Code Violations
"He's renovating the old Victorian he inherited. The building inspector keeps finding problems. Each failed inspection means another visit. He suspects she's failing him on purpose. He's right."
The first inspection is a massacre.
Thirty-seven violations. I count them as Inspector Patricia Doyle reads them off, her pen moving across the clipboard with mechanical precision.
"Exposed wiring in the kitchen. Non-compliant railing height on the main staircase. Bathroom ventilation insufficient. Water heater installation fails to meet current code..."
She keeps going. I stop counting.
The Victorian I inherited from my grandmother is beautiful—three stories of gabled windows and original woodwork that real estate agents dream about. It's also a hundred and thirty years old and hasn't been updated since the Carter administration.
I knew it needed work. I didn't know it needed this much work.
"Mr. Chen." Inspector Doyle looks up from her list. "This property cannot be occupied until these issues are addressed."
"I understand."
"Do you?" She's in her late forties, heavyset in the way that suggests strength rather than softness. Her county polo stretches across broad shoulders and heavy breasts. Her khakis strain at hips that could probably move furniture. She's got grey streaking through dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail, and reading glasses perched on a nose that's probably seen every trick in the book.
"You're looking at six figures in repairs," she says. "Minimum. And that's if you use licensed contractors, which—" She glances at my tool belt, my work boots, my hands callused from three weeks of solo demolition. "—I'm guessing you're not planning to do."
"I'm a licensed electrician. I can handle the wiring myself."
"The electrical work requires separate permit and inspection. By a different department."
"Of course it does."
She almost smiles. Almost.
"Schedule your re-inspection when the violations are addressed. You have ninety days."
She hands me the pink copy and walks out.
Week Three — First Re-Inspection
Fourteen violations remain.
"The stair railing is now compliant." She makes a check mark. "But the bathroom ventilation still fails."
"I installed a new fan."
"The wrong CFM rating for the square footage." She shows me the specification. "You need 80 CFM minimum. This unit is 70."
"The difference is ten cubic feet per minute."
"The code is the code, Mr. Chen." She moves to the kitchen. "Outlet spacing is still non-compliant. They need to be every four feet along the counter."
"They're every four and a half feet."
"Which is not four feet." She writes another violation. "And the GFCI protection doesn't extend to this outlet by the sink."
"That's a new outlet. I installed it yesterday."
"And it's not on the GFCI circuit." She looks at me over her reading glasses. "Are you actually an electrician?"
My jaw tightens. "Licensed for eight years. I've passed inspections on thirty commercial projects."
"Residential code is different."
"Residential code is designed to be passed by homeowners with YouTube tutorials. Are you telling me I can't meet that bar?"
Something flickers in her expression. Not anger—something more like interest.
"I'm telling you that I'll be back in two weeks. Try to give me something to approve."
She leaves. I stare at the outlet by the sink.
It's on the goddamn GFCI circuit. I installed it myself.
Week Five — Second Re-Inspection
Eleven violations.
"You fixed the outlet issue." She sounds almost disappointed. "But the water heater still needs a drain pan."
"There's a drain pan. I installed it last week."
"The pan needs a drain line running to an approved location."
"The drain line is right there." I point to the copper pipe running to the floor drain.
"Floor drains aren't approved for water heater drainage in this jurisdiction."
"Since when?"
"Since the 2019 code revision." She writes the violation. "You'd know that if you pulled the current code book."
"I pulled the code book. Section 502.4 explicitly allows—"
"Section 502.4 was amended. Check the errata."
I stare at her. "You expect me to check the errata?"
"I expect you to know the current code." She moves past me, close enough that I catch her scent—something clean, like soap and sawdust. "That's my job, Mr. Chen. Making sure people do it right."
"Even when they're already doing it right?"
She stops. Turns.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I've done electrical work for nearly a decade. I know code. I know installation. And I know when someone is finding violations that don't exist."
The silence stretches. Her eyes—grey, sharp—hold mine.
"Be careful, Mr. Chen." Her voice is lower now. "Accusing a county inspector of misconduct is a serious matter."
"So is failing a property because you feel like it."
She doesn't blink.
"Two weeks," she says. "Address the violations on this list. If you have concerns about my professional conduct, you're welcome to file a complaint."
She walks out.
I don't file a complaint.
Instead, I start wondering why.
Week Seven — Third Re-Inspection
Eight violations.
She's early. 8 AM instead of 9. I'm still in my undershirt, coffee in hand, when she knocks.
"Mr. Chen." She doesn't apologize for the hour. "Ready for inspection?"
"Give me a minute."
"The code doesn't wait."
I follow her through the house in my undershirt. Her eyes drift to my arms more than once—the kind of look that pretends to be casual. I've been swinging hammers for weeks. It shows.
"The stair railing is compliant." Check. "The bathroom ventilation is compliant." Check. "But this light switch plate is cracked."
"That's... not a code violation."
"Damaged electrical covers are a fire hazard."
"It's cosmetic damage. The switch functions perfectly."
"It's a violation, Mr. Chen." She writes it down. "Same as the window in the second bedroom that won't lock properly."
"The window locks fine. The mechanism is just stiff."
"Show me."
We go upstairs. Into the bedroom. She stands close while I demonstrate the window lock—too close. I can feel the heat of her body, the weight of her presence.
The lock clicks smoothly.
"It works," I say.
"It was stiff when I tested it."
"Then you tested it wrong."
She turns. We're inches apart. Her breasts nearly brush my chest.
"Are you calling me incompetent?"
"I'm calling you thorough." I don't step back. "Very thorough. For specific properties."
"What makes you think you're specific?"
"The fact that you've been here six times in seven weeks. The fact that you show up early when I'm not dressed. The fact that every violation you find is borderline at best."
Her breathing changes. Slightly faster.
"You have a theory, Mr. Chen?"
"I have a question." I step closer. She doesn't retreat. "What do you actually want?"
She kisses me.
Her clipboard hits the floor. Her hands find my shoulders, my chest, my undershirt. She pushes me back toward the wall, and I let her—let this woman who's been tormenting me for weeks finally show her hand.
"I wanted to see if you'd figure it out," she breathes against my mouth. "Most men don't. They just get angry. Complain to my supervisor. Give up on their projects."
"I don't give up."
"I noticed." She pulls my undershirt over my head. Her hands explore my chest, my abs, the muscles that weeks of renovation have carved. "You got stronger. Every time I came back, you were more built than before."
"Had to keep up with your violations."
She laughs—a real laugh, surprised and warm.
"I'm going to fuck you now," she says. "And then I'm going to pass your inspection. Any objections?"
"Just one." I grab her waist—soft, thick, real. "You're overdressed."
I undress her slowly.
The polo comes off, revealing a plain white bra working hard to contain her. Her breasts are huge—heavy, soft, straining the fabric. I unhook it and they fall free, settling against her belly with a weight that makes my mouth water.
"These are—"
"Big. I know." She sounds almost defensive. "I've been told."
"I was going to say perfect."
I cup them. Lift them. Watch her eyes flutter as I squeeze.
"Oh—"
I take a nipple in my mouth. She gasps, grabs my hair, pulls me closer.
"Yes—fuck—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I worship her breasts while my hands find her pants, work them down over hips that require effort to navigate. Her underwear follows—plain cotton, soaked through.
She's shaved. Wet. Ready.
"Bed or floor?" I ask.
"Floor." She's already pulling me down. "We're breaking in this house properly."
The hardwood creaks beneath us.
She's on her back, all that softness spread across the floor I sanded myself. I kneel between her thighs—thick, dimpled, impossibly inviting—and lower my mouth to her.
"Oh God—"
She tastes like heat and salt and something sweeter. I find her clit, circle it, feel her thighs clamp around my head.
"Right there—there—don't move—"
I stay. Licking, sucking, learning her rhythms. Her hips buck against my face. Her hands find the floor, scrabbling for purchase.
"I'm going to—fuck—going to—"
She comes with my tongue on her clit.
Her body convulses—all two hundred fifty pounds of her shaking on the hardwood. She screams loud enough to echo off the bare walls. I don't stop—I push through her orgasm, find her entrance, slide two fingers inside.
"Jesus—"
"Not done yet."
I work her. Fingers and tongue, building her toward the next peak. She's gripping me now, pulling my hair, riding my face with desperate urgency.
"I need—God—I need you inside me—"
I climb up her body.
Position myself.
Thrust home.
She's tight. Hot. Perfect.
And soft. Everywhere.
Her belly presses against mine as I fill her. Her breasts spill around my arms as I brace myself above her. Her thighs grip my waist, cushioning every thrust with flesh that ripples and bounces.
"Fuck—you feel—ah—"
"Tell me."
"So good—so fucking good—harder—"
I give her harder. The floor shakes. Her body shakes. The whole house seems to shake as I pound into her, as she screams and moans and begs for more.
"I've wanted this—" she gasps. "Since the first inspection—saw you in your tool belt—fuck—couldn't stop thinking—"
"Is that why you kept failing me?"
"Had to—ah—had to keep coming back—"
I grab her thighs, spread her wider. Change the angle. Hit something deep inside her.
"There—oh God RIGHT THERE—"
She comes again. Clenching around me so tight I see stars. I fuck her through it, then flip her over.
"On your hands and knees."
She obeys.
Her ass rises before me—massive, soft, the kind of ass that breaks codes and redefines standards. I grab it with both hands, spread her open, and thrust back inside.
"YES—"
I ride her hard. The floor protests. Her body protests. But she's pushing back, meeting every thrust, taking everything I have.
"Going to come—" I can't hold back.
"Inside me—fill me up—want to feel you—"
I explode.
Pump into her while she shakes through one final orgasm. Collapse onto her back, both of us gasping.
The hardwood feels cool against my cheek.
"Inspection passed?" I manage.
She laughs—breathless, satisfied.
"All violations cleared."
Week Nine — Final Inspection
She arrives on time. Uniform pressed. Clipboard in hand.
Professional.
She walks through the house, checking every item on her list. The stair railing. The outlets. The bathroom ventilation. Everything I've fixed in the nine weeks she's been coming to my door.
"Mr. Chen." She stops at the front door. "Your property is in full compliance. Congratulations."
"Thank you, Inspector Doyle."
"Patricia." She looks back at me. That flicker in her eyes again—the one that started this whole thing. "For future inspections."
"Will there be future inspections?"
"This is a historic property. Requires annual review." She hands me the green copy—the one that means I passed. "Same time next year?"
I take the paper. Our fingers touch.
"I'll keep the bed frame reinforced."
She almost smiles.
"That would be prudent."
She walks to her county vehicle. Gets in. Drives away.
I look at the Victorian I've spent nine weeks restoring. The windows I've replaced, the wiring I've updated, the floors I've refinished.
The house where I'll be waiting.
Same time next year.