Heaving the last two lengths of timber onto my bare shoulder came as a relief. The empty pickup bed was something I'd dreamt of for hours. My feet set off down the narrow stone-paved walkway on auto-pilot, retracing my footsteps for what felt like the four-hundredth time.

The path opened into the expansive, beautiful garden that backed onto the house, meandering between luscious lawns and flawless flower beds. I felt guilty walking the path in my filthy boots.

The stack of timber, beneath the gorgeous new garden shelter, was a welcome sight and my feet skipped up the steps. Dropping those last lengths onto the pile gave me chance to sigh and draw in a big lungful. My hands and arms shook out the hours of labour and my nose wrinkled at the fresh paint pervading the air.

Sighing, I arched my back as my arms rolled in the sockets, my shoulders stretching. I turned to face the imposing limestone house that dominated the garden. 

Movement behind the giant glass patio doors attracted my gaze. As I squinted against the sun to peer through the window, both doors slid effortlessly open. In the open space stood Olga, the woman of the house. I often wondered how a single woman in her 30s who never woke before 10 am could afford all this luxury, but I wasn't about to question it.

Wiping my brow and pretending not to stare so openly, I turned away, although she made no such effort. Gliding into the sunlight, her thin, pale arms stretched high above her neat crop of short, dark hair; tipped with a hint of orange. Her gaze fixed in my direction, she sashayed onto the patio, her dancer's physique giving a litheness to every step, as though she walked to music.
Olga pirouetted majestically on the spot, face creased with a beautiful, beaming smile. My eyes followed her smooth, supple legs from the bare, pointed foot she turned on, to the shawl she wore as a makeshift skirt. Her tight, smooth figure and every curve were on display with the red bikini top clinging to her body so tightly. How I envied that bikini.

She raised a graceful wave to me. My hand reciprocated and I called to her, “Good morning, Ms...!”

Olga cut me off immediately in her musical Eastern European tones. “Olga! How many times must I ask you to call me Olga?” I held my hands high defensively, to apologise, and the garden tinkled with her giggle. “And good morning to you!”

With that, she spun about and prowled into the house, hypnotising me with her pendulous hips. A last glance in my direction, followed by a wave, and she disappeared inside.

My tongue moistened my lips, the vision of her figure etched into my brain.

'She carries herself like a care-free teenager. Just being around her gives you an energy boost.'
Looking at the pile of wood behind me, I sighed. 'I could use some of Olga's energy, I think.'

**

I straightened and complained, the back of my hand smearing the stream of sweat across my brow. My hammer and nails sat in a discarded heap. I cursed the baking sun above me, searing my tanned skin. A supportive post in the shade gave me a moment of cool relaxation.

There was no movement in the house since Olga left, but I knew she'd be home. The house would be cool, with the A/C running, no doubt with a fridge full of cool, thirst-quenching tonics.  My throat burned dryly when I swallowed. That was all the motivation I needed to head inside for sanctuary.

Stepping inside was a relief. The wall of cool air kissed my throbbing skin, and I broke out in goosebumps immediately, hairs standing on end. I took a moment, head reclined and eyes closed, just enjoying the pleasurable sting that made me quiver all over.
The kitchen adjoined nearby, but it seemed rude to just pour myself a glass of water. I rapped my knuckles on the glass, hoping to be heard. “Olga?” I asked the empty room, but no response came. 

'I ought to at least ask her before I just help myself,' I thought, slipping my dirty boots off on the patio and stepping inside, my socks padding quietly on the thick carpet.

The kitchen was immaculate, gleaming and empty. I walked through to the living room; easily four times the size of my own and furnished in soft creams. The hardwood floor was decorated with the occasional thick shag rug.

My breath halted as I listened for Olga, feet leading me through the silent house of empty rooms.

'Maybe she's upstairs. I could call to her from the bottom of the stairs.'

About to turn back, something at the end of the hall caught my eye: Olga's abandoned shawl on the floor. Walking forward, I spied her bikini top in the doorway. My steps slowed, but I couldn't convince myself to stop edging towards the open door.
'I shouldn't go in there. Maybe she's undressed. Maybe she's... What if she thinks I'm snooping?'

My feet weren't listening. They took me closer, hugging the opposite wall so that I slowly saw into the room. Inside the threshold lay Olga's discarded bikini bottoms.

'I definitely shouldn't be doing this,' I told myself as I rounded the door and peered inside. A decent human being would've knocked, but my mind wasn't my own. I was already examining the room.

That's when I heard a long, deep female moan. My body turned rigid and my cock followed suit. The hunger created by that sound was unbearable. My muscles flexed, my hands became fists and my jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding together. That one pleasure-ridden groan had flipped a switch in me.

Inside the threshold, not two feet in front of me with her back to the door was Olga. Her shapely, creamy legs were draped elegantly over the arms of the chair she reclined in. Her hair barely protruded over the backrest as she slumped in her seat, hidden mostly from view.

The room filled with another moan, now more urgent. My toes gripped the carpet as my fingers flexed, determined to grip... something.

Her arm fell to the side of the chair, clutching a small, leather-bound book, my heart rate rising as I started.

'She's reading,' I thought before I noticed the pen clutched tight to the book by her thumb. 'No, she's writing... A diary?' I could just make out the handwritten words scrawled in blue ink across the plain, expensive paper. 

Her arm returned behind the chair. Olga's moans turned to sighs before the scratch of pen on paper filled the room. Soon, the scratchings silenced, replaced by a raucous roar of need and a single, whimpered word: my name.

'I must be hearing things,' I thought as the diary dropped onto the floor beside the chair; then I heard it again. A deep, staccato breath was drawn, fuelling another pleasure-driven groan to ring out, culminating in my name falling from her exhausted lips.
I knelt and peered at the diary on the floor. It lay open on an older record. The handwriting began neatly but became more hastily scrawled, lengthening and elongating as it was dashed across the page.

My breath hitched as I saw my name and, following the line, I read silently to myself while Olga throatily groaned my name once more.

'... he's here again, today. I watched him for an hour through the upstairs window, my hand buried between my thighs. Watching him sweat and strain, his muscles flexing as he tosses his hammer around with ease, makes me drip...'

Olga thrashed next to me in the chair, sliding deeper into the seat with a happy, rumbling murmur that took my attention. I heard the air rush from her open mouth following the crack of her hand across her flesh. She must've been truly soaked, I could hear her rubbing herself so clearly. Every groan and cry went straight to my pulsating length.

Still, my attention was drawn to the diary in front of me.

'... I dream of him coming in and finding me; of him catching me; of his judgemental look; of him taking me, making me his fucking slut...' The writing trailed off and broke down, then finished with another thrashed-out line. 'Fuck, I want to cum AGAIN?! I'm a filthy fucking whore for him.'

My hair prickled, as though standing on end, before I felt a sudden pain in my scalp, like fingernails biting into me. Then I realised my mistake. 

My head whipped around just as Olga's hand snatched back from my hair and she jumped out of the chair with a cry, arms scrambling to cover her dignity.

“What're you doing?!” she cried.

“Olga, I'm sorry, I...” I stepped out of the room, hiding behind the wall, skin tingling with adrenaline. Clutching my chest, I swore silently to myself, before I realised what I'd just read.

'... I dream of him coming in and finding me; of him catching me; of his judgemental look; of him taking me, making me his fucking slut...'

Her words slowly sunk in. I'd caught her. I was here.

'... I'm a filthy fucking whore for him.'

I turned, striding back into the room.

I launched forward, her unspoken words unleashing the beast within me. Her hand lashed out in defiance, connecting sharply with my cheek, fingernails tearing at my skin. My head whipped sideways, the room echoing with the sound of her slap and my primal growl. My hands grasped her arse and hauled her lips hard into mine.

Sharp fingernails gouged into my bare shoulders, then my scalp, heaving on my hair and breaking the kiss. The resounding ring of a rough rap across her rear rewarded her, causing her knees to buckle. My arms took her weight and tossed her sideways into the chair.

She wore a scared and desperate expression, looking me up and down as I prowled closer. She tried to rise but quickly fell back with a shove. My belt whipped from my shorts with a swish and I wrested control of her wrists. She kicked out, but my legs pinned hers apart, draped over the armrests. I gazed hungrily at the perfect, pink petals of her pristine, pulsing pussy presented before me; tongue gliding along my lips.

Olga thrashed, struggling as the leather strap bound her wrists, heaved tight until she yelped. Her cheeks burned red; her eyes were plaintive as she saw my delight in the state of her soaking sex.

Olga observed my fingernails welting the soft skin of her inner thigh, moans cascading from her mouth as I grazed her distended folds.  A delicious stream of wet awaited me, trickling from her swollen, searing sex.

“You are wet for me, my little whore,” my tone was low, almost purring as I stroked through her soaking crease towards her prominent clit. Her lingering hiss accompanied my wet finger sliding easily along the tender skin of her aching button, her hips now gyrating. “You know you want this, Slut.”

The scent of her filled my nostrils. I could feel the pimpling of her skin. Olga's breath was harsh and ragged, her body squirming despite her. Victorious, my lips curled into a smirk and I descended to my knees at her feet.

Her stare was intense; hungry even. I clamped her thighs tight in both hands, pinning her open for me. My lips and tongue crawled up the inside of her legs, following the rivulets of her juices back to the very edges of her swollen, succulent lips. Her pelvis rotated in response, silently craving the rest, hands still fighting her bonds.

I snatched up the diary, opening it on her pert, shapely breasts. Her eyebrows lowered with confusion before I bit viciously into her thigh. Olga yelped and whimpered, eyes glazed with lust.

“Read.” I spat on her throbbing lips.

Her head threw back harshly, whimpering, her body wracked with spasms, hands snatching at her bonds, before starting.

“I love...” Her accent was delicate and lilting.

Her engorged lips traced with my tongue, she immediately she faltered and groaned, her legs quivering. She whined, pouting at me between her thighs as my tongue halted its stroke.

“Read, Olga.”

Muscles twitching with need, she struggled to focus on the page ahead of her. Again, I slipped through her lips, dancing across her clit as she read, steadily, aloud.

“... I love to watch his hands work. I wish I wasn't so far away. I dream of what those big, masculine hands might do to me...”
She trailed off, giving me the most beautifully pleading eyes I've ever seen, her cheeks ablaze. Her gaze flicked to my hands - gripping her legs - and back again, her lip caught in shiny enamel. She watched my palm crack firmly across her thigh, jolting with the impact.

“Read!”

“I'm asham....”

I dived up and she stammered, shocked, as I fed two fingers into her open mouth. Lips locked diligently around me, Olga's tongue swirled hungrily around the thick digits gripped in her teeth.

“You're my little fucking whore, Olga,” I whispered, an inch from her face, her huge pupils staring back. Those wet fingers slipped from her lips, trailing wet down her cheek. “Now read.”

Olga's throat bulged as she swallowed, nodding. She studied my fingers as I brought them inside her thighs. A tickle along the edges of her lips and a handful of her hair kept Olga focused.

“Read, Slut.”

Her throat uttered a guttural groan, her hips writhing in search of my fingers. They slipped slowly across her tight, wet entrance, as she blinked blearily at the page.

“I want those hands to own me. I want those hands to take me.” Olga's back arched to accept my fingers' incessant invasion, her voice breaking as she obediently read aloud. “I want his hands all over me, squeezing, smacking, pinching. I want them inside me. I want him to...”

She paused again, her cheeks red with shame, and I punished her. My fingers drew back, leaving her empty. With a desperate sob she kicked into the air, her hips thrusting for more. The room echoed with the crack of my palm across her swollen slit and her scream matched it.

“Oh fuck yes, again!” she squirmed and thrashed, her begging face making me throb.

“Read, you filthy Slut.”

“I... I want... I want him to choke me!” she forced that last line out, shrieking as I treated her to another stinging swipe across her sex. Her wish was granted. My fingers claimed her throat as she welcomed the others inside her again, strangling out a cry: “Fuck me, yes!”

“Olga...!” My tone immediately brought her gaze down from the ceiling to the book, her every muscle quivering under the sudden, soaking assault of my fingers. Her voice was strained, but she persevered.

“I want his hands all over me, fucking me, so I can suck his fingers clean; so that I can bathe... Bathe his hands with my tongue.”
Peering around the book, I looked into her plaintive eyes and grinned, tightening the hold on her slender throat to squeeze a gasp from her lungs.

“You want to suck your wetness from my fingers, do you, Olga?”

She nodded, watching them plunge in and out of her, relentlessly, her teeth abusing her poor, red lip.

“Do you know what that means?”

Her head shook, only speaking when my face loomed an inch from her own.

“N...No, Sir...”

'She calls me Sir already. Fuck, I love this girl.'

My lips tickled her earlobe while I watched her chest heave with every ragged breath, her breasts shaking. She vibrated in my grip, twitching and quivering with repressed need. Slowly, so that each word could penetrate, I whispered in her ear.

“When I give you permission, you're going to cum on my fingers like the dirty, filthy, subby little Slut that you are, Olga. You're going to prove what a little whore you are for me when you clean my fingers, aren't you?”

She started to nod, then gave a choking cry and croaked her response.

“Y-y-yes... S-sir.”

A few seconds of silence later, she whimpered.

“P-p-please, S-sir...!”

“Cum, Olga."

She launched into the air, the book falling to the floor as her back arched. The climax ripped through her, a moment before the howl tore from her lips and shook the dust from the walls. Again and again, she bellowed out, thrashing and bucking in my grip. The room filled with the sound of her sodden sex splashing with the wetness of my fingers' assault, until she finally collapsed, spent.

Easing my dripping fingers from her convulsing cunt, my hand seized her hair and those soaking digits were fed to her waiting, open lips. I marvelled as she beautifully sucked the creamy dregs from my fingers, her tongue catching every errant drop, her body still twitching beneath me. I knew we were in for some serious fun.