The Crash

Kelly glared at the frozen laptop, stomach knotting as the progress bar crawled along like a dying worm. Pop-ups vomited across the screen, files corrupted in real time, the fan shrieking like it was about to shit itself. She slammed the lid, opened it again, praying for a miracle. Nothing. "Fuck," she spat, shoving sweaty hair off her face. James was upstairs, lost in his endless calls, useless as ever. She needed someone who could actually fix this mess. Some coworker had raved about a tech guy who made house calls—Richard, or something. She punched in the number, voice tight as she tried to explain the digital shitshow.

He arrived forty-three minutes later.

The doorbell chimed and Kelly padded barefoot across the hardwood, smoothing her thin white tank top over the swell of her breasts. No bra—she hadn’t planned on company. Yoga shorts clung to the curve of her hips, the fabric already damp from the afternoon heat and her rising frustration. She opened the door and forgot how to speak for half a second.

Richard stood in the doorway, tall and thick through the shoulders, black polo stretched tight over his chest. Tattoos snaked up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves. He had a close beard and cold blue eyes that raked over her body, lingering on her tits before landing on her face. His half-smile was pure trouble.

“Kelly? Richard Holt. You said your machine’s throwing a tantrum.”

His voice was low and rough, like he'd just come from a bar fight. She stepped aside, catching the sharp scent of sweat and cheap cologne as he brushed past her. Toolbox in one hand, laptop bag over his shoulder. He walked in like he owned the place.

"It's in the office," she said, leading him down the hall. Her heart hammered, every step making her more aware of how her shorts crept up her ass, how her nipples stabbed through the thin tank top as the AC hit her. Pathetic. He was here to fix her laptop, not to see her dripping like a horny teenager.

The office was small, sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds. Her desk faced the window; the crippled laptop sat open like a patient on an operating table. Richard set his bag down, rolled the chair back, and sat without asking. Kelly hovered behind him, arms loosely crossed under her breasts.

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

"Go ahead." She leaned in, pointing at the screen, her breast pressing against his arm. He didn't move. Neither did she. Heat pooled between her legs.

He started hammering away at the keyboard, muttering to himself. Every so often he barked a question—when did the pop-ups start, did she download any porn, did anyone else use the machine. His forearm flexed, tattoo peeking out. Kelly stared at the hair on his knuckles, picturing those hands grabbing her. She shifted, thighs squeezing together, pussy throbbing.

“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 into his arm on purpose. He tensed, just for a second. She typed in her password: K3llyL0vesJ. Old joke with James, now just embarrassing. Richard's eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing, just hit enter.

Recovery software ran. Files started popping up. Then a folder opened by itself—private photos from years ago. Bikini shots, a few topless ones she'd sent James and never deleted. They flashed on the screen. Richard didn't look away. His eyes lingered, hungry.

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

Kelly's face went red. "They're... old," she mumbled, wishing she could crawl under the desk.

"Still look good on you." He said it like he was talking about the weather, but his eyes were glued to her tits. He kept working, but the air was thick, heavy with something filthy. She stayed behind him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.

He needed another login. She typed it in, slow, feeling his eyes on her hands. When she finished, his hand landed on her lower back, firm, pushing her to sit on the edge of the desk.

"Better view for you," he said. His hand stayed, thumb stroking the bare skin above her shorts. Her breath hitched, pussy clenching.

Richard dug deeper. More private shit surfaced—screenshots of dirty texts from before she married James, a folder called "naughty" full of lingerie selfies she'd sent her husband. Every time something new popped up, Richard made a low sound, half amusement, half something hungry.

"Someone likes attention," he muttered, clicking through the filth. One shot filled the screen: Kelly on her back, legs wide, fingers shoved in her cunt, staring at the camera. She remembered taking it—James had begged. Her face burned. Her pussy throbbed.

Richard finally closed the folder. "System's alive again. Got most of it back. But there's still some junk buried deep. I should remote in tonight, run a full scan. Make sure nothing dirty's left hiding."

Kelly swallowed, throat dry. "How... how does that work?"

"You give me your login. I connect from home. You can watch, or just let it run." His eyes dropped to her tits, nipples poking through the tank top, obvious and obscene. "Up to you."

She should say no. She should change every password the second he left. Instead, she nodded, grabbed a sticky note, and scribbled down her login, password, even the security questions. Her hand shook. When she handed it over, his fingers brushed hers—warm, rough. He folded the note, slow and deliberate, and shoved it in his pocket.

"Appreciate the trust, Kelly." He stood, looming over her. She didn't move. His scent hit her—sweat and something raw. Her thighs parted, shorts riding up, pussy aching.

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

Richard gathered his tools, paused at the office door. “You’ve got a beautiful setup here. Shame it was giving you trouble.” His eyes dropped to her legs, then back up. “Let me know if anything else acts up.”

The front door clicked shut behind him.

Kelly sat there, frozen, pulse pounding in her cunt. She slid off the desk, hand shoved down her shorts. She was soaked—pathetic. Two fingers slid in easy. She bit her lip, stifling a moan, picturing his hand on her back, his eyes eating up her naked photos. She came hard, thighs shaking, wishing it was his fingers inside her.

Her phone buzzed on the desk.

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

She stared at the message, chest heaving. James was upstairs, clueless. She was soaked and alone. Another buzz.

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

Her fingers hovered over the keys, pussy throbbing again. She typed before she could stop herself.

Kelly: Keep them safe.

Three dots appeared, then:

R: Good girl.

Upstairs, James 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. Richard’s name at the top.

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