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Tell Me A Story, Desdmona
illustration by garv

Four Seasons

By Desdmona

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

Spring – Tulips and Dandelions

It’s early spring. The bright morning sun promises a good day for yard work. Rick is a creature of habit. He tosses his Levis to the corner of our closet. He ignores the clink of his belt buckle when it hits the wall. Eventually, when he’s dressing for some occasion, he’ll wonder where his belt is. He rummages through the basket of laundered clothes, bypasses the sweatshirts and long-sleeved shirts and finds a pair of cutoffs, recently unearthed from storage. He snatches a pair of socks to wear with his Nikes. He prefers going barefoot but with winter debris still choking the lawn, he’ll wait until later in the season.

Shoes and clothes in arm, he walks naked into our bedroom. He’s careful not to cover his penis. Instead, it swings freely, chrysalis-like, sprung from its shell. He pretends he’s not looking for my glance. And I pretend, when I glance, that it’s just a common everyday occurrence. Though his nakedness is an everyday occurrence, it is far from common.

Rick is lean and tall with streamlined limbs. His muscles don’t bulge, they breathe. Erectionless, he is Michelangelo’s David. His penis is altogether delicious. Not just in taste, but in the way his groin contours so perfectly around it. When aroused, it forms a ninety-degree angle with his body and is as hard as marble – art that stands the test of time.

He catches me looking. A hint of a smile teases the corner of his mouth, and his penis twitches.

He drops his bundle on the bed and walks to his dresser. He sifts through his underwear drawer as if choosing a pair is a monumental decision. He’s just giving me a show. He decides on silk, a pair I presented him with at Christmas. They’re the color of saffron.

He slides the underwear up his legs, not slowly for effect, but in a flash, like he’s suddenly in a hurry. He tucks his penis inside the pouch of material. It’s not exactly an erotic gesture, but it is uniquely male and carries with it a sense of intimacy. The silk doesn’t offer much support even though it clings and displays a detailed silhouette. Rick doesn’t mind. He methodically finishes dressing and winks when the last bit is done. He is a man with a job to do and eager to get started.

I wait to hear the backdoor close before I rush to the window. He thinks I’ll be right out to join him, but I take my time. The sun hasn’t reached the side of the house – it is still too early in the day. I slip out of my nightgown and lean in close to the cool glass. My nipples barely touch the pane before tightening. I hesitate – icy hot – then press myself flush against the pane. Rick is there, but he doesn’t look up. He’s picking up twigs, kicking at dandelions. I glimpse an edge of saffron, just a flash, teasing me, and the window steams. I lick the glass. It’s strangely metallic.

I glance over to the neighbor’s home. Cynthia and Jonathon Hartford moved in a year ago. Their yard is immaculate, their foliage obsessively trimmed. Two months after they set up house, they replaced a thick line of trees and bushes between our properties with manicured mounds and decorative rocks. More suburbia. Less private.

It’s doubtful they can see me in the window. Serves them right if they can, I think without regard to the next neighborhood barbecue. Defiantly, I press harder against the glass, imagining a telescope peeking through drawn curtains. But their garage is closed, a sign that no one is home.

Rick makes his way to an especially weedy flowerbed. He tosses his gatherings into a pile and gets down on his knees. His long arm reaches beyond the tulips, just sprouting, and yanks at a hardy plant. It’s hard to say if he successfully gets the root, but he seems satisfied to move on. I will him to look back at the house. But he doesn’t.

I shift against the window, shivering when the chill of the glass meets the heat of my thatch. I spread my legs. The window steams. Crisscrossed streaks form an imperfect triangle in the filmy condensation. And still Rick doesn’t look. He’s on a roll now, pulling, tossing, digging, stretching. I think about his penis, cocooned in yellow silk, sweat gathering in his creases, trickling down his back, finding a path in the crack of his ass. Lucky sweat. I lick my lips and rub against the glass.

Rick has told me I have an easy trigger. All I know is I burn hot, like a gasoline fire, when it comes to sex with him. At the moment, I don’t want to climax. I just want to tease myself. So I stop while I still can and pull away from the window. I think about what to wear. It’s hot outside. The sun is shining. I could wear my swimsuit, but the Lycra fits snug around my hips – not easy enough access for what I have in mind. Instead, I choose loose-fitting shorts and a T-shirt. No bra. No panties.

I sneak one last leer at Rick through the window. His bronzed skin is shiny with sweat. He’s avulsed a good-sized pile of weeds now, but an orange-yellow tulip has suffered a casualty – its petals have fallen off on one side. Maybe I’ll forgive Rick for his clumsiness, or maybe I’ll make him pay.

I like doing things just because I can, so I lick the glass once more to feel its coolness. I reach inside my shorts and dip into my pussy. Juicy wet. With my saturated finger, I write, “I love Rick” on the window. He hesitates for a minute and glances back at the house, as if he senses me. I wave, but he’s not focused, or maybe the glare from the sun keeps him from seeing in the window. But I know he’s thinking about me. And suddenly, I need to hurry outside.

“What took you so long?” he asks.

“Just felt like taking my time,” I tell him. “What happened to the tulip?”

He glances at the petals and shrugs. “Maimed in the line of duty.”

“Poor tulip,” I say.

“It lived a good life – prettier than most – and it’ll be back.”

I pick up a fallen petal. It hugs the pad of my thumb, and I can’t resist caressing it.

“Soft, huh?” Rick says.

“Nature’s velvet.”

I plop to the ground just behind him. The grass is cool and tickles the backs of my thighs. The heat of my arousal, far from forgotten, is momentarily stalled.

“Are you sure you want to do yard work today?” I ask.

“The weeds are becoming an eyesore. The Hartford’s are going to report us to the neighborhood watch.” Rick has turned back to the flowerbed, picking up where he left off. His fingers are stained green, and dirt lines his nails.

“I suppose…” I mumble, but I don’t want to work. I want to bask in the sun, feel my blood steep in its heat. I want to burn outside and in and let my body’s aloe soothe between my legs. “Those darn Hartford’s,” I say.

Rick grunts. He is dedicated. Three more weeds disposed of. He breathes in and out with little puffs of exertion. Around his shoulder blades, the muscles bunch. From behind, the mind could be fooled. The sounds, the smells, the vision, all hint that Rick could be fucking. I wish he were, except to have this view, it wouldn’t be me he was fucking. Maybe, he’s fucking Cynthia Hartford, with her topiary-like coiffure and her yuppie khakis. “Too messy,” she’d be screeching as Rick’s earth-stained hands crumple her crisp, white polo shirt. Poor Jonathon’s skin must chafe from all the scrubbing I imagine Cynthia insists on.

Rick’s hips rock forward and back, his shorts dig into the crevice of his ass, outlining the natural mounds. Yes, he could be fucking. I could be watching his ass clench and unclench, getting glimpses of his rugaed pouch tightening close to his body, following the rivulet of sweat past his anus, straining to see his cock buried.

“Mmm,” I moan, but Rick doesn’t respond.

I fiddle with the tulip petal. An idea blooms. I open my legs and push the leg of my shorts aside until my pussy is exposed. I part my labia and immediately the sun’s rays hit my clitoris – heat to heat – and I gulp back another moan. I tap the tulip petal against my clit. The petal is immediately wet and clings without prompting.


“Yeah,” he says without looking.

“Honey, there’s something over here that needs plucking.”

Rick glances over his shoulder. “Wha…?” He stops mid-pull on a particularly big dandelion, jerks his head toward the Hartford’s house and then looks back at me. “Nature’s velvet, huh?” he says with a grin.

“I don’t think I can do any yard work today,” I say. “At least, not until we give this tulip a proper send off.”

He turns to face me, sits back on his haunches, and wipes his hands on his shorts. He rubs his chin and squints, even though the sun is at his back.

“Got any ideas, Garden Boy?” I release my fingers, and my labia hide the tulip petal between my folds. There’s just enough irritation to tease me. I squeeze my legs together and stand.

“What are you doing?” Rick asks.

I nod my head toward our house. “C’mon.”

He takes another look at the Hartford’s house. “Too chicken?” he taunts.

Rick and I have made love in our backyard before, but this was before Cynthia and Jonathon moved in and replaced the natural greenbelt privacy screen between our properties.

I follow his gaze over to the Hartford’s. Still no sign of life. I feel daring, cocky. “No, I’m not too chicken,” I say, slipping my shorts off. I kick out of them but make a beeline for our backdoor. Rick’s footfalls gallop behind me. There’s no way I can outrun him. He is instantly there. Just as I reach the steps to our backdoor, he catches me. With one hand, he grabs the back of my shirt, and with the other, he reaches around my waist and yanks me to him. His shorts don’t conceal his arousal. It presses against my backside. Suddenly, I’m scared to death the Hartford’s really are at home, watching.

“Rick, let’s go inside,” I pant.

“You wanted to be a bad girl,” he says, his mouth close to my ear. “Let’s be bad.”

He nudges me forward, down on all fours, balancing on the weathered, wooden steps. My heart pounds. The rush of blood echoes like rolling thunder. This is what I wanted, what’d I’d been wanting all day. But I’m a creature of habit, too.

“Rick, we can’t do this here. They’ll call the police.”

“Then we better hurry,” he says, sliding his shorts down far enough to pull out his cock. Saffron silk and pale blue denim huddle at his knees.

Thoughts scamper through my head like rabbits hopping hither and yon: we’ll never be able to share a backyard barbecue with the Hartford’s again. I left my shorts on the lawn! I’m liable to get a splinter in my knees. My God! Is that Rick’s cock inching down my ass and crowding toward my pussy?

No, it’s his fingers, digging and dancing. Slipping and swaying. Finding my clitoris and the tulip petal that has miraculously stayed in place. He makes a show of peeling the petal off, putting it on his tongue and sucking on it before finally swallowing.

“Oh, baby, I could be a vegetarian if everything tasted like you,” he says.

I forget that I’m half naked, forget that we’re outside, forget that there’s no darn greenbelt. “Let’s do it, Rick. Fuck me, right here. Right now!”

“An offer I can’t refuse.” He lines up behind me and lets his heavy cock rest atop my rear. He waits, knowing how much I like feeling the weight of him, except I’m too ready, my quick trigger too itchy.

“Hurry, Rick.”

Cavalier about our surroundings and my demands, he takes his time. The exhibitionistic element turns Rick on as much as the deed and teasing me is one of his favorite things to do. Using the head of his dick like a brush, he strokes it along my crack – a painter perfecting a line. He circles the outlets, dabbing, caressing, but carefully avoiding entry.

The distant screech of tires is like the flip of a switch. Adrenalin screams through my veins, reminding me where we are and what we are doing.

“Oh, my god! We have to go inside.”

“Not yet, baby. Let’s do this.”

“I heard a car,” I whine.

“That was at least two streets over.” But he quickens his pace. A tender jab and he plunges his cock inside my pussy. A single ray of sun – strong and hot – burning its way to my core. But the real heat comes when Rick drapes himself over me, encircling my waist and chest, gripping my belly, squeezing a breast. The air sizzles around us, holding close the smell of sweat and dirt and vegetation.

Rick’s hips move, and I move with him. His skin is as slick as mine. Our flesh smacks together and sucks apart in sweaty rhythm. He finger walks down my belly to between my thighs and taps against my clitoris, mimicking his thrusts. I wish I could see him, see us, from behind. Maybe Cynthia Hartford can.

His cock expands, hardens to its tightest, reaches to my depths. He nearly comes, but remembers me. There’s no sun, no neighbors, no dandelions or tulips. There’s just me and Rick. Husband and wife. Lovers. A creature of habit, he guides me to orgasm first, tap-tapping against my clit, circling within my depths. When mine comes, he follows with his own.

We shiver, and it’s as mind-clearing as a dousing of cold water. I glance over once again to the Hartford’s. Is it a trick of light or do the curtains flutter? It’s hard to tell.

We scramble to get through the backdoor and into the house. Semen trickles down my thigh. “I can’t believe you just fucked me in our backyard,” I sputter before the door is even closed.

Rick grins. Dirt streaks his chest like war paint “That’s what you get,” he says, grabbing at his shorts and fumbling to get them up. “I would spank you for being so naughty. If I could remember where I put my belt.”

Summer – Sand and Suntan Oil

Rick’s birthday is in June, under the sign of the crab. His favorite time of year is summer, and his favorite place to be is on the beach. He likes body surfing and walking for miles along the water’s edge. But mostly, he likes lying in the hot sun and toasting his skin to a shimmery bronze. He knows all about the hazards of the sun, but he ignores them. The sun and the surf beckon to him to come back to them as his rightful home.

Vacationing in Clearwater, Florida and Rick’s in a hurry. He rushes down ahead of me. I stay back and take the time to shave. When I’m finished, I join him at the beach. He’s found a spot with an umbrella, but the umbrella is closed. I flop down in the lounge chair beside him and stretch out under the sun. The waves coming to shore lap at the sand like fluid sculptures. I could watch them for hours if not for the picture of Rick on his chair, face down, on his belly. A slender piece of Lycra divides his ass cheeks and tees at the small of his back. Most men can’t wear thongs, but Rick’s svelte body was made for them—a swimmer’s body. A sexy body. Clean lines and defined muscle.

I lick my lips and taste the salt of the air. The sun is brilliant with only an occasional puffy cloud mulling over it. There is a breeze, but it is warm air with a hint of mist off the ocean. It’s perfect sunbathing weather. Rick’s skin has already taken on the red of heat.

“Want me to put some suntan oil on your back?” I ask.

He opens just one eye and peers at me. “If you want to.”

I dig out the bottle of oil from my beach bag, the kind that smells like coconut and sex, and hop up next to him. I drizzle some of the oil on Rick’s back, and then throw my leg over to straddle his hips.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles.

“The sand is hot. Plus, I work better in this position.”

I see a smile at the corner of his mouth.

I inch myself down across his sun-heated buttocks. As I maneuver, my swimsuit creeps up and exposes the juncture of my inner thigh and groin—the freshly-shaved soft spot. He shifts, and his ass rubs against my pussy, an intimate kiss of flesh to flesh. I glance around to see if anyone is watching. A man and woman are at the water’s edge allowing the surf to hit their feet. Two girls in bikinis lie on their stomachs with their bikini tops undone, but their heads are turned the other way. In the distance are more people, coming toward us in one direction, going away from us in the other. We’re not quite alone, but alone enough.

I slide my hands through the oil, spreading it evenly over his sinewy back, his muscular shoulders, his tapered waist. Using long, firm strokes, followed by shorter, gentler ones, I stroke until every inch of his upper torso glistens. I shift and turn to do the same to his legs, his calves, his thighs, up and down and up and down, with warm, slippery hands gliding along tight, hard muscle. I work my way up between his legs until my fingers meet Lycra. I wiggle my index finger against the cloth dampened by sweat and oil.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he mutters against the towel.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I slip my finger beneath the Lycra. “I’m letting those two girls you just happened to find a seat nearby wonder where my fingers are.”

His head jerks up. “What?” He squints to see the girls. His face relaxes when he discovers they’re still facing the other way.


He shrugs and lays his head back down. “You’re such a tease.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. A real tease would lean over you, press her tits against your back and whisper something like, ‘want to show your cock to those girls?’” As I speak, I do exactly what I’m describing, making sure to pronounce “cock” with a hard “k” sound into his ear.

His groin twitches beneath my fingers, and he sighs. “Fuck.”

“Maybe later,” I say and purposely take my time sliding off his body. “Right now I’m hot. I need to get wet.”

He grunts, and draws my attention to my double entendre.

I giggle. “Maybe I should’ve said, I need to submerge myself in water.” I cup my mound to test the humidity. “I’m already wet.”

His eyes widen, but he feels challenged to be as bold. “How wet?”

“You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” I say and run off toward the ocean. I slow down when I pass the couple letting the water run over their feet.

“Wow, she’s tanned, isn’t she?” I hear the woman say, but I don’t wait to hear her partner’s answer. I have Shawnee blood, tanning is easy.

I’m up to my knees in the warm water before I turn back to look for Rick. He’s sitting up and watching me. When I wave, he stands and makes his way to the water’s edge. His skin sparkles and his long hair flairs out behind him. He’s every bit the Scottish lord of his ancestry, but without the kilt.

The couple stares at him as he passes, and they see he’s wearing a thong. The man shakes his head and looks away, but the woman continues to watch as Rick sails into the water. She licks her lips, and I imagine I know just what she’s thinking: damn, he’s hot! She’s right. The man grabs the woman’s hand and together they walk off down the beach, but not before the woman chances one last glance over her shoulder.

Rick dives underwater and swims to me, one long stroke after another, barely making a splash as he glides across the water. When he reaches me, he takes hold of my waist and lifts me with him as he stands. Buoyancy, provided by the water, helps me float as I wrap my legs around his waist, and we hug. He smells of coconut and man and sea—a delicious combination. He immediately works his hand down over my hip and into my bikini bottom, fingering his way to my pussy.

“You are wet, baby. And hot…so hot.” He growls as he pushes one finger inside of me.

“Hot enough to fuck me?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Shrinkage factor?”


I grab the front of his thong and yank it down. The water is clear enough that I can see his cock, semi-erect and bobbing in our wake. I take it in my hand and squeeze.

“Or maybe not,” he says.


I release his cock, but I keep my legs latched around his waist and float back into the water. He places his hands on my hips and pulls me closer to him. When our bodies are touching, he inches my swimsuit down and nudges the head of his cock against my bare pussy. The cold rush of ocean is a shock when he spreads my labia and pushes past, but he enters me so slickly, the chill subsides in an instant.

The waves are calm, just enough power to lift us up and bump us together, as if Rick has garnered the surf’s help in his cause.

“Do you think they can see what we’re doing?” I ask.

“Who, the couple?”

“No, they’re long gone. She got in trouble for looking at you and her husband made her leave.”

“Yeah, right.”


Rick scans the beach. “No one can see us.”

“Not even the two girls with their tops undone?” I practice my kegels and squeeze his penis.

“Only one of them is watching,” he says.

I glance over and sure enough, one of the girls—bikini top safely in place—is sitting up, leaning on her arms.

“Think she’ll come in the water?”

He puts his hand over my belly, right above my womb like he’s trying to touch his penis inside of me. It’s a magnetic force of heat and I shiver. “I don’t care if she comes,” he says.

“Maybe she’ll walk to the water’s edge, just close enough to make sure she’s seeing what she thinks she’s seeing.”

“Maybe she doesn’t give a fig what we’re doing,” he counters.

“Sure she does.” I touch my hand to his, but only for a moment. I need it to help me keep floating.

“Maybe she’s a lesbian.”

“Doesn’t matter. Even if on the surface she’s repulsed by the idea, her body is already betraying her. She’s hot and sweaty and her warmed blood is close to the surface. Every corpuscle is relaxed, spread wide and eager for passion.”

Rick’s penis lurches inside of me. I squeeze it again, and I keep squeezing as I continue talking.

“She can’t help but envy us. She wonders how we can be so free in public.”

A low undercurrent has moved us further out, away from the shore and into deeper water. Rick grabs my hands and pulls me up to him. It’s hard to hold onto his slippery skin but with my legs clamped around his body, his penis somehow stays inside of me.

“Then let’s give her something to really wonder about.” His lips meet mine, wet and warm. “I love you, baby,” he says between kisses.

I wrap my arms around his neck and hold myself as tight to him as I can get. “I love you more.”

I don’t imagine it’s possible we can actually consummate our love, at least not to completion, not in the water, but Rick surprises me. He grinds into me, hugging tightly and kissing my neck.

“I’m going to come inside you. Out here in the big wide ocean,” he rasps. And as he says he will, he does, shocking me with how easy it is. His semen is hot, hot as liquid sun as it melts into me. When his last spasm passes and his cock begins to wilt, it pops free from inside me, but nestles between my lips and against my clitoris. It’s warm and the contrast in temperature is as stimulating as a strategic caress. With very little effort, I could come too. But I don’t want to, not yet. Not for a while.

I release my legs and do a backward somersault in the water. The water is refreshing and salty and perfect. Rick is sputtering when I finally come back up.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

For a man who just fucked his wife in the ocean in front of anyone who might see, Rick’s vocabulary is suddenly shy. “You didn’t finish.”

“I will later,” I say before diving back under and swimming to shore.

I make my way out of the water, dripping saltwater and semen, and I feel as fulfilled as any woman could. I catch the eye of the girl in the bikini as she nudges her friend and nods toward me. I know she suspects what Rick and I have been doing, but I don’t mind. I turn to wait for him as he makes his way out of the water. He’s slow to recover. I imagine his legs are weak—they always are after sex. When he stands, his thong is back in place, his erection has subsided, and he’s still the sexiest man alive when he rises up out of the water, pushes his wet hair back, and reaches for my hand.

We trudge through the sand, back to our seats, breathing heavy. The girls in bikinis look at us and giggle.

Minutes later, the sun has dried us. Rick is once again flat on his belly and looking like a sun god. Maybe it’s later already.

“Do you want to put some oil on my back?” I ask.

Autumn – Omelets and Red Pepper

Rick likes to make omelets, and I like to watch him. He has a ritual: gathering the ingredients from the refrigerator, settling them in the burner of the stovetop that he won’t be using, frying up the meat—bacon or sausage or ham—setting it aside and finally cutting up the vegetables. He grips the knife around its bolster —the knife’s balance point—with his last three fingers resting on the handle. His thumb and index finger are on opposite sides of the blade, like the knife is an extension of his hand, and he pierces the flesh of each vegetable with the knife’s edge before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the vegetable, hitting the cutting board with a decisive thunk, and then turning the slices in tandem and cutting again until all the vegetables are in chunks—neat little piles of red pepper, green pepper, mushrooms, and onions. He glances over at me and winks before stealing a bite from the pile of red peppers.

I hop up on the counter, the polished granite cool on my ass, my feet dangling, and I absorb every little thing he does. Rick doesn’t know that I’m not wearing anything under the blanket I pulled around me before coming to the kitchen. He thinks I’m watching him because I’m hungry. And I am, but it’s not an omelet that I’m hungry for—it’s Rick.

Rick wears his pajama pants and nothing else while he cooks. I know there’s nothing underneath the pants because it’s morning, and Rick sleeps in the nude, and because the waist always slips down on his hip, exposing the concaved dip between Rick’s leg and his groin. A stirring between my legs, faint at first, strengthens the more I ogle Rick because he is beautiful and utterly fuckable. I’m torn between wanting to stare and wanting to touch. If only his pajamas would slip down a little further.

Rick knows I enjoy watching, so the morning ritual has become a point of seduction between us. As he whisks the eggs, he flexes the muscles of his forearm. He talks to me about baseball or the stock market, but he speaks slowly and uses his husky, morning voice, the one that makes me press my thighs together and shiver. He looks over at me just before putting the egg mixture into the frying pan and says something funny. He doesn’t laugh aloud, because he never does, but he does smile. A jolt of a smile that touches me to my core. I inch forward from my seat atop the counter and open my legs, just enough to summon Rick toward me. He hesitates before setting the bowl down and turning the flame off, because he likes making me wait, likes to see how long I can go before I’ll squirm. He leans against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, causing the gap between his pajamas and his skin to widen. And just as the stirring between my thighs turns into a cruel, slow burn, Rick slowly walks toward me.

He reaches with both hands and cradles my face, the pungent smell of onion and bell pepper clinging to his fingers. He presses his thumbs against my lips and into my mouth, giving me a taste. I gaze into his eyes while I suck, first the tip of one thumb, and then the other. His eyes get dreamy and the blue of them shine. He leans in close and nips at my lips, guppy-like, then moves upward along the lines of my nose, across my eyelids, and back to my lips. Breathing and nipping. Breathing and nipping. And then he’s no longer gentle. He kisses me hard, until my lips feel bruised and swollen. He rubs his day-old beard against my face, scraping and burning my flesh until I moan. His hands have barely touched me, not the way I need them to.

I open my legs further and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, gnawing on his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, inhaling the leftover smell of sleep. My hands slide down over the sinewy muscles of his arms, fingering the definitions he’d flexed moments ago with the whisk, and the blanket falls off my shoulders, leaving me nude.

I grab at his chest, running my hands through the fine hair and squeezing his pectorals before pinching his nipples. Rick grunts because he likes me to play with his nipples. So I pinch a little harder and then flatten my palms against the pebbled buds. My eyes close, and I imagine I can feel his blood rushing, his lungs expelling, his heart beating.

Rick winks again when he notices my blanket has dropped and I’m completely nude, and then he claws his way up my thighs, forcing my legs apart until they ache, an ache that makes me wet. Another smell is added to the air—the smell of pussy—and Rick inhales like he’s a master chef. But he doesn’t touch me there, not yet, except to brush his knuckles against my pubic hair. He says, “What a pretty pussy you have.” And I know it’s true because he’s so sincere.

My hands slide down his torso to the waist of his pajamas, and I fumble with the tie, pretending I’m having trouble. Rick grunts again, grabs my hands, and pushes them aside. He yanks at the tie and the pajama pants suddenly drop over his hips and puddle at his ankles. He quickly steps out of them, but I’m not watching his feet, I’m looking at his penis. It’s already hard and thick, and the tip is glossy with moisture.

Rick pulls me to the edge of the counter, its hard surface digging into my ass. The head of his cock nudges my belly, and I wrap my hand around the velvet heat of his shaft. The thick tendon along the underside stretches and tightens. And his beating pulse thrums in my hand. There will be no more seduction.

In one elegant movement, Rick covers my hand with his and positions his cock at the entrance of my cunt. Together we guide him, millimeter by millimeter. We watch his cock disappear inside me until the anticipation is too great, and Rick thrusts forward—hard. I want to scream, but my voice is trapped in my throat. I hook my ankles around his waist and throw my head back, wishing Rick could climb inside my body completely. I scratch and dig at his muscled back, leaving streaks of red and crescent imprints of my fingernails.

Rick buries his face into my neck, straining and salivating as he thrusts. He says, “Baby baby baby” against my skin and the vibration of his voice acts as a conduit from my neck to my cunt. I tighten myself around his cock, and Rick presses deeper. Our breathing, harsh and heavy, reverberates in the silence of the kitchen, followed by the slapping of wet flesh. Rick reaches orgasm just seconds before I do, and his semen spills into me as his body shudders. I feel closer to him then than any person ever in my life, and when my orgasm echoes his, I cry.

Rick asks, “Are you crying?” And I tell him it’s the onions, but he knows it isn’t. He knows my tears are because I love him and the way that he loves me. And when I shiver, he pulls the blanket back up around my shoulders and turns to finish our omelet.

Winter – Firewood and Singing Scat

It’s snowing—big fat flakes that melt on skin but accumulate on the ground—and Rick is chopping wood: alder trees that fell during a storm last spring. He’s not a manual labor sort of guy, but he’s surprising in his strength and ability, and methodical in his movements. Axe in hand, log a little below knee level, he uses his legs to take some of the strain off his back. The first blow is straight into the wood, smooth and clean. He pulls back and repeats, the second blow splitting the log in two. And every log is the same—in, out, thunk—until the pile is high enough to feed a fire for a few days.

His cheeks are rosy and a sheen of sweat beads on his upper lip and at his hairline. “You’re glowing,” I tell him.

“Men do not glow.”

“My man does, especially when he wields an axe.”

“Well, don’t tell anybody or I’ll never be able to show my face at the poker table again.”

“Too late. I’ve already told Julie and Mim and Pat and Brian. They’ll be expecting you to glow on cue at the next party.”

“With or without the axe?”

Pretending to help, I grab a couple of the chopped pieces and stack them. “Maybe we can think of something else with a sturdy shaft, but not quite as sharp a blade, for you to wield instead.”

“At the party?”

I grin. “At the party, now, whatever.”

He drops the axe and goes for the zipper in his jeans. He’s only teasing. What he doesn’t know is I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a while—watching him work, listening to the splitting of wood, letting the snow fall on my tongue—and inside, I’m as liquid as melted butter.

“Nah, it’s too cold out here,” he says. “And the sun is going down.”

“I’m not cold.”

“Your cheeks are red.”

“Does red mean cold? I thought red stood for fire.”

He picks up the axe and with one stroke, he sinks the blade into a stump. “Get in the house, woman. There’s a snowstorm coming.”

Neanderthal talk sounds good coming from him, but I can’t let him think so. I put my hand on my hip and cock my mouth open like I’m appalled. “Woman?”

“If I’m your man, that makes you my woman.”

“Yeah, but when I say, ‘my man’ it sounds bluesy and jazzy and sexy. When you say, ‘my woman’ it sounds caveman-ish.”

“I am tempted to drag you in the house by your hair.”

“And I’m tempted to bend over that stump and see if you can make me sing a little scat.”

The snow is beginning to mount, just as the weatherman has predicted, and Rick shakes his head. I want to debate the notion, but Rick settles things before I can even raise the spontaneity card by picking up an armload of firewood and heading toward the door. I gaze at the stump, imagining myself leaning over it with Rick positioned behind me, the snow falling on my bared ass, prickles of cold washed away with the heat of his cock deep inside me. I shiver. But I’m not cold.

I grab a few more pieces of firewood and slog along behind him, stepping in the tracks he’s made in the fresh-fallen snow. I feel like his woman, but in a good way.

“I better get this fire going,” he says as we walk into the living room.

“Make it big and hot.”

He turns to me and lifts an eyebrow. “Everything you say today has more than one meaning. Shows where your mind is at.”

“Maybe it’s your mind and your interpretations.”

His smirk is wicked as he turns back to layer the kindling. I drop my load on the stack and sit down on the ledge. The fireplace is over a hundred years old, even though the house is just under fifty. The original building was destroyed, but the owners were able to salvage the fireplace by numbering it piece by piece and dismantling it. The stones are giant river rocks and still bear the old pencil mark numbers. And the whole thing stands the height of the house. It’s one of the things that drew us to the property. That and the fact it sits overlooking a quiet lake in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.

But the previous owners forgot to mention how iffy electricity is during heavy weather. Two of the last three snow storms left us powerless for more than twenty-four hours. We are slowly adopting the Boy Scouts’ “be prepared” motto as our own. Pull tab soup cans and other non-perishables stock our pantry. Flashlights, with packs of batteries as company, are stashed in drawers throughout the house, and matches and butane lighters fill the antique Chinese vase on the mantel.

The fire crackles to life and fills the room with the scent of burning wood. I slip off my gloves and hold my hands up to the flames for warmth, more out of habit than because they’re cold. It doesn’t take long before they’re toasty hot, and I’m reminded of Rick’s hot hands from earlier in the day. He’d made coffee. After handing me a hot mug, he’d slipped his hands under my shirt and cupped my breasts. The transference of heat had made me forget all about the book I’d been reading.

“What are you thinking about?” Rick asks. “You’re suddenly so quiet.”

“I was thinking that maybe it isn’t the cold I like so much as it is the warming up from being cold.”


“Like this morning when you put your hot hands on me, or now here by the fire. It feels good.”

The phone rings. It’s Rick’s mother asking if we’d like to wait out the storm at her house. Rick hesitates as if to tell her yes. As much as I like my mother-in-law, I’m in the mood to be alone with my husband. I strip off my jacket and sweater. Already braless, I lean into the fireplace until my skin feels like it could burn, and then I quickly turn to face him. My nipples are fat and big.

“I think we’re going to rough it out,” I hear him say, and then he’s quiet.

I figure she’s trying to convince him. I untie my boots, kick them off and reach for the snap and zipper of my pants. I turn back to face the fire and ease my jeans and panties down over my hips, purposely taking my time, revealing my ass as slowly as I can. I bend over much further than I need to to take off my socks. When I’m completely nude, I step up on the ledge of the fireplace and spread my legs, hoping Rick can see the outline of my pussy just above the fire, hoping he’s actually looking my way.

“Yeah, we got everything we need,” he says.

From the sound of his voice, I know he’s moving toward me. I stretch my arms up over the river rock, leaning my naked body against it. The fire below is almost too hot. My legs and mound burn, but the cool of the rocks help.

His hand is on my ass when he ends the phone conversation. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom.” And then both hands are on me, kneading. “That wasn’t fair,” he says.

“Who says I have to be fair?”

His hands are cold. When he runs a finger in my crack and follows the slit of me, it’s like ice in a lava valley. He finds my clitoris and toys with it, caressing and flicking it before leaving it and pattering back to my opening. He slips his finger inside.

He nips at my ass cheeks, working his lips and teeth toward my divide. He doesn’t need encouragement, but I give it anyway by spreading my cheeks. He licks my fingers, tongues between and over them like he’s following a relief map. He wiggles his finger waiting inside me as if I might forget it’s there.

The fire feels like it’s searing my thighs. “I have to move. It’s too hot,” I whisper.

His finger slides out and with strength I sometimes forget he has, he grabs me around the waist and whisks me off the ledge. He sets me down in front of a chair. “Sit,” he demands. The caveman is back.

I miss the heat of the fire already and shiver, but I do what he says. He kicks off his boots and unzips his pants. There’s no seduction meant in his swift movements, but I am seduced anyway. His layers come off and with the fire as his backdrop, he reveals his perfection—sculpted and masculine and erect.

“My man…”

He kneels between my legs and pulls my hips to the edge of the chair. He hovers over me, blows on my pubic hair, and butts his nose in its fluff. He parts me with his fingertips and kisses my pink. “My woman,” he breathes and the tiny vibrations electrify me.

He’s called me a tease, but teasing is his routine. He licks every part, carefully avoiding my clitoris. He’s read somewhere that rubbing on either side is supposed to be stimulating. Maybe it is, but I’m too eager in wanting the real thing. I love him for reading and trying new things. At this moment, I’d love him more if he’d just take me in his mouth and suck. I grab his head and push.

“Eager beaver,” he mumbles.

“Would you prefer a cold fish?”

The lights flicker, warning us the electrical lines have taken as much weight as they will stand. Rick licks me from back to front and then releases me. “Better light some candles,” he says and stands.

“The fire is going. We can see well enough.” I pout.

“We don’t want to be caught in the dark.”

“We don’t?”

He reaches for a lighter in the Chinese vase, flicks it on and begins the task of lighting candles. “I like seeing what I’m eating,” he yells from the kitchen.

He doesn’t fool me. I know it’s just one more way of making me wait—a way of laying the kindling to my fire, my arousal. I’m tempted to touch myself just to be ornery. He saunters back in the room, penis slightly wilted. The fire is going, the lights are on, and all the candles are lit.

“Apparently, you want everyone else to see what you’re eating too? Maybe even the astronauts out there on the International Space Station?”

“Nah, that would just be mean. I heard they almost ran out of food.” He tosses the lighter on an end table and looks at me. “Come here,” he says.


“Come over here.” He points to the rug in front of the fireplace.

“But I’m so comfy. Why should I?”

“Because I want to fuck my wife in front of the fire.” His cock lurches when he says the word fuck.

“Say it again,” I whisper.

“I want to fuck my wife.”

It’s the little things that make me love him: the way he pronounces his k’s, the way he watches me walk toward him with lust in his eyes, the way he opens his arms for me to fall into, and the way he leads me to the floor. But mostly, it’s the way he says, ‘I love you’ when he enters me—the words rush out, almost as if he doesn’t control them.

He kisses my neck, but his breathing is labored and the kisses are like afterthoughts. His attention is on his thrusts. I wrap my arms and legs around his frame and pull him toward me, encouraging him to take his weight off his arms and rest on me. He does, and I can’t imagine two people could be any closer.

Rick finds a rhythm that presses against my clitoris as he moves. Inside of me, his cock lengthens and widens. I close my eyes. This is one of those special times I think I can time my climax with his. But suddenly I’m not thinking at all, I’m feeling. The power of orgasm washes over me and I sing. Not exactly Ella Fitzgerald’s scat but unintelligible syllables nonetheless. And Rick is right there with me, pounding and coming in harmony.

Our breathing slows, and Rick slowly rolls off of me, leaving a trail of moisture on my leg. Suddenly, for the first time all day, I feel chilled.

“Now, I’m cold,” I say.

“I built the fire, woman. Keeping warm is up to you.” He reaches over, tugs on my pubic hair and grunts.

“Okay, Caveman, you can join me in the twenty-first century. The electricity is still working.”

“You mean we could have been watching TV?”

“Or cooking dinner.”

“A perfectly wasted snow storm.”

“The night’s still early, yet.”

“And if all else fails, we can just turn out all the lights and pretend.”

Is it any wonder why I love him?


Edited by PI Rockwell

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