The Man has been working day and night fixing, cleaning, redecorating and restoring an old house.

It is dusty, bare and there is no furniture. He is dishevelled and tired, wearing paint-splattered clothes and probably has splinters and flakes of paint up his nails. But still, he retains the inner glow and magnetism that leaves me a defenceless, gibbering wreck.

I have persuaded him to let me come and see his work but as soon as he comes to the door, I know I will be putty in his hands and let him do to me whatever he wants.

There is nothing in the house, not even a box to sit on, yet The Man has spent days here, labouring in every room.

After a quick tour and a cup of coffee he leads me back upstairs to what was once a large double bedroom, but is now a floor-boarded space with a gapingly wide window.

I know what is about to happen, but feign innocence and confusion, asking him what he is doing. He knows he doesn’t need to respond and gently presses me against the wall, kissing me keenly. He fondles my breasts and finds his way inside my jeans while I tug and fiddle with his belt and fly.

The wall is cold against my back, but my front is smouldering hot, getting hotter as I finally have hold of his excited penis. As I stroke and rub, he does the same to my hungry, salivating vagina.

He finds his way inside me and, with one of my legs out of my jeans and wrapped around him, he screws me against the wall at the same time as using his fingers to make me spasm and tingle.

I hold on to him as I am close to falling over and he is turning me to a wobbling jelly.

He then suggests we move to the window – which happens to overlook several houses, but it is the middle of the week and no one is visible outside. I still worry that this is a big window and we would be very easy to spot, but he tells me the trick is to look like we are not fucking…

He enters me from behind as I prop my chin on my hand, lean on the window sill and pretend to admire the view. But my serene pose is a little jerky as I am rocked back and forth and there is a man standing very close behind me moving in the same way. Unless we are attempting to master some very odd dance or both sitting on a very large, headless rocking horse, I am sure no one could think we were doing anything else. But hey-ho – I don’t live around here, so if anyone did see me, I can avoid any embarrassing exchanges in the corner shop.

As we resume normal trouser-wearing respectability, I feel flushed and fluttery. I later discover mottled paint marks all over the back of my cardigan.