Working the Kinks Out

She watched through the front window while he split firewood, while a pile grew and spread at his feet.

While the handle slid through his palms and the blade slammed the piece with a thunk; while he pulled back and drove again with short, deliberate strokes until a segment yielded under considerable concentrated effort.

He was close enough so she could see him sweat, a stray bead down a flushed cheek in profile. She stared at his butt when he bent to get another piece, which of course he did again and again.

Which he did to prepare wood for the fire they would sit in front of together, in silence usually, watching the flames at play.

She watched and thought of how she would feel bent over their farmhouse table, wrists trussed to the legs with rope from the ramshackle shed.

She thought of his strong hands yanking her pants down to her knees abruptly without so much as a by your leave. Then spanking her with a feeling ungently from one side to the other of her bare ass, so it hurt and hurt a little more.

So hard she yelped, louder most likely than she yelped then, sitting on the arm of the leather chair watching him work.

While she shifted on the upholstery while she thought of his callused hands caressing her inflamed ass after he’d abused it. And the sound of the zipper of his jeans coming down, much louder in reverie than it would ever be in the kitchen.

His way of loving was truer and straighter than his ax handle, as plain and unlayered as a blue mountain sky on a Colorado morning in November. Which is what this was, and her dreams were what they were and it looked as if he might have chopped half a cord.

He came in wiping his broad brow, leaving a trail of grit from the back of his wrist. His dark eyes were bright and his crooked grin was wide open.

“Damn, it feels good to work the kinks out,” he said. “You would never guess what I was thinking.”

“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll get you a cold drink and you can tell me all about it.”