The identity of the man who purchased the mansion on the hill that rose above any landmarks for a mile around was a mystery to every resident of Langley Street, the street that led motorists and pedestrians alike to the private estate and the foot of its sweeping front drive. As much as rumor could provide, the new owner was a young man in his early twenties, obviously a man who had recently come into good fortune, either by his own merit or by luck. He had settled into the massive house a month before summer started, but had yet to be seen interacting with the community outside his walls. He kept himself locked away in the ornate building, and food and groceries were delivered to him by truck. Even those deliverymen, when stopped and queried by nosy neighbors, had nothing to say of the man. They dropped packages on his front step and, as directed, drove off before he would pick them up. Not a soul had seen or heard a breath from this new tenant of Langley Manor.
Sarah Johnson, a courageous and headstrong woman of barely eighteen years was overcome by curiosity about the man. Mysteries were few and far between in her vaguely backwater town, a city where the only mysteries were weather and the occasional petty crime. And yet here, in her own backyard, was a man who had moved into Langley Street with a considerable sum of money, and who hadn't left the building since. Word spread of the man in Langley Manor, and soon he became idle talk and speculation at her school. Boys joked that he was a murderer or a drug dealer, and girls joked equally harmlessly that he was a pimp who moved into town to legitimize his "work." Naturally, neither was right, but jokes and supposed tales and forged sightings of the man from Langley Manor flew thick in the air as a means of curing the tedium small cities breed.
Sarah grew bold. When she finally left school for summer, overheating in near hundred-degree weather, she decided to dedicate her summer to finding out more about the man. Technically, they were next-door neighbors, although his door had to be reached by three hundred meters of paved, private road that stretched up a steep hill. Still, she was determined.
In early June, Sarah stepped out of her modest house, her toes curling slightly to dig into the soft, green grass. The bright summer sun made her orange hair glow, her fiery hair contrasting strongly with her pale body. She kept herself very healthy; she was a runner and looked the part and then some. Her toughened feet, rooted in her lawn, connected to strong calves and even stronger thighs, smooth, pale skin joining them all seamlessly as if she were carved from stone. Her ass was even stronger, perfectly shaped, soft enough to slap and squeeze, and hard enough to grab roughly. Her upper body too was perfect; her breasts strained against her bra, slightly too large for their encasement but supple and firm, pressed together by her too-small bra to make tight, deep cleavage between her soft tits. Her arms were delicate and, while not weak, were runners' arms–designed for balance, not for strength or force. Her lips were thick and soft, parted slightly as she breathed in the dry air, her green eyes darting back and forth dilated from the prospect and excited fear of her pursuit that day.
She reached behind her and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The motion pushed her breasts against her bra, straining the material, and she smiled smugly when a boy walking past glanced over and visibly swallowed, walking with a slight limp in an attempt to hide what must have already become a full erection. Sarah loved the effect she had on men, how she could seduce them and control them so easily. She enjoyed the control she had over men, but had always felt that there was something off about it, something missing....
She shrugged, brushing off the thought, tits bouncing generously after she dropped her shoulders. She laced up running shoes and took off up the private drive to Langley Manor.
She didn't know what she would find, or even if she would find anything. The deliveries had slowed to a complete stop a few days before, and gossip was that the man must have taken a vacation or taken leave of his him for some purpose, because how else could he sustain himself without food?
Sarah came up to the front door, flushed and already sweating from the heat. She rang the door once, twice, and three times, but received no response. She frowned. Surely that was a foolish move; of course someone would have tried it already. She stood before the great house, biting her lip in concentration. Of course, the backyard!
She jogged around the house and leapt the fence dividing what might be generously called the hill's wilderness habitat and the man's property. Sarah edged carefully around the tall wooden fence, looking for a broken knot to peer through. There it was, clear as day. Sarah knelt down, leveling her eye with the hole, peering into the man's backyard.
What she saw nearly knocked her back onto her ass.
There was a man who lived here indeed, but not just any man. He was in every sense of the word a man. He stood six feet tall, sported messy brown hair, and was bent to his work. Sarah had a difficult time concentrating on his work–which she eventually recognized as gardening–because the man was completely and utterly naked. He didn't wear a scrap of clothing, not even shoes, and his body...Sarah caught herself in a combination gasp and sigh watching him work. His arms rippled with powerful muscle, flexing and pulling as he dug a long shovel into the dirt. His skin seemed to strain at every movement, stretched thin over boulders of muscle. His stomach and chest was just as carefully tuned and refined, hard abs underlining heavy pecs and bracketed by deep obliques. His legs were just as strong, lines standing out as he lifted each shovelful, every muscle swelling and bunching at the work. And his...his....
Sarah's mouth opened wide on pure instinct, and in the back of her mind she still recognized it might not be wide enough. She barely noticed a growing stain in the joint of her short shorts, her lust clearly visible. The hot sun beat on her back and she thought in a haze that it was much too nice a day for clothes, and so reached back and unclipped her bra, letting it fall to the ground next to her, her breasts springing free, nipples hard and pointing straight toward the object of her lust. Her hand dove into her partially unzipped shorts–when had she done that? –and worked furiously at her soaked, throbbing clit.
His cock, even while working in the garden, was both massive and hard. It was, by her guess, eight inches long, and god knows how thick. Sarah's mind assaulted her with a slew of images: her on her knees before him, laying his heavy cock across her face, bobbing forward to work half of it into her mouth, gagging with pleasure as he grabbed her hair and forced his long shaft all the way down her convulsing, resisting throat....
Sarah had closed her eyes, her fingers dragging soft moans and cries out of her, her hips and round ass thrusting forward desperately, hoping to be met with the man's throbbing member, but met only by her frustratingly tiny fingers. As she was about to cum, fingers soaked and breathing ragged, punctuated only by moans, she opened her eyes to the hole and saw the man only from his waist down, cock swinging between his legs, strong muscles pulsing and smoothly moving...toward her?
Sarah cursed herself for being so loud and quickly stood, wrestling her shirt over her head and running off, remembering only seconds later that she left her bra sitting at the hole, but realizing too that it would be too late to run back and grab it, and doing so would risk her being seen by the man.
She ran the short distance home braless, panting both from adrenaline and arousal, and let herself in, immediately withdrawing for a shower, where the running water would clean her sweat and muffle her moaning, shuddering orgasm, her mind replacing her hands with the man's calloused fingers.
Sarah did not brave another expedition to the Langley Manor for a week. Exactly one week after she had seen the man, a flier was posted on every light pole on Langley Street that the man was looking for a housekeeper for the season. She had to stifle a moan when she looked at the poster. A personal maid for that man was fuel to her already overactive imagination, and it provided her with images of slutty maid costumes, bending at the waist in front of the nude man to pick up his clothing, him ordering her to climb into bed and clean him instead of his house....
Sarah shook her head. What was this, wanting a man to order me around? I'm the one in control here, always. Men fall at my feet and beg for me to fuck them. I don't want one to order me around and cater to his disgusting whims.
Even so, Sarah found herself finishing the questionnaire, informal application, and portrait and depositing the three together in a self-addressed envelope in the Langley Manor mailbox.
Another week after, she received return mail that read:
