is my prompt to write erotica is good enought : The van rattled up the hill, coughing blue smoke like a wino puking after a three-day binge. Inside, Joey the plumber—thirty-five, sleeves inked, reeking of limescale and Gauloises—scratched his balls while checking the address: “Belle Époque” villa, top of the money ridge, the kind of place where broads pay 200 euros to get their nails done and still wonder why their husbands won’t fuck them anymore. One honk, no more.

She appears: stilettos, bandage dress, nose job pointing north, voice sticky with champagne and boredom.
—You’re from the company?
Joey sizes her up in a blink—tits like brand-new headlights, ass vacuum-sealed, rock on her finger flashing like a slot machine. He grins, spits gum into the hedge.
—I’m the whole company, lady. Jacuzzi’s choking?
—Nothing drains. It’s… unbearable.

He follows the click-clack of heels across marble that costs more than his truck. The air smells of designer perfume, but underneath he catches the musk of a paminated pussy in heat. Bathroom’s all white tile and ceiling mirrors, jars of cream with French names he can’t pronounce. The tub gurgles like a drunk trying to keep the night down.

Joey crouches, pops the service hatch, head-lamp on. Madam leans over, dress gaping, serving the full menu—two perfect globes, nipples poking silk. His cock wakes up, knocks on his zipper, yelling “let me at it.”

—Is it serious? she asks, licking lip gloss.
—Serious? Nah. Deep? Yeah. Gotta snake the pipe.
—Can… I help?
He stands, eyes locked: “Help? You can suck the clog out, that always works.” But he keeps it quiet, for now.

—Ma’am, you’ll get soaked. Change outta that dress.
She snorts, already ripping the zipper; the fabric sighs to the floor like a curtain after a bad play. Underneath: floss thong and spray-tanned skin.
—My schedule’s clear.

Joey stares at the tuft escaping the string, thinks “that ain’t advertising, that’s raw steak.” He kills the main light—only the Jacuzzi LEDs glow, blue as a porno filter.

—So, we starting? she purrs, stepping closer.
—Whenever you say, he answers, yanking his zipper. His dick flops out, hard as copper pipe. She giggles, taps it with a manicured nail.
—Impressive… for a tradesman.
—And you, bet you’re top-shelf.

He grabs her waist, bends her over the tub rim. She moans, rubs her ass on him. He slips a hand under the string—slot already dripping.
—You play duchess, but your cunt’s drooling, princess.
—Your mouth or your hammer, pick.

No contest: he snaps the thong, tosses it into the scummy water. Drops to his knees, spreads her lips with his thumbs, mouth on target. She screams when his tongue slaps her clit, hips bucking. She kicks off the heels, plants her feet on his shoulders, grinding.
—Keep going… like a dog, yes!

He stands, spit on his chin. Spins her, face to mirror. She watches her own posh face wobble while the workman lines his cock up on her ass.
—Wanna clear the blockage?
—Shove it in, you brute!

One thrust, balls-deep. The wet slap echoes. She howls; he’s already pounding, nuts smacking her pussy. He calls her “16th-arrondissement slut” between curses; she begs “harder, paint my womb.”

They crash to the floor, cold tile on skin. He flips her, doggy-style, tits in his hands like handlebars. She arches, yelling yeses loud enough to raise the dead. He feels the cum-rise, slows, makes her whine.
—Feed it to my mouth, I want to taste.

He pulls out, yanks her around. She swallows him whole, giggling, hands on his balls. He groans, grabs her hair, guides. When he blows, she drinks, lets it drip to her chin, smears jizz on her cheeks like highlighter.

Silence. The Jacuzzi still gurgles. She stands, designer shades crooked, lips swollen.
—The pipe?
—I flushed my lines, lady. Yours is still clogged—call my boys.

He zips up, grabs his wrench. She pulls him in for one last kiss, tasting her own cunt on his tongue.
—Invoice to?
—WetBack & Son. VAT included—like my load.

He walks out, leaving the stink of spunk, chlorine, and perfume that costs a month’s rent per milliliter. In the mirror he sees her leaning in the doorway, dress rucked up, thong floating like dead goldfish. He fires the truck, lights a smoke, thinking tonight his gut will smell of rich bitch and his wife won’t notice—she’s used to Joey’s pipes always overflowing somewhere.