Red Flannel

I lie here, and he's fucking me - this is real. I'm
smelling his musky animal scent and reveling in the
rasp of his beard against my smooth face - this is
real.

I live in this cabin, I am a woodswoman. I make my
living off the land, and I have built this cabin with
my own hands. Here in the woods, the snows come fast
and early, and it is nearly Christmas. The pines are
grown thickly around my little house, keeping me
sheltered from the worst of the wind and drifting
snow.

My cabin is really only two large rooms. One room has
the kitchen, the old icebox that I bargained for with
my old snowmobile, down in town. There is the long,
granite-topped counter that is cold to the touch,
always; no matter how hot the woodstove is fired.
There are two wooden cupboards on the wall; they hold
my dishes and my food. I usually eat at the small
table against the wall, though recently I have been
eating on the couch, watching the snow fall. I have a
fireplace, more from comfort than for heat, and
sitting watching the flame is a source of peace and
comfort for me. I have been feeling more cuddly
lately, curving against the pillows on the couch while
spooning hearty soup, knowing he will visit soon.

The bedroom is where I really let my mind wander to
him, though. It is a simple room, there is no door. A
heavy painted canvas hangs in the doorway, trapping
heat. I have a large bed, simply made and very solid.
My basic yet technologically complex clothes hang in
the wardrobe, and there is a single lamp on the
bedside table. I have no curtains, and sometimes I
imagine that the animals watch us as we fuck, content
that my presence in their woods is as natural as I can
manage.

My one indulgence is my feather bed, a huge white puff
of fabric that cradles my body during the long, harsh
winters. When he visits he frowns at it, sometimes
sweeping it off the bed in mock anger. I shudder with
anticipation, knowing the only reason he doesn't want
the feather bed there is because he cannot get as good
a purchase on my hips when I am sinking into the bed.
He loves to fuck me hard.

Last time he left, he left behind his large red
checkered flannel, the one with the quilted lining. I
wore it over my overalls and turtleneck when I dragged
my Christmas tree in, and I wore it over my white
nightgown as I sat up all night on Solstice, watching
the candles burn down to stubs. When dawn came, I
slipped out of my nightgown and spread the flannel on
the floor in front of the fire. I lay my tired body
down and slowly stroked my skin, hot from sitting near
the flames all night. I imagined his face, the way it
would look hanging above mine, just before he kissed
me. I imagined the dusky flare of his gaze when he
would watch me undress. I imagined the velvet heat of
his gorgeous cock. As I rubbed my clit gently, I
tipped into a sweet, amber-colored climax, and I
murmured his name, wishing him blessings for the year.

Now I am lying in my bed, wearing nothing but his red
flannel, and my legs have fallen open in repose. I am
twinning my fingers in the dark curls of my pubic
hair, and thinking of how long it has been since he
has come to visit.

I settle my head deeper into the pillows and dig my
feet under the comforter, getting ready to masturbate
for a nice, long time.

Then the door to the cabin bangs open. "Emma!" He
shouts, "Are you at home, you gorgeous little mountain
slut of mine?"

I cannot breathe I am so happy, and instead I exhale
noisily and squeak his name. I hear him stamping the
snow off his boots and then I hear him close the door,
firmly. I can hear his heavy wool coat drop to the
floor, and then, there he is, striding through the
doorway to my room. He pauses, just for a moment, in
the doorway, pushing aside the canvas and poking his
head around the doorjamb, as if at the last moment, he
is unsure that I would welcome him in my bed.

It is heartbreakingly endearing, and part of why I
love him so. He is a caring and deeply considerate
lover, and yet, pleasingly, excitingly forceful and
strong.

In this moment of hesitation, I untangle one hand from
my curls and wave him in, gently smiling, eyes
crinkling in delight.

It is all the confirmation he needs. He comes all the
way into my bedroom, rapidly, and pounces on me,
knocking my newly regained breath away. We embrace
wildly, and I am thrilled to find he's left his boots
at the front door. His eyes widen as he runs his
chilly hands over my breasts, feeling the deep heat
contained in my chest. He tugs at the collars of my
shirt, his shirt, and growls a satisfyingly playful
laugh as he realizes it's his.

Grinning hugely, he paws at my breasts again, and I
moan, wanting him to hold me, squeeze me, put his cold
face against my burning one. His eyes soften, and he
looks at me longingly. "Ah, Emma. It's been so long.
Do you still want this crazy traveling man in your
bed?"

I throw my arms around him, and nearly shout, "Of
course I do! I think about you all the time, you nutty
bastard! I've been waiting all winter for you."

They are exactly the words he needs to hear. He shucks
his sweater and shirt and reaches down for me,
hungrily. I clasp my hands behind his neck and pull
him towards me, and we kiss, deeply, searchingly,
tongues passing over lips and over tongues and this is
the best most heady kind of kissing, a hot, sliding
kind of fascination. I cannot get enough of his mouth.
I arch upwards against him, and he slides strong arms
under the shirt and around my back. We sink into the
featherbed, his weight nearly crushing me, a heavy,
wonderful pressure.

Suddenly, he shoves me backwards, and I am jammed up
against the headboard, pillows all around me. He
slides down my body, tongue dragging along my skin,
hands following close behind. And then, oh, his mouth
seems to be everywhere. All over my belly, and thighs,
and waist, I feel hot, wet kisses, and little bites,
and then bigger bites, and he is squeezing my flesh in
a fabulous way. I feel as though I am a fine lump of
bread dough, and I am being shaped and loved by his
hot, hungry fingers. Then he withdraws his touch, and
because I am not bread, I do not begin to rise, but
the heat in my cunt is palpable nonetheless. I am now
consumed with an awareness of my cunt, all my
attention going between my legs.

His hand comes to rest on my thigh. I moan, and squint
my eyes at him in annoyance, and move his hand onto my
mound. He laughs, gently, and digs the heel of his
hand into my flesh. I rock my hips, joyfully, and
groan at him. He sucks in breath and gazes at me.

"Hungry girl."

"Oh yes."

"Let me feed you, then."

He settles in at my feet and rests his weight on the
hand over my mound. My hips press hard against the bed
and I can feel my whole body relaxing. As he lets up
on my hips he takes his free hand and runs his index
finger down the length of my cunt. He is exquisitely
gentle and maddeningly precise. He does not part the
folds of my labia, and I am suddenly aware of the hot
liquid pooling just beyond the pressure of his finger.

"Please", I gasp, but he shakes his head no. He wants
to force me to feel, force me to luxuriate in feeling.
He knows how many nights I have laid in this bed of
mine and fingered myself to a fast and familiar
climax. He wants me to feel, with one single stroke of
his finger, that he is willing to sit at my feet and
adore my cunt for as long as I could possibly want.

He runs his finger down my cunt again, and I growl
softly in my throat, relaxing into the touch. He
smiles at me, and on the next stroke, he parts the
lips of my pussy. As his finger begins to open me, I
feel a hot spill of juice trickle down into the crack
of my ass, and I shudder, pressing my hips toward his
hand. He slides one long, large-knuckled finger into
my cunt, and I cry out, grabbing at his leg. He rises
up onto his knees and leans over me, and we kiss. My
stomach flips with my lust, and I dig my hands into
his long, dark hair, lose around his face.

Roughly, he breaks free of my grip, and returns all of
his attention to my pussy, and now he is intense and
urgent. He starts to rub his hand against my cunt,
sliding two and then three fingers into me. His hand
is slippery with my juices, and the sweet sliding of
his rough skin against my smooth is making me crazy. I
shove my cunt against his hand, bucking my hips and
moaning his name.

"Emma," he grits, through clenched teeth, "I can't
resist you."

He pulls his hand away from me and tears at his belt,
not even noticing the smear of cuntjuice he is getting
on his jeans. I notice, and my pussy clenches at the
intimacy of it. He struggles with the button of his
pants, and then shoves them down around his knees. I
am expecting him to take them all the way off, but he
instead turns and grabs me, kissing my breasts
frantically, and then he presses the long plane of his
body against mine, and we both moan, the first real
skin contact since he arrived.

"Please", I try a second time, my voice a ragged
whisper. This time he cannot hold himself back, and he
wriggles out of his pants and without ceremony or
fanfare, plunges his cock deep into me. I scream. It
is so good, so fucking good, he is so hot and hard and
I have been waiting so long to feel him inside me
again.

We begin to fuck, slowly at first, but we can't wait,
don't want to wait, there isn't any reason to be slow
when we have all night to be slow. He grinds his
delicious hips against mine, and I spread my legs as
wide as they will go. He pulls his hands under my
shoulders and the whole of our chests are touching,
heat trapped between our bodies, sweat beginning to
trickle between my breasts. He is fucking my hard, and
my body presses against the pillows, and the flannel
of his shirt rasps on my skin. I clutch and claw at
his back, remembering all the nights alone in this
bed, all the fantasies. I drag his face to mine for a
crazy wet kiss, and he pounds into me harder, gnawing
at my neck. My whole consciousness is filled with the
smell of his hot skin, the musky sweat of our bodies,
the sound of our flesh smacking wetly together. I
cannot stop myself from circling my hips upward,
grinding my aching, hungry cunt against him. I hear
him start to groan in my ear, and I know that I am
making him crazy. I don't want to stop, I can't stop,
I want to make him come, to feel his body shake and
sweat. I dig my strong fingers into the muscles of his
ass, clutching his body as close against mine as I can
pull it. He thrusts into me deep and hard and then as
I wrap my legs around his waist, he lets out a long,
growling moan. "Fuck, Emma! I can't stop, ohhh fuck,
fuck! You beautiful thing, you, ohhh, oh goddd..."

I bite his shoulder and he comes, and he comes for a
long time, pulling me close and shuddering against me.
When he is finally still, I laugh softly and pull his
face up for a kiss. He makes a low, happy noise and
slides out of me, molding his body against mine. I
slip out of his shirt and as he settles in with his
mouth on my breast and his hand resting on my hip, I
drape his flannel over his shoulders, and pull the
puffy comforter over our legs. He gnaws once at my
nipple and I shiver, anticipating the next round. Our
sweat cools and our breathing slows, and through the
window, I watch the snow fall - this is real.



		
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