On the heart of Oslo, nestled between the fjords and the bustling cityscape, the beginning of 1970 was a time of transition. The echoes of World War II still lingered in many minds, while new conflicts cast fresh shadows. Modernity clawed at Norwegian daily life, but traditional values clung stubbornly.

Harvol Becken was built for the past but living in the present. At 57, the seven-foot-tall former Navy captain seemed hewn from Scandinavian granite. His pale, lifeless right eye—a WWII shrapnel memento—contrasted sharply with his piercing blue left eye.

A new arrival had disrupted his routine: a single woman who moved into the white-painted house next door. Her solitary state both puzzled and concerned Harvol, who viewed it as a situation needing immediate correction.

"I've brought the tools for your shower," Harvol's deep voice rumbled as he stepped through her doorway, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. His good eye roved over her with palpable hunger. "Can't have a lady like you managing repairs alone."

He set his toolkit down with a heavy thud, adjusting his pipe with arrogant ease. "A shame seeing a fine woman without a man's help. These things aren't for delicate hands." His gaze lingered on her body with unsettling intensity.

"Back in my day, women knew their place was at home, caring for family," he continued. "You shouldn't worry about these things. A good husband would see to that."

After fixing the leak, he found her in the kitchen, bending over to search for something. He approached silently, large hands closing around her waist as he ground his hips against her rear. "Why don't you let me show you a real good time as thanks? Get on your knees, hm?"