The Tech Bull Takes My Wife

First Glimpse of the Bull

Pam glared at her laptop, the screen frozen, the progress bar crawling along like it was mocking her. Pop-ups kept exploding, files vanished or turned to gibberish, and the fan screamed like it was about to die. She slammed the lid, opened it again, praying for a miracle. No luck.

“Fuck,” she muttered, shoving sweaty auburn hair out of her face. Paul was upstairs, probably jerking off to his own voice on another endless call. No help there. Some coworker had raved about a tech guy who made house calls—Don, or something. She found the number, called, and tried to sound like she wasn’t about to throw the laptop out the window.

He arrived forty-three minutes later.

The doorbell rang. Pam padded barefoot across the floor, tugging her thin white tank top down over her tits. No bra, of course—she hadn’t expected anyone to see her like this. Her yoga shorts were practically painted on, the fabric damp with sweat and her own irritation. She opened the door and just stared, her brain short-circuiting for a second.

Don stood there, filling the doorway. Tall, broad shoulders, black polo stretched tight over a chest that looked like it could break her in half. Tattoos snaked up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves. He had a short beard and blue eyes that raked over her body, lingering on her tits before he gave her a crooked, not-at-all-professional smile.

“Pam? Don Holt. You said your machine’s throwing a tantrum.”

His voice was low and rough, like he’d just finished yelling at someone. She stepped aside, catching a whiff of sweat and cologne as he brushed past her, close enough that her nipples tightened. He carried a toolbox in one hand, laptop bag over his shoulder, moving like he owned the place already.

“It’s in the office,” she said, leading him down the hall. Her heart pounded, shorts riding up her ass with every step, nipples poking through the thin tank top. She felt like a horny teenager. He was here to fix her laptop, not to make her pussy throb.

The office was tiny, sunlight leaking through the blinds. Her desk faced the window, the dead laptop sprawled open like a corpse. Don dumped his bag, yanked the chair back, and sat down without asking. Pam hovered behind him, arms crossed under her tits, trying not to stare at his shoulders.

“Mind if I take over?” he asked, glancing up. Those eyes again—direct, unhurried.

“Go ahead.” She leaned in, pointing at the screen, and his arm pressed right into her breast. Neither of them moved. Her pussy clenched, heat flooding her stomach.

He started hammering away at the keyboard, muttering to himself. Every so often he asked her something—when did the pop-ups start, did she download any porn, did anyone else use her laptop. His forearm flexed, tattoo peeking out, and Pam couldn’t stop staring at his hands, thick fingers and hairy knuckles. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache between her legs.

“Looks like malware piggybacking on an old torrent client,” he said, not looking up. “Deep in the system. Gonna need admin access.”

She leaned over his shoulder again, this time pressing her breast right into his arm on purpose. He tensed, just for a second. She typed in her password—K3llyL0vesJ, some old joke with Paul. Don glanced at the screen, eyebrow raised, but didn’t say a word. Just hit enter.

The recovery program started, files popping up. Then a folder opened by itself—private photos from some beach trip years ago. Bikini shots, and a few topless ones she’d sent Paul and never bothered to delete. They flashed on the screen, and Don’s eyes lingered on her tits before he clicked away.

“Quite the archive,” he said, voice dry but warm. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Pam’s face went red. “They’re old. I forgot they were even there.”

“Still look good on you.” He said it like he was talking about the weather, but his eyes were glued to her chest. He kept working, but the air felt thick, heavy. She stayed behind him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, hyperaware of his gaze tracking her fingers.

When she finished typing, his hand settled lightly on the small of her back, guiding her to sit on the edge of the desk beside the laptop.

“Better view for you,” he said, his hand lingering, thumb stroking the bare skin above her shorts. Her breath hitched, pussy throbbing.

Don started running deeper scans. More personal files popped up—screenshots of dirty texts from before she married Paul, a folder called “naughty” full of lingerie selfies she’d sent her husband. Every time something new appeared, Don made a low sound, half amusement, half something filthy.

“Someone likes attention,” he muttered, clicking through the pictures. One shot filled the screen: Pam on her back, legs spread wide, fingers shoved in her pussy, staring at the camera. She remembered taking it—Paul had begged for it. Her face burned, pussy clenching hard.

Don finally closed the folder. “Your system’s alive again. I got most of it back, but there’s still some junk hiding. I should remote in tonight, run some deep scans. Make sure nothing dirty is left behind.”

Pam swallowed, throat dry. “How does that work?”

“You give me your login. I connect from home. You can watch if you want, or just let me do my thing.” His eyes dropped to her tits, nipples poking through the tank top, impossible to miss. “Up to you.”

She should say no. Should change every password the second he left. Instead she found herself nodding, reaching for a sticky note. Her hand shook slightly as she wrote down her primary account—username, password, even the security questions. When she handed it over, their fingers brushed. His skin was warm, calloused. He folded the note slowly, deliberately, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Appreciate the trust, Pam.” He stood up, towering over her as she sat on the desk. Neither of them moved. She could smell him now—sweat and something raw. Her thighs parted slightly, shorts riding up, pussy aching.

He smiled, small and knowing. “I’ll message if anything urgent comes up.”

Don grabbed his tools, paused at the door. “Nice setup. Shame it was acting up.” His eyes dropped to her bare legs, then back up to her tits. “Call me if anything else needs fixing.”

The front door clicked shut behind him.

Pam sat there, frozen, heart pounding in her cunt. She slid off the desk, shoved her hand down her shorts. She was soaked, pussy dripping. Two fingers slid in easy, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning, replaying his hand on her back, the way he’d stared at her naked photos like he wanted to fuck her right there on the desk. She came hard, thighs shaking, wishing it was his thick fingers stretching her instead.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: System looks good from here. Thanks for the access. –R

She stared at the message, chest heaving, pussy still throbbing. Paul was upstairs, clueless, while she dripped for another man.

The phone buzzed again.

R: Found a few more personal files. You want me to delete them… or keep them safe?

Her fingers hovered, arousal spiking fresh and vicious. She typed before she could think.

Pam: Keep them safe.

Three dots. Then:

R: Good girl.

Upstairs, Paul refreshed the shared cloud dashboard out of habit—old developer paranoia. New remote session active. Unfamiliar IP address. Cursor moving through directories he knew intimately. He clicked the live mirror link, heart suddenly in his throat.

The screen filled with thumbnail previews: his wife, years younger, naked and wanton. Then newer files—ones he didn’t recognize. A chat window opened in the corner. Don’s name at the top.

Paul’s hand tightened on the mouse. He didn’t close the window.