The Romanian worker left me with a broken ass

I live alone in a two-story semi-detached house on the outskirts. I had been putting off renovations for months: leaks in the main bathroom, loose tiles in the kitchen, dampness on two walls of the living room. I didn't want to deal with large companies that would charge a fortune, so I looked for online ads and found one that seemed perfect: "Romanian worker, lots of experience, speaks Spanish perfectly, reasonable prices, available immediately". I wrote to him that same night and we agreed to meet on Monday.

On Sunday, I barely slept. It wasn't just because of the renovations. In his profile pictures, he looked tall, dark-haired, with strong arms and defined muscles. I've always been attracted to men who work hard, who sweat all day, who smell of physical effort and masculinity without filters. I masturbated thinking about him before sleeping, imagining him entering my house and pushing me against the wall without saying a word.

He arrived punctually at eight. I opened the door and was left breathless. He was almost six feet two, with very broad shoulders, a wide chest under a white t-shirt that already had sweat stains despite the early hour. Veiny arms, large and calloused hands, a well-groomed beard and piercing blue eyes that seemed transparent. His black hair was short, almost shaved. When he smiled, his deep voice sounded perfect:

"Good morning. I'm the one doing the repairs. Nice to meet you."

He spoke Spanish without any accent, as if he had been born here. He explained that he had been in the country for over ten years and that he liked to read in Spanish to keep practicing. I let him in and showed him the areas that needed to be fixed: bathroom, kitchen, living room. As we walked through the house, I noticed that his eyes lingered on my ass longer than necessary. I also looked at him. When he bent down to inspect the dampness on the floor, his work pants tensed over his round and firm butt. I swallowed hard.

He started with the bathroom. I tried to work from my laptop in the living room, but it was impossible to concentrate. Every time I passed by the hallway, I saw him: t-shirt clinging to his torso due to sweat, droplets sliding down his neck and between his pectorals. At mid-morning, he took off his t-shirt without asking. "What a bloody heat," he said with a twisted smile. His torso was a work of art: thick pectorals, defined abs, a thread of black hair that went down to disappear under his pants' waistband. The dark and small nipples. When he stretched to place new tiles, the muscles on his back moved like steel cables.

There were glances. Many. When I brought him water, he would look up and pin me with those blue eyes. I would lower my gaze to his crotch. The bulge was evident, thick, heavy. He would smile sideways. At lunchtime, we shared the kitchen table. He told me that he had been a soldier before coming, that he liked the gym and that "the women here are nice, but the g...