My Neighbor Asked Me Over to Fix More Than Her Plumbing

My name is Jake Harlan. Thirty-one. Six-foot-one, built from hauling lumber and swinging hammers. I own a small custom woodworking shop in Round Rock, north of Austin. I build $8,000 reclaimed oak tables for tech couples sipping oat milk lattes. The work is hard, honest. It keeps my body strong and my hands rough. My appetite is rougher.

Vanessa Reyes lived next door in the beige two-story on our quiet cul-de-sac. Forty-one. Divorced two years. Two teens—one at baseball, one at cheer. She taught Pilates at an upscale studio where women paid $200 a month to stretch in mirrored rooms to soft indie tracks.

She was the next-door MILF fantasy made real. Long dark hair in a high ponytail, golden skin from Hill Country hikes, body carved by yoga—toned legs, flat stomach, round firm ass that made my jeans tight every time she walked to the mailbox in leggings. She always waved, always smiled, always said my name like it tasted good: “Hey, Jake.”

Three years of polite neighbor stuff. I fixed her fence after a storm. She brought cold beer and homemade tamales. I caught her watching me shirtless through her kitchen window. I pretended not to notice. I noticed every time.

Tuesday, July 15, 2025. Phone buzzed at 2:17 p.m. while sanding walnut in the shop.

Vanessa: Hey Jake, kitchen sink leaking again. Can you look? Kids at sports till 6. Appreciate it.

Heart already racing. I wiped sawdust off my hands.

Me: Be there in 10.

Drove the three blocks in my F-150 telling myself it was just plumbing help. Bullshit.

She opened the door in a thin white tank top—no bra, dark nipples visible—and tiny denim cutoffs barely covering her ass. High ponytail, loose strands framing her face. Bare feet, red toenails. Smelled like vanilla lotion and fresh sweat.

“Thanks for coming so fast,” she said softly.

“Anytime, Vanessa.” I followed her in. House quiet except AC hum and distant lawnmower. Kitchen smelled of lemons and coffee.

She bent to show the cabinet under the sink. Ass perfect. Shorts riding up. Black lace peeked out. Cock twitched.

I set toolbox down hard.

“Fuck the sink,” I growled.

She froze, then straightened slowly. Turned. Eyes locked.

I grabbed her hips, pulled her against me. She gasped—sharp, needy. Felt my hard-on through my jeans.

“Jake…” breathy.

No permission needed. Spun her, lifted her onto granite island. Legs wide. Ripped tank top up. Breasts spilled—full, heavy, nipples tight. Sucked one hard, teeth grazing. She moaned loud.

Hand between thighs. No panties. Slick, hot, dripping.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” I said against her skin.

“Every time I see you shirtless in the yard… muscles flexing…” She arched into my touch.

Dropped jeans to ankles. Cock out—thick, veined, leaking. She wrapped legs around me. Thrust in—deep, hard, no warning. She cried out. Hand over her mouth.

“Quiet. Kids could come home early.”

She bit my palm. Eyes blazing.

“Let them hear how good you fuck their mom.”

That broke me.

Fucked her on the counter—fast, brutal. Granite cold on her back. Dishes rattled. Coffee mug tipped, shattered on tile. She came first—screaming into my hand, pussy clenching like a fist, thighs shaking.

Pulled out. Turned her. Bent her over island. Fucked from behind—deep, punishing. Slapped ass hard—red handprint bloomed. Pulled ponytail like reins.

“Take it, Vanessa. Every fucking inch.”

She pushed back, met every thrust. Moaned my name like a chant.

Felt her building. Hand around to rub clit—fast circles. She shattered again—soaking my balls, dripping down thighs.

Couldn’t hold. Buried deep, came—hot thick ropes flooding her while she trembled.

Bodies locked, breathing ragged. Sweat slick. Cock twitching inside her.

Pulled out slow. Watched cum drip down inner thigh, white against golden skin.

She turned. Kissed me—deep, slow, tasting coffee and sin.

“Next leak’s in the master bathroom,” she whispered.

I grinned. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Bring your tools.”

Cleaned the mug shards. Fixed the real faucet in five minutes. Kissed her hard at the door.

Left through back gate, toolbox in hand, cock still half-hard.

That night I jerked off in the shower thinking of her bent over, ponytail in my fist, ass bouncing.

Tomorrow I’d bring the whole belt.

Some neighbours are worth fixing more than sinks.

Some leaks just get deeper.