tacky floor. She did not care. He lifted her shirt. He fumbled at her tights. Rough fingers snagged the nylon. He yanked one leg down. She raised her hips to help. The tights bunched at her right ankle. Her court shoes were kicked off. They were lost in the litter.

He dealt with her knickers next. He tore them rather than slide them off. Shredded white cotton dangled from the sofa edge. Her pale legs contrasted the grubby cushions. Her natural brown bush was visible. Her lips pouted. Her clit was already swollen and prominent.

He hooked her right leg high over the sofa back. Her left knee bent over the edge. Jo wiped cum from her face into her mouth. She tasted him again. His cock, still rigid, rubbed along her slit. She was drenched. He thrust in deeply. The movement was sudden. He filled her completely. Jo gasped. It bordered on too much. Yet she arched for more.

He used slow, deliberate strokes at first. They grabbed each other’s hair. His unwashed scalp felt gritty under her fingers. Long thrusts dragged along her walls. His pelvis ground against her clit with each plunge. Wetness slicked them both. “Fuck me, you bastard,” she gasped.

He sped up. He drove harder. “Fuck me, fuck me,” she moaned. The climax built fast. The hut blurred around her. Her hand clutched his firm arse. She urged him deeper. Her body tensed. Her cunt spasmed. She whimpered through the orgasm. Waves of golden pleasure rolled over her. His relentless rhythm prolonged the sensation. Her right leg hooked behind him. She held him buried as she shuddered.

He watched her face. He knew she had come. Her tight, slick heat gripped him deliciously. However, he held off. He remained hard after the facial. She went limp. Her eyes closed.

Strong arms flipped her onto her knees. She faced the sofa back. A Health & Safety poster above her head reminded everyone to wear a hardhat. He hiked her skirt again. Her white arse was presented. “Want more?” She gave no answer. She offered no resistance.

His cock slid along her soaked slit. He coated himself. Coarse fingers parted her cheeks. A juice-slick thumb circled her anus. She tensed. Ewan had never gone near there. “Don’t worry,” he grunted. “You’ll like.”

He dragged the cockhead through her wetness. He pressed gently at the tight ring. Jo pushed back instinctively. Slow pressure stretched her. It burned briefly. Then a deep, strange fullness settled in. Once fully seated, the ache eased into pleasure. He began to move. He used steady thrusts. His pubes brushed her cheeks. Jo rocked back to meet him. She felt dirty and exhilarated.

Two thick fingers slid into her pussy. The heel of his hand ground against her clit in circles. The combination overwhelmed her. Her ass was filled. Her cunt was massaged. Her clit was rubbed. Everything ignited. The third orgasm swept through her like wildfire. It started high in her core. It radiated outward. She screamed in delight. Her muscles clamped hard around his cock and fingers. He quickened his pace. Then he groaned. He flooded her ass with hot spurts. Jo arched. She rode the final crest. Then she slumped forward.

He withdrew slowly. Her hole gaped briefly before it puckered. White trails dribbled down her crack. He admired his work. It had been the best fuck since he arrived in Britain.

Jo straightened on shaky legs. She left the ruined knickers behind the sofa. The builder dressed. He replaced his hardhat. “Thank you, English Rose.” She managed a breathless thank-you. He left.

Minutes later Tom returned. He sounded apologetic. A serious issue had arisen on another site. They would catch up another time. Jo promised to see him on Friday.

The following Friday their pub chat was ordinary. They discussed the weather, work, and weekend plans. As they parted outside, Tom pressed a small paper bag into her hand. Inside were her torn knickers, neatly folded. He winked. “Found these. Keep them safe.”

Jo walked home in the dark. Her pulse raced. The memory of that Wednesday replayed in vivid detail. She remembered the stranger’s rough hands. She recalled the stretch of her body. She thought of the three shattering climaxes in a filthy hut. She had never felt so alive. She had never felt so wicked. Now Tom knew at least some of it. As she turned her key in the front door, she wondered with a fresh rush of heat. What would it feel like to be taken by him instead.