It's Monday, September, first in time for your daily fock. The sound of a power saw screaming through wood has been a soundtrack to my life for three weeks. It starts at eight in the morning. It doesn't stop. My new next door neighbor is a reclusive, noisy menace. I've never seen him, only heard him, a phantom of hammering, sanding, and sawing that has had every picture on my walls and every nerve in my body. Today I've had enough.
I march across my lawn and bang my fist on his workshop door, a well rehearsed speech above zoning ordinances and common courtesy on the tip of my tongue. The sawn cuts off. A moment later, the heavy door slides open, and my entire argument evaporates. He's a mountain of a man framed in the doorway. He's shirtless, his chest and arms corded with muscle, all covered in a fine sheen of sweat and a light dusting of sawdust. His face is a mask of annoyed concentration, his eyes dark and stormy,
his jaw set under a layer of rough stubble. What do you want? He grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. My prepared complaints about noise pollutions dissolve into a single primeal of thought. I needed to feel those calloused hands all over my body. This was no longer a complaint. This is a conquest. A slow smile spreads across my face. I came over here to complain about the noise. I let my gaze drift from his eyes, down his sweat slip chest, to the low slungingians hanging on his hips,
and meet his gaze again. It's good honest work and good honest noise. I ponder my next move. I can see the faint outline of his cock and his jeans. It's the kind of bulge that says, I'm not trying to show off my dick, but it's big enough that I'll need to look me screaming fuck me harder is a good honest noise too. But you don't hear me saying that, do you. His stormy expression doesn't change, but a flicker of something new, Surprise, then intrigue ignites in
his eyes. He looks me up and down, a signent thorough appraisal. But God, do I want to be screaming that his bulge is a little more pronounced, and I smile wickedly at him. Or it did. Perhaps I say too much? He stares into my eyes. So you don't like my noise? I haven't heard your noise. I lick my lips. I think I'd probably like it at dad, he laughs, He's something else. You know that? Before I can reply, he yet, I get it. You need some good, honest work in your life, and without it, you're just
going to complain. I'm not sure exactly what he means. Was that a so proposition? He's maddeningly hard to read. I decide to just plow ahead. This is either going to end up with me getting fucked or learning how to do woodworking. Show me. He moves aside and waves me in. I walk into his workshop and the heavy door rumbles shut behind us, plunging the workshop into a dim, dusty light. The air smells a fresh cut pine wood
stain in his sweat. Before I can speak, he shoves me back against a massive solid wood work bench, the rough edge digging into my lower back. He cages me in his hands, planting on the bench on either side of me. You want honest work, he growls, his face inches from mine. I'll give some good, honest, hard work. His mouth crashes down onto mind. It's not a kiss. It's a collision, rough, demanding and utterly consuming. I meet his energy with my own. My hand's coming up to
grip his muscular shoulders, my nails digging in. This is what I wanted, this raw, unspoken passion. He breaks the kiss only to rip my t shirt up and over my head, tossing it onto a pile of wood shavings. His calloused, sawdust covered hands are on my breast. His thumb's scraping over my nipples, through my lace bra The rough texture is an exquisite torture that makes me cry out. He haankes my skirt up to my waist and with
one hand pulls my pantsies aside. For a second, I think he's going to be gentle and go down on me, or perhaps find a soft tarp or something. But then he grabs my hips and spins me around with a shove. He bends me over his workbench. I don't even hear him unders up his pants before I feel him entering me with a single powerful thrust that lifts me onto my toes. A gasp is torn from my throat. He's thick,
hard and hot, filling me completely. He immediately begins to fuck me, his hips slamming against my ass with a brutal, steady rhythm that's far better than any hammer. He is all force and function, a machine of pure animal need. My hands scrabble for purchase on the cluttered workbench. My fingers knock over a jar of screws, and they scatter across the floor with a series of sharp clinks, heading
to the symphony of our fucking. He pounds into me, his powerful body, driving me back against the wood, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. I'm being taken completely and utterly by this grumpy sigment man, and it is the hottest thing I've ever experienced. The friction in the force are building a frantic, desperate fire inside me. I'm close, so close. I throw my head back and scream as my orgasm rips through me, a vioment shuddering
away of a pure bliss. My climax triggers his with a final guttural roar that vibrates through my entire body. He comes deep inside me, his release a hot, welcome flood. He stays inside me for a moment, his forehead pressed against my back, my ragged breaths mingling in the dusty air. Then he pulls out, leaving me a trembling and a weak need mess. He steps back, zips up his fly, and looks at me, a mess of sweat and sawdust leaning against his workbench. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk plays
on his lips. I smile, good, honest work. Huh At that? He smiles, turns, picks up his sander and flicks it on. The roar fills the workshop once more. I walk back to my blessedly quiet apartment, my body both jazzed and sore. He fucked me like he'd hammer in a stubborn nail, with no preparation other than knowing that if he pounded good and hard, he'd get the job done. God, did he get the job done. I decide, I don't mind the noise, although after a few more visits the other neighbors might