The late afternoon sun baked the cracked driveway of the tidy suburban split-level, turning the concrete into a shimmering mirage. Rodney’s work van, with “Henderson Handyman” painted in faded blue, idled for a moment before he killed the engine. Another call, another clogged disposal in Maple Creek. It was always the same.He grabbed his toolbox, the familiar weight a comfort. The air smelled of cut grass and distant barbecue. A normal Friday.The door opened before he could knock. “Rodney? Thank goodness you’re here,” the woman said, her voice a warm, melodic contrast to the buzzing cicadas. She was younger than he expected—maybe late twenties—with a friendly smile and intelligent eyes that quickly took him in. She wore simple linen shorts and a faded university t-shirt, her hair piled in a messy but charming bun. “I’m Anna. It just started making this awful sound and then… nothing.”“Probably just a jam,” Rodney said, offering a polite, professional smile. He followed her inside, the cool air conditioning a relief. The kitchen was clean, modern, with a bowl of fresh peaches on the island. “Happens all the time. A fork, a spoon…”“I swear I’m careful,” Anna said, leaning against the counter as he set his toolbox down. She watched him with an intensity that felt… attentive. Not just a customer watching a repair. “Can I get you some iced tea? Lemonade? It’s brutal out there.”“I’m alright, thanks ma’am,” Rodney said, already crouching to peer under the sink. He shut off the power at the wall switch, then at the breaker box under the sink for good measure. Safety first. Always. He could feel her standing close, just behind his right shoulder.“So, you’re the famous Rodney,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “My neighbor Sharon said you fixed her patio door in ten minutes flat. She wouldn’t stop talking about your… competence.”Rodney felt a flush creep up his neck. He wasn’t used to being discussed. “Just doin’ my job.” His voice was muffled as he stuck his head into the cabinet. The disposal unit was a standard model. He retrieved a hex key and a flashlight. “Gonna see what we’re dealing with.”He reached up, found the manual turn-slot on the bottom of the unit, and gave it a twist. It moved a quarter-inch and stuck fast. Yep. Jammed solid. “Okay, I need to get in from the top. You have a pair of tongs or something I can try to fish with?”“Oh, I think I have some… somewhere,” Anna said, but she made no move to look. Instead, she drifted closer, her bare leg nearly brushing his arm where he knelt. “Is it dangerous?”“Not with the power off,” he assured her. He straightened up, his knees popping. “But sometimes you gotta just go in. Old school.” He demonstrated, wiggling the fingers of his right hand. “If it’s soft, I can pull it out. If it’s metal, I’ll need the pliers from my truck.”“Go in,” she repeated, her eyes dropping to his hand. A slow smile played on her lips. “Brave.”Rodney ignored the comment, focusing on the task. He slid the rubber sink guard aside, peered into the dark maw of the drain. He couldn’t see anything. With a sigh, he lay the flashlight on the counter, casting a beam into the sink. “Alright. Here goes nothing.”He reached down, his arm descending into the sink cabinet. His fingers found the cold, rubbery ridges of the drain opening, then the smoother chamber of the disposal. He probed carefully, past the stationary shredder ring. There. Something soft, fibrous. A mass of… something.“Feel anything?” Anna asked. She was right beside him now, her hip against the counter. He could smell her perfume—something like vanilla and sun-dried linen.“Yeah, it’s… it’s like a wet sponge, or a ton of potato peels,” he grunted, twisting his wrist to get a better grip. His fingers closed around the soggy mass. “Got it. Pulling now.”He pulled. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder, adjusting his angle. His hand, now gripping the clog, was deep in the disposal chamber, past his wrist. He tugged again.It didn’t move. He tried to open his fingers to release it, to try a different approach. His knuckles, wedged against the cold metal, wouldn’t let his hand open. A cold trickle of alarm, unrelated to the air conditioning, went down his spine. He pulled, not with workmanlike force, but with genuine effort.Nothing.“Stuck?” Anna’s voice was closer. Curious. Not concerned.“A little,” Rodney admitted, trying to keep his voice even. He twisted his arm, a sharp edge of metal biting into the back of his hand. “It’s really in there. My hand’s… kinda wedged.”“Oh, dear,” she murmured. He could feel her presence directly behind him as he knelt, his arm trapped in the sink, his body twisted at an awkward angle. He was pinned, vulnerable.Then he felt her hand.It wasn’t on his shoulder to offer comfort. It wasn’t patting his back. Her palm, warm and deliberate, settled on the small of his back, where his t-shirt had ridden up from his crouch. Her touch was firm, possessive almost.He froze.Her hand didn’t stay still. It slid down, over the worn fabric of his work jeans, tracing the curve of his buttock. It was a slow, exploring press of her fingers, mapping the muscle through the denim. A casual, intimate inspection he was utterly powerless to stop.“You must work out, Rodney,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential, smoky register right by his ear. Her other hand came to rest on his hip, her thumb hooking into his belt loop. “For a handyman. All this bending and lifting. It shows.”Rodney’s breath hitched. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shock and a dizzying, unwanted thrill. He was trapped, literally and figuratively. She knows I can’t move. She knows I can’t even turn around. “Anna, I…”“Shhh,” she whispered, her hand giving him a slow, deliberate squeeze before finally, finally, releasing him. The absence of her touch was as jarring as its arrival. “You focus on getting unstuck. I’ll just… be right here.”He heard the soft clink of the iced tea glass as she picked it up. Heard her take a slow sip. He was kneeling on her kitchen floor, his arm imprisoned in a metal tube, his entire body humming with the phantom imprint of her hand. The cool air on the skin of his lower back, where his shirt was still rucked up, felt like a brand.He swallowed, his mouth dry. The clog in the disposal was forgotten. The only thing that existed now was the electric tension coiling in the silent kitchen, and the woman standing over him, watching, waiting to see what he would do.

Rodney, a handyman, arrives at Anna's house to fix a clogged disposal. While he's stuck in the sink, Anna takes advantage of his vulnerability, touching him intimately. Rodney is trapped, both physically and emotionally, as Anna's advances leave him in a state of shock and arousal. The tension in the kitchen is palpable, with Anna watching Rodney's every move, waiting to see what he will do next.

The late afternoon sun baked the cracked driveway of the tidy suburban split-level, turning the concrete into a shimmering mirage. Rodney’s work van, with “Henderson Handyman” painted in faded blue, idled for a moment before he killed the engine. Another call, another clogged disposal in Maple Creek. It was always the same.

He grabbed his toolbox, the familiar weight a comfort. The air smelled of cut grass and distant barbecue. A normal Friday.

The door opened before he could knock. “Rodney? Thank goodness you’re here,” the woman said, her voice a warm, melodic contrast to the buzzing cicadas. She was younger than he expected—maybe late twenties—with a friendly smile and intelligent eyes that quickly took him in. She wore simple linen shorts and a faded university t-shirt, her hair piled in a messy but charming bun. “I’m Anna. It just started making this awful sound and then… nothing.”

“Probably just a jam,” Rodney said, offering a polite, professional smile. He followed her inside, the cool air conditioning a relief. The kitchen was clean, modern, with a bowl of fresh peaches on the island. “Happens all the time. A fork, a spoon…”

“I swear I’m careful,” Anna said, leaning against the counter as he set his toolbox down. She watched him with an intensity that felt… attentive. Not just a customer watching a repair. “Can I get you some iced tea? Lemonade? It’s brutal out there.”

“I’m alright, thanks ma’am,” Rodney said, already crouching to peer under the sink. He shut off the power at the wall switch, then at the breaker box under the sink for good measure. Safety first. Always. He could feel her standing close, just behind his right shoulder.

“So, you’re the famous Rodney,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “My neighbor Sharon said you fixed her patio door in ten minutes flat. She wouldn’t stop talking about your… competence.”

Rodney felt a flush creep up his neck. He wasn’t used to being discussed. “Just doin’ my job.” His voice was muffled as he stuck his head into the cabinet. The disposal unit was a standard model. He retrieved a hex key and a flashlight. “Gonna see what we’re dealing with.”

He reached up, found the manual turn-slot on the bottom of the unit, and gave it a twist. It moved a quarter-inch and stuck fast. Yep. Jammed solid. “Okay, I need to get in from the top. You have a pair of tongs or something I can try to fish with?”

“Oh, I think I have some… somewhere,” Anna said, but she made no move to look. Instead, she drifted closer, her bare leg nearly brushing his arm where he knelt. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not with the power off,” he assured her. He straightened up, his knees popping. “But sometimes you gotta just go in. Old school.” He demonstrated, wiggling the fingers of his right hand. “If it’s soft, I can pull it out. If it’s metal, I’ll need the pliers from my truck.”

“Go in,” she repeated, her eyes dropping to his hand. A slow smile played on her lips. “Brave.”

Rodney ignored the comment, focusing on the task. He slid the rubber sink guard aside, peered into the dark maw of the drain. He couldn’t see anything. With a sigh, he lay the flashlight on the counter, casting a beam into the sink. “Alright. Here goes nothing.”

He reached down, his arm descending into the sink cabinet. His fingers found the cold, rubbery ridges of the drain opening, then the smoother chamber of the disposal. He probed carefully, past the stationary shredder ring. There. Something soft, fibrous. A mass of… something.

“Feel anything?” Anna asked. She was right beside him now, her hip against the counter. He could smell her perfume—something like vanilla and sun-dried linen.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s like a wet sponge, or a ton of potato peels,” he grunted, twisting his wrist to get a better grip. His fingers closed around the soggy mass. “Got it. Pulling now.”

He pulled. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder, adjusting his angle. His hand, now gripping the clog, was deep in the disposal chamber, past his wrist. He tugged again.

It didn’t move. He tried to open his fingers to release it, to try a different approach. His knuckles, wedged against the cold metal, wouldn’t let his hand open. A cold trickle of alarm, unrelated to the air conditioning, went down his spine. He pulled, not with workmanlike force, but with genuine effort.

Nothing.

“Stuck?” Anna’s voice was closer. Curious. Not concerned.

“A little,” Rodney admitted, trying to keep his voice even. He twisted his arm, a sharp edge of metal biting into the back of his hand. “It’s really in there. My hand’s… kinda wedged.”

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. He could feel her presence directly behind him as he knelt, his arm trapped in the sink, his body twisted at an awkward angle. He was pinned, vulnerable.

Then he felt her hand.

It wasn’t on his shoulder to offer comfort. It wasn’t patting his back. Her palm, warm and deliberate, settled on the small of his back, where his t-shirt had ridden up from his crouch. Her touch was firm, possessive almost.

He froze.

Her hand didn’t stay still. It slid down, over the worn fabric of his work jeans, tracing the curve of his buttock. It was a slow, exploring press of her fingers, mapping the muscle through the denim. A casual, intimate inspection he was utterly powerless to stop.

“You must work out, Rodney,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential, smoky register right by his ear. Her other hand came to rest on his hip, her thumb hooking into his belt loop. “For a handyman. All this bending and lifting. It shows.”

Rodney’s breath hitched. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shock and a dizzying, unwanted thrill. He was trapped, literally and figuratively. She knows I can’t move. She knows I can’t even turn around. “Anna, I…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, her hand giving him a slow, deliberate squeeze before finally, finally, releasing him. The absence of her touch was as jarring as its arrival. “You focus on getting unstuck. I’ll just… be right here.”

He heard the soft clink of the iced tea glass as she picked it up. Heard her take a slow sip. He was kneeling on her kitchen floor, his arm imprisoned in a metal tube, his entire body humming with the phantom imprint of her hand. The cool air on the skin of his lower back, where his shirt was still rucked up, felt like a brand.

He swallowed, his mouth dry. The clog in the disposal was forgotten. The only thing that existed now was the electric tension coiling in the silent kitchen, and the woman standing over him, watching, waiting to see what he would do.

Rodney

Anna

Sharon

Mike Henderson

Tyler "Reese" Morrison

Mikhail Petrova

Handyman Rodney's routine fix turns perilous when his hand jams, drawing seductive Anna's advances—will he surrender? Dive in!

Rodney's Trapped Hand Sparks Naughty Domination

The setting is a mid west town in America.   Rodney gets a call from a lady named Anna to fix her garbage disposal in the sink. His hand gets stuck in the garbage disposal. Anna takes advantage of Rodney by touching his butt inappropriately.

Handyman's Trapped Hand Ignites Forbidden Passion

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Handyman's Trapped Hand Ignites Forbidden Passion

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