“He constructed me for the purpose I serve,
I am light.
I am inspiration.
I warm his blood,
Fuel his imagination.
Witness his sins,
Encourage the lines he writes.
of his Fireplace.”
….It was a cold and rainy evening. Shortly after dinner I recall. John was sitting in his recliner, writing and reading. Something he did often since Jane passed away a few years ago. She was a wonderful wife, lover, a soul like no other. It was difficult for John to be happy again. For a year he sunk into depression. He let himself go and looked like a homeless man. Although John lived in a cabin and was an outdoorsy type, he would never let himself go like he did. John was far from a drunk begging for money on the street corner. John was a good-looking man. He loved people, loved to be adventurous and lived for the outdoors. He was tall, with a body that reflected his love for hiking. Short trimmed salt and pepper hair with a goatee. Street smart mind filled with common sense. John carried the world on his shoulders and passion in his heart. In fact they are his overwhelming qualities. I knew eventually his charming personality would slowly exit that very dark period of his life. Therapy sessions by way of his pen helped. He would write in his journal daily and it paid huge dividends. Although, that revolving door of friends, dates, lovers, never replaced that lost soul he missed so much.
Now, back to that surprise visitor I was recalling.The temperature outside was cold. I roared with warmth on that stormy night, an extra log just placed in my womb. I made the cabin’s interior toasty. I was the focal point when John designed and built this million dollar view. The interior is two floors of open area with meticulous thoughts to his life style. The cabin sat back off the main road. The long driveway was lined with oak trees that formed a tunnel canopy. It was quite a ways from any neighbor and even hard to hear civilization unless you listened closely on a quiet night. The valley served as a backdrop to this structure erected in the middle of a forest. Countless windows on all four sides gave a theatre effect to nature, oh and the rising and setting of the sun he would lose himself in. Gorge Lake sat below us as this cabin was positioned on a cozy ridge opposite Coyote Mountain.
The doorbell rang. It startled John at first as he did not remember ever hearing it before. He rested his tablet by the small lamp on the end table. Stood and hesitantly moved to the door. Along the way he picked up his revolver and made sure one was in the chamber. “Can never be too sure these days.” I heard him whisper.
He peeked through the blinds first. Heavy rain drummed on the metal roof and deafened what he said. He stood just before the entrance and had a puzzled look on his face. John slowly opened the door just a crack. The chain still bolted in place. Through the crackles and pops of my fire, John unlatched the chain and opened the door wide. He took a step back with his revolver held firm by his hip. In walked this young beautiful being. Well, a drenched beautiful woman, brilliant red hair, with part up in a bun and the other half had the wet and wild look. She had soft crimson freckles and was soaked from those red strands to her casual loafers. The thin clothing choice was stuck to her like a second skin.
John hurried her into the bathroom, turned to the closet to grab some towels. He slowly nudged the door open to hand her the towels. After the door clicked shut behind John, he took off up the stairs. Moments later he returned with a robe and other clothing in his arms. This time he knocked on the door. She opened it to accept his gracious offerings. John turned toward me as the door locked behind him. He looked lost, puzzled, but he was grinning. It was great to see him smile again. Something I have not seen in a very long time.
John scurried to the kitchen. He returned with a kettle. Leaning into the flames he hooked the cast iron pot inside my hearth. He would boil water in the winter months for tea or hot cocoa. Today, I assume, he will be having a guest to share his cup of warmth.
‘Red’ exited the bathroom. Her face, blush red as her hair. You could see she was shivering uncontrollably. John motioned her to the sofa that sat in front of me. She kept tightening the knot to the robe’s belt he had gotten for her. It was either a nervous twitch or her security in a strange house. I presume with a man she did not know. ‘Red’ was younger than John. I would say late twenties, early thirties. There was a good twenty years that John had on her either way. He showed his manners by getting a heavy throw for her. He always had a caring heart, a way to make people feel at home.
John sat on his recliner’s edge. He was in a state of elation. They chatted well into the night. They mostly chatted about John’s writings. His journals, poems and even started to skim through a photo album.
As it turned out ‘Red’ was actually an editor for a publishing company. She had met John previously and spoke many times with him on the phone and through emails. Kayla Penman was her birth name, but everyone called her Ink.
The rain continued to pour from the sky. Downpours were severe, the winds were hurricane like. Ink was a younger version of Jane it seemed. Gorgeous woman with identical mannerisms, verbal intellect and a hard body that warrants a man’s touch, John’s touch.
After another hour of small talk John got up to tend to me. Ink sat alone on the sofa just as high as him. She removed the wool blanket some time ago as the warmth inside the cabin and obviously her was intense. John added a log to my fire and repositioned the ones almost incinerated from earlier that evening. He was knelt on one knee, tending to the logs.
Meanwhile, Ink finally gave in to her nervousness and untied the belt. She spread the fluffy white robe open as she slid her hands downward. This allowed the robe to split and cling around her cleavage. The cotton edges framed her well-formed breasts. They were aching in anticipation. She was obviously not wearing the shirt John had handed off to her in the bathroom. Her knees pointed outward, exposing a reddish fire of her own. When John turned to continue their conversation a hush held his voice prisoner. At first he hesitated. Stared into her eyes, which seemed to brighten with every passing second. He began a slow crawl towards her. Her smile grew. With every hand and knee closer he moved, the more she bared herself for him.
John started at her ankles. Small pecks and massaging hands worked their way to her knees and back down. His lips made love to every freckle, every angle to those long attractive legs. He was in no rush. He knew how to be a lover. He was slow and methodical. He fondled her toned muscles with his hands. Caressing her skin, small kisses, long lines of his tongue. He would venture above her knee, lift her leg straight out and slide his tongue back down the side of her calf. Her satisfying groans were the approving sounds he wanted from her. He teased her mind with the passion he displayed. It was like he had a lifetime to be released from her skin.
Soft mumbles, moans, loud exhaling sighs filled the room. Visibility aroused, she began kneading at her breasts. Her head was laid back, eyes closed in disbelief of the feelings he was ripping from beneath her nerves. She could not resist any longer, her left hand kept making its way to her inner thigh. Touching, feeling, wanting for him to be there.
By now she had scooted herself to the edge of the sofa. John purposely made his way at a turtles pace to that hand. She wanted him to dive into her, to devour her. His nonchalant method to attack her wetness was all in part on how he would deliver, her most feral orgasm.
Finally, John raised up and softly placed her left leg over his shoulder. He slowly lifted the other as his eyes never removed from hers. She was twitching inside, her muscles contracting without warning. Her skin about to peel itself off from the expectation of what was next. John now had both legs on his shoulders and leaned between her thighs. She climaxed before he even allowed his lips to touch hers. This was the fuel for her to pull his hair and scream in visceral ecstasy. Her hands tugged at John as he inhaled her essence. He brought her to paradise again and again. He nibbled at her folds and tasted her sweet nectar. He sipped her, drank from her. He play hard, rough, soft and repeated every positive response. He tortured her with pleasure until he left her at the stars and beyond.
Ink was still intoxicated from the rapture that raged through her veins. John peeled away his clothes, covered her breasts with his hands. Kisses soon followed as he rose to straddle her lap. John was fully erect as he nestled upon her thighs. Ink stroked his manhood as he sucked feverishly upon her nipples. His erotic foreplay was filled with a serene euphoria.
As my embers popped and exploded into ash, I was losing my sight. My flames were fireflies in the night sky. The heat was there, still sizzling, but had a diminished light. I was fading to nothing more than a glow. There was more than enough warmth in the room. Not sure if it was from me or them.
They continued their love-making which had a patience for detail. The intensity to savor every kiss, every feeling to this surprise encounter. They rolled, turned, changed positions more times than I could keep up with. Their oral pleadings electrified pleasure.
The last thing I remember was Ink and John laying on the floor, basking in my aftermath, creating their own. Excitement and flashes setting the room ablaze. Fully engaged in their own combustion.