Hazel - Bitching in the kitchen

The gate was open. Friday. Different trade, same open gate.

You could hear them before you could see them—two women laughing in the back garden, that particular pitch women get to on a Friday afternoon with a bottle of white on the table and the kids farmed out and the husbands not home yet. I came around the side with the toolbox in one hand and the level under my arm, and there they were on the garden under the pear tree, Hazel's two friends from the neighbourhood, both of them in sundresses, both of them with sunglasses pushed up into their hair, both of them leaning back in the chairs with their ankles crossed, and a third glass already poured and sweating next to the bottle, waiting for somebody who hadn't arrived.

And Peter. Hazel's husband. Home early on a Friday, in shorts and a polo shirt, standing at the barbecue with a spatula in his hand and a beer in the other and a conversation he wasn't following, which I could tell from twenty feet away because he had that look on him—that pleasant, vacant, nodding look of a man who's been included in a joke he can't hear the punchline of.

Nicole was the one doing the talking. Nicole always was. Dark hair cut sharp at the jaw, tanned arms, a wedding ring and a watch she'd spent too much on, and eyes that never once in the four years I'd known her had ever missed anything. Next to her, Carla—softer, blonder, quieter, laughing at everything, the kind of woman who'd laugh at a funeral.

"Mike!" Nicole said, when she saw me. "There he is. Hello, Mike."

"Hello, Nicole. Carla."

"Hazel's inside," Nicole said. "She's got a list for you. It's a long list."

"It's always a long list."

"It is," Nicole said, and took a drink and looked at me over the top of the glass. "She's very thorough about her list, our Hazel. She likes the work done properly."

Peter waved the spatula at me without turning around. "Alright, mate. She's in the kitchen; she'll sort you out."

I went in through the back door.

The kitchen was up a half flight—one of those houses built into a slope, where the back door opens onto a landing and the kitchen sits above the garden with a window the size of a garage door, wide open, sash pushed all the way up, and no screen on it because she'd torn the screen off in June and never put it back. It looked straight down onto the garden. Straight down onto Peter. Straight down onto the table, the bottle, the two friends, the barbecue. You could see them and hear every word from up there like you were sitting at the table. You could hear every word from the table, which was the point and had been the point all summer. Looking up, you could perhaps see all the way up to the shoulders of someone standing there, but not much more.

Hazel was at the sink with her back to the door, up on her toes, leaning out over the sill to shout something down at Peter about the coals. Brown hair up off her neck in a loose knot with strands falling out of it, olive skin gone darker across the shoulders from a whole summer of exactly this, and a dress on—one of those thin floral things with a tie at the waist and a low back and a hem that stopped well above the knee. No bra. No shoes. She was standing on the ball of one foot with the other leg bent and her weight on the sill, and the dress was stretched tight across her ass from the angle, and the whole back of her was open from the tie-down to the base of her spine, gold skin and that same white tan line from Tuesday, from Wednesday, from every single day of the week that had ever happened.

"Hazel."

She looked back over her shoulder, and her face lit up.

"Hi, honey," she said. "Come look at this. He's doing the corn wrong again. He always does the corn wrong."

"Let the man burn his corn."

"I've told him four times." She leaned out and shouted, "PETER. OFF THE HEAT. OFF THE HEAT, PETER." And then, down at Peter, the women laughed, and Peter laughed too, doing what he was told, and she came back in off the sill and turned around and leaned against the counter and looked at me with her arms crossed under her tits.

She was flushed already. Cheeks pink, eyes bright, that Friday look. She'd had a glass and a half, maybe two, and it went straight to her, and it made her slow and soft and warm and about twenty percent more honest than usual.

"Long list today," she said.

"You said that last week."

"Longer list today. I want the pantry shelves levelled. The door on the under-stairs cupboard is dropping. The gutter's blocked over the back. And the tap's dripping." She looked at me. "The tap is dripping very badly, Mike."

"The tap's been dripping for two months."

"And you haven't fixed it yet," she said, "so it must be a hard one."

She turned and pulled the cupboard open under the sink and bent over to get something out, and the dress rode up the back of her thighs, and I stood there and looked at the line of her, the bend of her, the gold of her, and the white strap mark, and the back of her knees, and she stayed bent a second longer than she needed to.

"Hazel."

"Mm."

"Come here."

She stood up and turned around and walked over and stood in front of me with her hands behind her back against the counter and looked up at me, and I got one hand on her hip over the dress and one hand up in her hair and pulled her in and kissed her. Down through the kitchen, right there, with her husband less than forty feet below with a beer in his hand and her two best friends at the table, and the window wide open, and the three of them not looking up because why would they, and the whole Friday spread out in front of us like a job that had been booked six weeks ago.

She came off it slow and licked her lip and looked at the window. Then at me. Then at the window again.

"Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news?" she said.

"Bad."

"Peter's home early. He's here till six."

"...That's not bad."

"No," she said, and put her hand flat on my chest. "That's the good news. The bad news is he's going to be standing right down there the whole time, and this window is right above his head, and he is going to hear every single thing that happens in this kitchen."

"Then we'll be quiet."

Hazel laughed at that. She laughed at it like it was the funniest thing she'd heard all week. Then she reached behind her and untied the dress at the waist and pulled it up over her head and hung it on the back of a chair and stood in the middle of her own kitchen in nothing but a pair of pale little shorts and the afternoon light, and she was a scandal, that woman. Heavy full tits with the brown nipples already hard, going soft and low and full from the heat; a waist that went in hard under the ribs; the soft gold Latina belly above the shorts; the white-tan line across the top of the hips like a handprint; dark hair between her legs showing through the pale cotton; and thighs that touched all the way down and parted when she moved. Dirt-free today. Oiled today. Ready.

"Right," she said. "Fix my dripping tap."

"Now?"

"Yes. Right here, honey," she said, and bent over the sink and put both hands flat on the rim and looked back at me over her shoulder and lifted her ass up.

I got a hand on each of her hips and pulled her back off the sink until she was bent over the counter with her forearms down and her tits squashed on the granite. Her feet apart and her whole weight on the bench. And I got a hand into the back of those shorts and pulled them down over the curve of her ass and off her feet and kicked them across the floor, and there she was, open, gold, pink, wet, already shining down the inside of one thigh, and she hadn't been touched yet.

"Mike."

"Mm."

"Do you want to know something?"

"Mm."

"I've been standing at this sink since twelve o'clock thinking about it. Since twelve, Peter came home at half one, and I said hello to him, and then I came back in here and stood at this window and thought about it."

I put two fingers flat on her and slid them up the whole length of her once, and she breathed out slowly, and her forehead went down onto her forearms. I slid them in, two of them, all the way, and curled and stroked her from the inside, slow and even, and she pushed back onto them and made a low quiet noise down in her chest.

"Ah," she said. "Ahh. Ohh."

"That's you being quiet?"

"I'm warming up."

I got them out and wiped them on the inside of her thigh and got my belt off. Down in the garden, Peter said something about the marinade. Carla laughed. Nicole didn't, because Nicole was listening. That's Nicole. That's always been Nicole.

I stood behind Hazel and put the head against her and slid it up and down the whole length of her slit, twice, three times, wetting it, getting the whole length of her slick with herself, and she took a handful of her own hair and pushed it off her face and looked back at me over her shoulder with her mouth already open.

"Do it," she said. "Do it, do it, do it—"

And I pushed in.

And she felt it. That's the thing about Hazel—she's tight, really tight, one of those women who never quite gets used to it no matter how many times it happens, and the first push is always a job. The head went in, and she opened around it, and then the next bit came, and she had to open more, and the next bit came, and she had to open more, and she made a sound that started as a breath and ended as a groan, and her hand came back and grabbed my hip, and her nails went in.

"OH—oh—ohhh—ohh—wait—ohh—"

Down in the garden, Peter said, looking at her "Are you alright up there?"

"YES," she said. "Yes. Sorry. Dropped the cloth. Dropped the cloth in the sink."

"...Alright."

And I kept pushing. That's the part she loves and hates and always comes back for—that slow spread, that lovely burning stretch at the entrance, the one that feels like too much and stays too much for the first four inches, that raw split of skin that turns into heat and then turns into a deep wet ache and then turns into the thing she's actually chasing. I got halfway and felt her go tight around me, clamp and let go, clamp and let go, fighting it, and then I felt the wall give and the rest of me slid in, and my hips came flat against her ass, and my balls came to rest on her clit.

"Ooooooohhhh," she said. "Ohh. Oh my. Oh my God."

"...Hazel?"

"Fine. Fine. It's—hhh—it's the tap. It's stiff."

"Right," Her husband said.

She looked back at me with her eyes half closed and her mouth open and mouthed something that looked like fuck. Then she put her head down and breathed through it and let her body get used to the size of me, and I stayed still, all the way in, and felt her pulse around me, thick and quick, and her cunt gripped me twice like a hand shaking mine.

"Peter," she called down, steady as anything. "Peter, how's the corn."

"Doing it your way."

"Good. Good, keep it on the low rack."

I started to move.

Slow, long strokes all the way out until only the head was held, all the way back in until my hips slapped her ass, and she kept her forearms on the bench and her head down and her tits squashed flat, and every stroke dragged a small "uh" out of her that she didn't even notice she was making. The window was open above her head. The garden was full of conversation. Three people down there, one of them her husband, forty feet away, and every wet stroke was happening eight feet above his hair.

She got her voice back after a minute and started talking again, because that's the game; that's always been the game.

"Peter," she called down.

"What."

"Did you put the cover on the—ohh—the cover on the grill?"

"...Yes."

"Good. Because—ah—because the coals are—ah—"

"You okay?"

"Fine. Fine. It's just hot in here. It's — oh — it's very hot in here."

Down at the table, Nicole said something I couldn't hear, and Carla laughed, and Hazel went on, taking it with her face down and her fingers white on the rim of the sink, and the slapping started now, soft, whap, whap, whap, the flat wet sound of a man's hips against a woman's ass in a tiled kitchen, echoing, bouncing off the cupboards, going straight out the open window and down onto the garden like a broadcast.

"Hazel."

"Mm."

"Have you got the—" It was Nicole, calling up. "Have you got Mike in there with you?"

Hazel's eyes went wide, and she looked back at me and grinned.

"YES," she called. "Yes. He's—he's under the sink."

"Under the sink?"

"He's—ohh—he's doing the tap."

A pause down there. Then Nicole said, "Right," in a voice that meant she'd heard the tap in question, and she had. Knowing.

"He's been under there a while," Peter said.

"He's very thorough," Hazel said.

"He is thorough," Nicole said. "He's thorough with all of us, isn't he, Hazel."

"Very thorough," Hazel managed to say.

And then Hazel, without meaning to, took a stroke deep and let out a low rolling "ohhhh" right out the window, and there was a silence down at the table, and then Peter said, "Was that you?"

"Mm-hm."

"What was it?"

"The—ohh—the pipe. The pipe's—ah—the pipe's stuck. He's—he's got it open. It's—it's letting go now. It's—ohhh—"

Down at the table, Nicole put her glass down. I could hear the glass on the stone.

"Peter," Nicole said, "you know Mike does work for me too."

"Does he."

"Three years now. He does everything at mine. The gate, the shed, the back door, the decking." A pause. "He's very good."

"Is he that good, Nicole?" Carla asked..

"He's very good," Nicole said, and she put a weight on it that Peter entirely missed. "You should try him, Carla."

"Should I."

"You should try him. He's got the right bit for everything; that's the thing. Whatever the job is, he's got the bit. And he goes in slow—he's not one of those ones that goes in hard and makes a mess and leaves. He goes in slow, and he opens it up properly, and then he takes his time, and then, when it's all opened up and running right, then he goes hard. And by then, Carla, by then you're so far gone you'd let him do anything. You'd ask him to."

Carla laughed. But that was pretend. Suddenly, she was highly interested in having him. Inside.

"That's exactly it," Hazel said, up at the window, breathless. "That's — ohh — that's exactly it. He opens it up. He—ah—he opens the whole thing up, and then he—ah—he goes hard and—ohh—"

There was another silence down at the table.

"Hazel," Peter said. "Are you alright?"

"FINE," she said. "It's the pipe, Peter."

Then I picked it up.

Hard now, and fast, and deep, all the way in every single time, both hands on her hips with my thumbs in the dimples of her back and her whole body moving under me, and the slapping went from whap whap whap to something flatter and faster and louder, pock pock pock pock, and her tits started slapping against the granite underneath her, and her breath went out of her in punches, uh, uh, uh, uh, and she stopped being able to do the conversation at all for a minute and just leaned on the bench and took it.

"UH—uh—uh—oh—ohh—Mike—Mike—"

"You're supposed to be quiet."

"I KNOW—ohh—I know—uh—"

Down at the table, Nicole heard her say my name, and Nicole, God bless her, took a slow drink and said nothing.

Hazel got a hand between her legs and got two fingers on her own clit and started working it, and I felt her go tight around me like a fist, and her heels came up off the floor, and she started pushing back into every stroke, meeting me, matching me, and the sound of it filled the kitchen.

"Peter," she called down, thin. "Peter—Peter, is the—is the grill—oh—oh—ohhhh—"

She came the first time with her head down on the bench and her knees shaking and her hand clamped between her legs and her voice coming out of her in one long unbroken note, "oooooohhhhhh," and it went out the window and down the garden and straight into Peter's ear, and Nicole put her glass down again.

There was a pause down there. Then Peter said, "You alright?"

"MMM-HM."

"...Was that a spider?"

"...Yes," Hazel said. "Yes, Peter. It was a spider."

I didn't stop. That's the thing with Hazel—you don't stop after one; you ride it, you keep going right through it while she's still fluttering and gripping and going soft, and she loves that; she says it's the difference between a good one and a real one, and I wasn't about to stop now. So I stayed on her, steady, and she rode it out and came down off it with her cheek flat on the granite and her hair everywhere and her eyes closed.

"Nicole," she said, out the window, when she could.

"Mm."

"Nicole, did you get the—the thing from the—the florist?"

"Yes."

"Good. Good. Good." She breathed. "Good."

And I picked the rhythm back up.

The second one is built slower. I got a hand in her hair and pulled her head up a little and got the other hand on her hip and pulled her back onto me, and I started going deeper than before, hitting the end of her every time, grinding there, and she made that sound women make when it's too deep and perfect and they can't decide if they want to move away or press back, and she ended up pressing back every time, greedy, taking the last inch every time I gave it to her.

"Ah—ah—ah—ah—ohh—ohh—ohhhh—"

"Hazel," Peter said, "you're making a lot of noise up there."

"I'M—ohh—I'm moving the—uh—I'm moving the fridge—"

"You're moving the fridge."

"MM-HM—oh—"

I got both hands on her ass and spread her and drove in at a new angle, and she said, "AHH"—loud, real, all the way down the garden—and then clapped a hand over her own mouth and then took it off again because it wasn't worth it.

"Peter," she called, hoarse. "Peter, what's the—what's the name of that thing—the—the thing you take—the—"

"What thing?"

"THE — ohh — the VITAMIN thing —"

"Folic acid."

"YES," she said. "Yes. That. That's the one." And then, lower, back over her shoulder at me, in a whisper that carried anyway, "It's for the—it's for trying—"he—ohh—it's for before you get—for when you're—for trying—"

The third one came hard.

I got my thumb on her ass and my other hand under her hip and pulled her up off the bench until she was standing bent with her back against my chest, one arm up around my neck, the other braced on the counter, and I fucked her right there in the middle of the kitchen, standing, both of us facing the window, both of us looking straight down at her husband's back as he turned the corn.

The slapping got loud. It got embarrassing. Skin on wet skin, my thighs against hers, my balls against her clit every stroke, and the whole kitchen ringing with it, and Nicole—who was turned in her chair now, angled up at the window, sunglasses down over her eyes, pretending to look at the pear tree—Nicole knew exactly what she was hearing and exactly what she was looking at.

"AH — ah — ah — oh — ohhh — OHH —"

Hazel's head went back against my shoulder, and her hand came off the counter and grabbed the back of my neck, and she went stiff all the way through, and then she came again, hard, harder than the first, shaking, and I felt it all over my cock, one long squeeze after another, and she said, right out the open window, in a voice that cracked in the middle:

"OOOOOOHHHHHH—oh—ohhh—OH MY—"

And Peter, down at the barbecue, with a beer in his hand and no idea on earth, said:

"Hazel, do you want the corn on or not?"

She laughed. She was still coming. She laughed with her cunt clamped on my cock and her head on my shoulder, and she laughed and laughed, and she called down, "ON, Peter. On."

"You alright?"

"FINE. Yes. FINE."

Then Nicole said, from the table, in the flattest voice in the world: "Peter. Peter, does Mike do the gutters?"

"Yeah. He did them in spring."

"Because ours need doing."

"He's good at the gutters," Peter said.

"He's good at everything," Nicole said.

And she said it just as I started moving again, and Hazel said "ohh" out the window, and Nicole took a long drink.

Hazel turned her face to mine and whispered it into my mouth, fast, hot, and drunk.

"It's today. It's today, Mike; it—I'm ready—"the—it's the middle of the window; it's today; it's—I checked, I checked this morning; it's today; I'm—I'm ready—"

"I know."

"Don't pull out. Don't you dare pull out. Not this week. Not this month. Not this—ohh—"

I put her back over the bench and went after it properly.

No more slow. No more game. Hard, deep, fast, the way you finish a job, both hands on her hips, and my heels dug into the tile and my whole body behind it, and she was so wet now that the sound had gone past slapping into something sloppier and wetter, and her tits were swinging under her, and her hair was stuck to her face, and her mouth was open, and she was saying things now, out loud, out the window, not even pretending to be talking to her husband anymore.

me—oh—fill me—ohh—"es—ohh—fill me—oh—fill me—ohh—"

"Hazel?"

"YES—ohh—nothing—Peter, nothing—ohh—"

"*Give me your white seed,*" she said. Quiet and raw and meant." *Give me your white seed, Mike—give me a white baby—give me—ohh—ohh—give me your WHITE—*"

Down at the table, Nicole's chair scraped.

She'd moved back from the table. She'd got her knees apart under the tablecloth and pushed her sundress up over her thighs and got her hand down between them, and she was touching herself, slow and hidden, one finger on herself through her underwear and then inside it, and nobody down there could see it—Carla was looking at the corn and Peter was looking at the corn, and neither of them was looking at Nicole—and she was watching the window the whole time, watching the shape of Hazel move in the kitchen above her, watching Hazel's silhouette bend and shift against the light, and she was wet enough that I could have seen it from the door.

She's married, Nicole. Happily, mostly. Two kids and a husband with a boat. And she had one hand between her legs under the tablecloth in the middle of a Friday afternoon, and she was matching the rhythm of it to the rhythm coming out of the kitchen window, and her face hadn't moved an inch.

"Hazel," she called up, and her voice was only slightly wrong. "Hazel, is Mike going to be long?"

"Not—ohh—not long—"

"Because you've got the far bed too."

"THE BED, YES—ohh—the bed—I know—the bed needs doing—ohh—"

"Take your time," Nicole said, and her hand sped up under the cloth. Suddenly, she came on her own fingers, silent, only a soft sigh leaving her lips.

I was close. Real close. My balls drawn up tight and my whole body gone hot and tight, and the sight of her—bent over her own sink, gold and brown and open, with her husband thirty feet away eating corn and her best friend fingering herself under the table and not one of them knowing—finished it. That, and the thing she'd said.

"Two more," I said.

"Mm."

"Two."

"One."

And I drove in all the way and stayed there and came.

It came out of me in long, hard pulses, thick and white and hot, and I felt it go into her, and she felt it too—the first shot hit the end of her, and her whole body jumped, and then the second, and the third, and the fourth, each one landing somewhere new, filling her out, spreading warmth inside her, and she made a sound like she'd been holding her breath since twelve o'clock.

"OHHHH — oh — oh — ohhhh —"

And she came. One more time. Just like that, on the fourth pulse, with nothing but my cock and my seed inside her and my hands on her hips, she came—a long, slow, deep, rolling one, her whole body going soft and heavy and shaking, and her cunt clamped down on me and held and squeezed and worked me, drawing it out of me stroke for stroke, taking it, milking it, pulling it up into her, right up against the mouth of her, and she pushed back onto it with everything she had, holding it there, refusing to let one drop of it out.

"*Ohh,*" she said. "Ohh. Ohhh. Ohh, honey."

Down in the garden, Peter put the corn on the rack and said, "There we go."

She stayed there. Bent over the sink, feet apart, my cock still in her, holding it, and she reached back and put her palm flat on her own lower belly and pressed and held it and looked at me over her shoulder with her eyes wet and her face flushed and her hair ruined.

I pulled out slow. We both looked down. One thick white rope slid out of her and hung and dropped and hit the tile between her feet, and she made a small bereaved noise and pressed her thighs together to keep the rest.

"Hazel?" Peter called up.

"Mm."

"Are you coming down?"

"IN A MINUTE," she said. "I've just—ohh—I've just got to—to hold this."

"Hold what?"

"NOTHING, PETER."

She stood up straight and slowly got the pale shorts off the floor and pulled them up over everything without wiping anything, on purpose, and stood there in the middle of the kitchen with her hand still on her belly, and I pulled the tap apart and started the actual work, like a professional, like a man who'd been paid for it.

Down at the table, Nicole moved her hand out from under the tablecloth and put it back on her glass, pulled her dress straight, leaned back, and looked up at the window with a small, slow, private smile that nobody saw.

Carla said, "Nicole, your face is red."

"It's the wine," Nicole said. "Peter, is Mike coming back next week?"

"He comes Fridays."

"Good," Nicole said. "I'll book him for the gutters."

Hazel came down the back stairs twenty minutes later with her hair redone and a jug of iced water, put it on the table, sat down next to Nicole, poured herself a glass, drank the whole thing, and fanned herself with her hand.

"You look like you've been working," Peter said.

"I have," Hazel said.

"Mike, get the tap done?"

"Mm."

"Good man." He turned the corn. "What was he doing up there for an hour?"

Hazel looked at Nicole. Nicole looked at Hazel. Carla looked at her phone.

"He opens it up," Hazel said, "and then he goes hard."

"Right," Peter said.

"Right," Nicole said.

And Hazel put both hands flat on her own belly and held them there all through dinner, and Peter never once asked why.

To be continued.