The air is cool between the elevation and the gathering clouds, but the work has my muscles on fire from the exertion and I'm soaked in sweat.
One thing about living out in the woods by yourself is that you have a lot of conversations with yourself.
CHOP!
You'd think by now I'd have gotten to know myself well enough to know that I'm not about to pull the truck out of storage and make my semi-annual run into town a month early just to get my dick wet.
CHOP!
Fuck no. CHOP! I'm better than that. I got no problem living up here without internet or television or even an old fashioned landline telephone. I don't crave human company. I don't want to sit in a noisy bar, drinking beer with "the guys," and I sure as hell don't need to feel a woman's body wrapped up with mine bad enough to go out of my way to get it.
CHOP!
CHOP!
Most of the wood is cedar or pine, soft wood that dries fast and splits easy. This one is hardwood and the axe digs in deep but doesn't slide through it. I have to pick the axe up with the blade still embedded in the log and bring the whole thing down on the stump again before the log reluctantly slides apart.
Something about the way the moist grain peels apart as the blade slides into strikes me as sexual. I can see beads of moisture released from the pink hue of the grain and my dick actually twitches.
Shit. What is it with the fucker today? I ignore my cock and growl at the chunk of oak as I pull it apart and set one half back up for another whack.
I haven't had to talk him down this much since I moved up here 3 seasons back but I'm used to being alone now. I don't need to get laid to feel alive and I'm done with one night stands and meaningless hook ups. As for finding something else?
CHOP! A certain sense of pride washes over me as the blade cuts through the oak in a clean move-- and my dick settles back down-- like I proved my superiority over a piece of fucking wood.
The cabin has had some improvements made since I moved in permanently. I have plumbing, and electricity-- not that I need either-- I cleared the road in well enough to get something wider than a horse to the property but it's still not what most people would consider accessible. I've repaired a lot of the chinking between the logs of the original cabin walls, but the place is still pretty rustic.
I'd have no trouble talking most women into coming back up here and playing homesteader for a weekend, but there's not a woman on the planet that's likely to fall hard enough for the likes of me to stay up here and live this way.
No matter how loud I can make her scream.
Gail
I was packed up and hiking early. I did take time to boil water this morning to make some coffee and a packet of oatmeal. Oatmeal is not my favorite, but it's easy to pack, it has a long shelf-life, and it really is power food when you need energy that's going to burn a long time.
Still, it's only been a couple of hours and I'm hungry.
The map I tore out of the road atlas isn't really designed for hiking purposes, and it's hard to tell how far I've made it or how much farther I have left.
Clouds are rolling overhead, and they aren't moving past. Instead, they're gathering directly over me like they have a personal score to settle.
All I can think about is pizza and a hot shower-- and how much longer it's going to be before I get them-- when I come to a fork in the road. OK, "fork" would imply that the narrow lane winding into the woods on my right was actually something resembling a road. It's more like a couple of tire tracks between the trees. But looking up the hill, over the tops of those trees, I see a slim plume of smoke rising up to meet the gathering storm clouds.
The driveway indicates some sort of dwelling, the smoke indicates that someone is home. There's a really good chance that anyone living out here really doesn't want company but there's also a really good chance that anyone living out here has a phone or a two way radio or a Jeep... or, what I really need, some wood.
I follow the tire tracks through the trees, uphill, and around the bend. It's a hell of a hike. I'm not really good at gauging distance without a good map, but by the time I break out of the treeline and find myself staring at the barn and the tiny log cabin nestled in a wide clearing in the little valley, it's late afternoon . I estimate the driveway was a good 8 miles long.
The thin plume of smoke is still wafting up into the sky and now I can clearly see the top of the chimney from here.
As I move closer to the homestead, I see a well stocked wood pile behind the cabin. The overgrown traces of a late summer garden are visible within a section of tall deer-proof fencing farther back on the other side of the property.
I move toward the sound I've been listening to bouncing off the rocky mountains around me. The noise is familiar, yet I can't quite place it. Loud, and angry, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to find the source of it as I make my way closer to the cabin.
Holy shit.
There, about 50 feet in front of me, is a man and he's splitting wood-- with an axe.
He's also stripped down to nothing but faded blue jeans and a pair of work boots. He's not even wearing gloves as he swings the axe violently into a chunk of soft pine, sending the two halves falling off the stump he's using as his chopping block.
Despite the chill in the mountain air, he's got his shirt off-- a piece of red and black flannel material thrown over one of the bigger logs in the uncut woodpile catches my eye-- and he's covered in sweat.
His back muscles ripple and tense with each swing of the axe. I'm mesmerized by the way he uses every muscle in his arms and shoulders with each swing, first to drive the axe down into the wood he's splitting and then again to free the axe of the stump before reaching down and setting up another chunk to split.
Did I mention that a man swinging an axe is the very image of panty-melting hotness? My panties are currently dripping down my legs.
He stands up straight and stretches before raising the axe for his next swing. He's gotta be like 6 foot 4. His shoulders are broad and tanned, his torso tapers into a narrow waist in a classic V. His spine is straight, his arms are jacked, his unbelted jeans hang dangerously low, putting the strips of muscle over his hips on perfect display.
His ass is perfect and the power of his thighs moving under the worn denim is hypnotizing.
I should feel bad that I want him to turn around so I can see his abs instead of his face but right now I could care less what his face looks like.
He swings his torso from side to side, twisting at the waist and stretching his arms over his head. I could stand here like a creeper and watch him move all day. So graceful and powerful. Like watching a tiger stalk prey.
Then he turns and oh my God, Becky, look at those abs.
My eyes stick to the neatly stacked bricks that make up the man's 8 pack but soon give in to the call to follow the dark trail of fur that begs me to take a long look at the full package.
"What the hell are you doing out here?"
His barked words ought to yank me out of fantasy-land, but all I hear is the deep rumble that passes for his voice as he fully turns to face me.
Oh. Face. I force my eyes off the bulge in his jeans-- letting them take the scenic route, of course-- up to his face. You remember? The face I didn't care if he had a few minutes ago?
I'm seriously glad it's not the dead of winter when I find this lumberjack out here in the middle of the mountains looking like sex personified-- my thighs would be frozen together from how wet I am just looking at him.
His face is a perfect match for his body. Made up of rough angles and hard lines with dark, brooding eyes and the full beard covering the lower half of his face does a piss poor job at hiding the strength of his jaw or the firmness of his lips.
Too bad he's kind of an asshole.
"I said 'what the fuck are you doing on my property?'" He snaps again, standing with his fist wrapped around the handle of the axe like he's considering whether or not he needs it to defend himself.
The tho
ught is kinda laughable. Then I remember that I'm trespassing on this guy's land in the middle of nowhere and I start thinking about what kind of guys might live in the middle of nowhere and not be happy when a woman shows up on their doorstep.
Then I think of what kind of men live in the middle of nowhere who would be happy to have a woman show up on their doorstep and what they might decide to do with her.
Then I think of all things this man could do to me--
The sound of the axe hitting the stump snaps me back to the here and now.
"Sorry," I call out, not sure if I should move toward him, "I have a flat tire."
He picks his shirt up off the wood pile and uses part of it to wipe the sweat off his face, pushing his dark hair back off his forehead and giving me a look of utter disbelief as he pulls the sleeves of the shirt over his arms.
Something inside me makes a sad little whimper. Hot guys in flannel shirts still make delicious eye candy, but it seems downright criminal to cover up those arms.
"You have a flat tire?" His voice is cold. He obviously doesn't believe me. Eyeing my backpack he sneers at me, "So you hiked 50 miles into the mountains to knock on my door and ask for what exactly?"
"No. I'm actually the new Avon representative, I was wondering if the lady of the house was available?" Sarcasm is my super power.
He runs a hand over his chin, scrubbing over his whiskers as his eyes drag down my body in a way that feels not nearly as polite as when I did the exact same thing to him a little earlier.
It turns out hot, grumpy men in flannel with axes are my Kryptonite.
"Can I use your phone?"
"Who you planning on callin? Triple A?" He scoffs, still looking at me long and hard.
I half expect him to poke me any minute now to make sure I'm real. Hell, if he really lives up here alone, maybe he's used to hallucinating.
"Well, not exactly," I don't know why I feel the need to explain myself, "but almost everywhere I've been through has at least one tow company that deals with off roaders and trails and stuff."
Axe-dude is shaking his head sternly, "Might be true, but I don't have a phone, so you're shit outta luck."
"You don't have any form of communications up here?" I don't know why I'm surprised-- look who's talking, "What if something happens to you? You could end up dying just because you couldn't call for help."
His head shake switches to a slow nod, "No one said the pursuit of happiness didn't come with some risks."
Overhead, thunder cracks and the sky opens up on us.
"Come on and get inside," he reaches out and wraps a huge hand around my upper arm, dragging me along with him into the cabin, "We can gawk at each other when we're both warm and dry."
Blaze
The last time I had the feeling of being watched while I was outside working, I turned around and found the biggest damn black bear I've ever seen standing about 10 feet away from me. So when I stop to stretch out after hacking at the wood pile long enough to start feeling it in my muscles and I get that uncanny feeling of eyes on my back, I make sure to have a good grip on the handle of the axe as I turn around, just in case.
The thing staring at me is not a bear, although she is staring at me like she wants to eat me.
It takes me awhile to get used to what I'm looking at. There aren't any hiking trails running past my land so the chick with the backpack slung over her shoulders must be lost as fuck.
Hell, my dick's already been giving me fits today and now there's a woman on my property that gives the fucker a good excuse to jump to attention. She looks a little rough around the edges, like she's been living out of that pack for a long time.
Her blonde hair is a halo of stray strands that have escaped the loose braid its pulled into, her skin is tanned with traces of pink along her cheeks and forehead, and she looks damn good for not having any make up on and probably not having had a shower in a few days.
Damn good.
She's got on a pair of those stretch pants that fit more like tights and they wrap around her thighs like dark gray skin, showing me every curve of her lower body from the round flare of her hips down the full swell of her thighs.
The girl's in decent shape but she could use a good meal-- or 20-- to fill out her curves. From here she looks like a lot of tits and ass connected with a waist that's thin enough to accent her hour glass figure and still thick enough to give me something to wrap my hands around while I plow into her with her bent over in front of me.
Where the fuck did she come from?
My dick is thinking heaven, but he's been doing enough of the thinking today.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" It comes out sounding like I'm pissed. Maybe I am, I haven't decided yet.
What I do know is that I live in the fucking middle of nowhere. I'm 10 miles off a road that sees traffic about 5 times a year and two of those are me. With the exception of my first year up here, when the local rangers were curious about me, I have never had an unexpected visitor show up on my land.
Particularly not a curvy knock-out in hiking boots staring at me like she hasn't eaten in a week and I'm an all you can eat buffet.
I'm all about holding out faith that the things you need will show up when you need them and all but I'm also well-damned-aware that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.
So when she tells me she needs a tow truck to come up to the old Ridge Route road to fix a flat tire for her, I laugh out loud.
Her eyes narrow and she pulls her shoulders back, everything about her body language tells me she's not impressed with my attitude but the way she stands there staring at me tells me she's sure as fuck impressed with something about me.
We stand in a silent face off, sizing each other up while I try to figure out what my next move should be. I've got a few options for helping her out, but those all involve her being on her way without me getting a look at those tits that are straining under her baby blue t-shirt.
On the other hand, she's not looking at me like she's in a hurry to show 'em to me any more and I'm not keen on company under the best of circumstances-- I sure as hell don't need a woman hanging around that doesn't want to get on my cock or worse, one that wants to stick around long after I'm done with her.
I'm thinking about making the effort to fire up the truck when the sky busts loose on top of us. That pretty much decides things for me, with rain like this, neither of us are going anywhere for the next few days except inside my cabin.
As soon as I get the door shut behind her I know what she's thinking. It's written all over her face as she slips her backpack off her shoulders and lets it land on the wooden floorboard with a thud.
"Yeah, yeah," I wave her unspoken word away defensively, "it's small, I know. Don't worry, there's room for both of us."
"Sounds like you're used to women complaining about the size," she says with a smile.
Heh, I chuckle under my breath as I pull off my shirt and head to the kitchen, she's got sass, "Mostly they're worried about how I manage to fit inside." I shoot her a glare from across the room and pull a couple of bottles of beer out of the fridge.
Her cheeks tinge a deeper shade of pink but if she notices that she's blushing, she doesn't let on, "Hmm," she makes a little noise like she's thinking about it as she takes the beer I offer her. "I'm sure you manage to convince your guests to give you all the space you need," she mumbles as she turns around and takes in the place.
Frankly, I'm pretty damn proud of it. The main room is the original homesteader cabin that my great great grandfather built with his own hands.
The place was pretty much abandoned till I decided I wanted to make it my permanent home. I spent a few summers up here, expanding the original 8 by 10 foot shack into what it is now-- a modest but fully functioning home with inside plumbing and enough electrical outlets to accommodate the few appliances I make use of.
It's more'n big enough for just me, and I did the work myself. I haven't had many visitors up
here but I've always been proud as hell of the place.
The anxious feeling gnawing at my gut while this chick decides what she thinks of my home is a new one on me. Realizing I'm holding my breath, waiting on her to let me know if she approves of my lifestyle, makes me tense. It ain't like me to worry about what someone else thinks, especially not some stranger who's not invited to stay past this storm.
Draining my bottle and setting it down I head to the wood burning stove and throw in another few chunks of wood. I make sure to push past her on my way, even though I could have managed to avoid it. I tell myself I'm doing it because it's my damn space and I'll take up whatever part of it I want. I want her to remember who's in charge here and keep out of my way.
As my shoulder brushes against hers and I feel the soft give of her body I know I'm fooling myself. I just wanted to touch her. Maybe make sure she's real. Maybe see how she reacts. Maybe torture my dick for a second and give myself something to think about when I'm up in the loft alone tonight.
"You want another one them?" I ask, pointing at her beer.
"Actually," her eyes land on the box of mis-shaped wood chunks next to the stove, the ones that don't stack neatly with the splits and rounds, "what I really need is some wood."
Gail
My eyes fall on the box of odds and ends of firewood and I spy several chunks that would work perfectly to give the jack some extra height.
I hear my host chuckle behind me as he opens two more beers, "I might be able to help you out there," he tells me as he holds out one of the amber bottles to me.
Rolling my eyes, I shoot him a glare but I take the beer.
I'm not exactly a trust fund baby slumming it up playing nomad with unlimited resources. Money is tight, booze is expensive. I don't splurge on it often and this guy's sharing some decent brew from a microbrewery in Spokane.
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