The builders

When she reflected upon it, the tale had its origins some way back. The signs, she realised now, were there from the beginning.

The beginning being the extension to the new house she’d moved into as a newlywed. A totally impractical house that they’d bought on a whim because they fell in love with it. That and the time pressure, fresh out of university and pregnant (or ‘knocked up’, as her ex husband referred to her back then) added to the urgency. Then the realisation that they had to remedy the impracticalities lead to the builders that she now stared down at, as she had stared down all those years ago, from this same window, high above the porch.

Then, as now, she was able to observe their arrival discreetly. Or so she thought, she smiled, recalling that frisson of pleasure when she looked down upon them from her lofty observation post, her robe carelessly undone, but catching his eye as he looked upwards through the windscreen of his old van and darting back behind the safety of the curtain as the directness of his look and the cocky smile unnerved her. Clutching her robe tight across her tiny breasts, her other hand instinctively protective to the barely noticeable swelling of her belly, she tried to calm her breathing. Nervous that he’d seen her. Her confidence shaken by those piercing eyes, the nakedness of her chest, the vulnerability of her ‘not yet showing’ pregnancy. Yet a thrill lurked beneath, too. The way he looked at her.

As the work in the house progressed, there were other opportunities, not only for him but his labourers, as the living space was constrained by the building works and they had to get used to each other’s company. Their eyes followed her, gauged her as she started to bloom before their eyes. Yet she grew to enjoy their attention in a subtle way, carelessly allowing them glimpses of her as she grew and developed before them. This was exacerbated by her husband’s diffidence to her, seemingly losing interest in his pregnant young wife at precisely the time that she found her hormones raging and her emotions running so deep. She craved attention and, in those builders, she found some solace. Their eyes showed the promise that his lacked, fed her desires and fantasies that she played back and lived out, alone in her room, while they laboured outside. The things she did with them in her imaginings would make most women blush, but fed the cravings for attention, and she became addicted.

Even when the baby was born, the story didn’t end. Not brazen but also no longer the shy and retiring young wife, she would have few qualms about feeding her infant in their proximity if the need arose. Her breasts, though still tiny, were more swollen now, the little pink tips grown stubby; she was taken to busying herself around them as they worked, infant resting on her hip as she suckled, seemingly oblivious to them. Secretly, she thrived on their attention and satisfied her urges, unrequited by her absent husband, to the images, many and varied, of those self same men that cast their eyes in her direction.

So now, in the present day, she looks down again at him in his van. He’s older now, greying, but still has that same air of confidence about him. Her heart beats strongly once again. She, an older woman too, with two teenage daughters now transported to her twenties once again, in her mind’s eye.

The familiarity means that barriers are broken down more quickly this time. They slip into an easy routine where they work and she continues about the house and what remains of the garden and her presence is accepted. She almost becomes one of the lads, at times, sharing in their tea breaks with idle chatter, running occasional errands and even helping out. They’re surprised initially at her strength, for ‘a small girl’ as they out it. The fact that, despite her diminutive size, she works out regularly, is lost on them, but is of no consequence: she’s flattered by the comments and their attention, even if she doesn’t show it. She’s careful not to respond to their whispered comments as she bends and toils beside them when it suits her. Overhearing that they get glimpses of her small breasts as they swing freely beneath the loose lumberjack shirt, just makes her want to play up to it more, with one less button done up from then on. Similarly, the comments on her pert, jean clad bottom when she bends over (‘nice arse’) just make her want to find more opportunities to bend inappropriately. She likes being the centre of their attention and it feeds fantasies that she satisfies when alone in her room at the end of the day.