The electrician had come to fix the flickering tube light, but the moment he saw her voluptuous curves draped in that thin cotton saree, the tension shifted from electrical to something far more primal. She'd been eyeing him since he arrived—his rough hands, his muscular forearms, the way his worn shirt clung to his chest.
When he climbed the ladder to reach the fixture, she "accidentally" brushed against him, her heavy hips swaying with deliberate invitation. The lights went out completely as he flipped the wrong switch, plunging them into shadow. In the darkness, hands found skin, breathing quickened, and the repair was forgotten.
He took her right there against the wall, her big, soft ass pressed against his groin as he lifted her saree with urgent hunger. She moaned like a woman starved for attention, arching back to meet his thrusts while her bangles chimed against the plaster with every impact. The light fixture swung forgotten overhead as he claimed her married body with the same focused intensity he brought to his craft—thorough, relentless, and completely satisfying.
When the lights finally came back on, the room smelled of sweat and sex, and the tube light wasn't the only thing that had been thoroughly serviced.
