The Fisherman's Wife Had it been one of those small, gentle urges she probably would never have awakened. Instead of being a tiny, "you-know-a-good-fuck- would-be-nice-right-now" kind of urge it was a "fuck-me-now-or-I- might-explode" craving. Needless to say, she was through sleeping for the night. She stretched out her arm, expecting the familiar warmth of his body next to hers in bed. "Damn," she muttered under her breath. The Alaskan sun was glowing warmly through the window, but the clock next to the bed revealed that it was just past three in the morning. "Saturday," she sighed, as she realized that he must have unwittingly awakened her when he left at three. "Fishing again." She rolled to his side of the bed, savoring the scent left on his pillow. She hated fishing season. Hell, it had gotten to the point that she hated fish all together. Her sex life was almost non- existent from June to August, and her weekends were horrible. He brought his fishing gear to work with him and spent hours each evening standing up to his hips in Ship Creek casting over and over. Early morning weekend sex--a mainstay for them during the long, dark winters--was a thing of the past. Saturdays meant him being up before what passed for dawn in Alaska, and out the door for hour after hour of floating this creek or that river. Home late smelling of algae and sweat and, damn it, fish. When he was home, they were both either cleaning, curing, packing, and cooking, or cleaning up after cleaning, curing, packing, and cooking pound after pound of Silvers and Kings. She hated fish. She hated fishing season. She loved him, but she hated pixies and fly rods and those fucking feathers that littered her kitchen table all summer so that he could be the all-mighty fisherman. After all, he had patiently explained time after time, REAL fishermen tied their own flies. REAL fisherman knew what the fish really wanted better than any mass-production factory. She hated fish. However, as much as she hated fish, she loved her husband. She'd entertained passing thoughts of illicit summer affairs and hot, passionate sexual encounters while her husband blissfully floated his raft down the Russian River. She'd dreamed of chasing her own form of "spawning red." [1] She sighed. It would never happen. Just about the time she had screwed up the courage to approach that deeply-tanned construction worker or that unbelievably sexy road crewman, fishing season was over, the salmon runs were gone, and she had her husband back. She reached down over the side of the bed, fishing for her "smut basket" as her husband teasingly referred to it. Instead of finding her trusty butterfly and dog-eared copy of _Slow Hand_, her fingers brushed across a flap of mesh, then caught painfully on the sharpened barb of a fishhook. "Damn!" She drew her hand back and sucked lightly at the pierced fingertip. It didn't really hurt, but it was yet another reminder of why her bed was empty. She reached down again and pulled husband's tan fishing vest up to the bed. "Hm. He must have been moving pretty quickly this morning to walk off without his vest. Ah well, it serves him right," she said to herself bitterly. "Let's see how many fish he catches with only his..." she let the thought drift, unfinished, as she brought the vest to her face and inhaled. It smelled of him, but the 'good' him, not the 'fishing' him. She let the vest drape over her bare breasts, and she realized the fuck-me urge that originally woke her was quickly returning. Her fingers danced slowly across the rough fabric, the different textures playing with her senses. Her nails scraped along the mesh, catching softly in the fluttery feathers of the flies. As she pressed against the cloth, she could feel the seam of the vest hard against her nipple. Her eyes closed as she imagined his teeth, his lips scraping along the sensitive, puckered skin. She twisted and pulled as he would, her nipple hardening under her touch. One hand moved down, over the nylon, savoring the feel against her belly. She could so easily imagine his body, heavy on hers. His scent filled her nose and surrounded her head as she breathed deeply into the vest. Her fingers found the moist cleft between her thighs and parted her sex greedily. She dipped two fingers into the wetness and tightened around them, imagining trapping his cock inside. Her blood pounded as her thumb found her clit, gently coaxing it from beneath its hood. Faster, more insistently, she began to plunge into her pussy, strumming her now-swollen button with each thrust. Her orgasm bubbled just below the surface, and she rocked against her fingers faster, pulling it from her center. She was jolted from her quickly expanding desire by the touch of a hand on her belly. A cry escaped her lips as her eyes flew open. She relaxed at the familiar sight of her husband's face over hers. "I... I thought you had left already." He laughed gently at her flustered state. "So I see. I was making coffee. I'm not leaving for another half-hour or so. What's this I see? Taking care of things without me?" His voice was stern, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. She quickly shifted under him, stalling for time to regain her composure. "Well," she began defensively, "you weren't here, what else was I supposed to do?" All the momentum she had built, the release she was striving for, started to recede only to be replaced by the build-up anger she had towards those damn fish and his obsession with them. Her voice began to take on an edge as she let loose. "Damn it, you're NEVER home." She slumped back against the pillows. "Honey, let me make it up to you." His voice was soft and cajoling. His fingers began to probe between her nether lips, coaxing forgiveness with his touch. "That's not going to cut it." Her words were strong, but her voice wavered as he lowered his tongue to her pussy and began to lick, drawing long, slow lines between her swollen lips. He stopped only long enough to whisper, "Are you sure? Perhaps if I do this?" He began to nibble on her hardening clit. His teeth scraped her button, sending fiery sparks from her toes to her belly. She gripped her breasts with her fingertips, bunching the cloth of his vest still lying across her chest. The mesh left patterned impressions on her flushed skin. He quickened his pace, dancing across her clit, striving to match her breathing. She caught her lip between her teeth as she began to moan her pleasure, softly at first, until she could maintain the silence no longer. He pulled her clit between his lips as he thrust two fingers into her depths, feeling her muscles clench and tighten around him. She bucked against his hand, grinding against his mouth as waves of pleasure rolled over her. He traced the muscles of her belly as she slowed her breathing and sighed contentedly. "Mmmmmmm, what brought that on, oh mighty fisherman of mine?" His fingers fondled the hooks hanging from the now-disheveled fishing vest. "Just inspired, I guess." She nodded with a twinkle in her eyes. "That does confirm one thing, you know." "Oh?" Her fingers found his and pressed against the fishing lures. "The way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach." "It's not?" "Nope. The way to a man's heart is through his fly."