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Message-ID: <31347asstr$994669803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Fisherman's Wife (Alexis S.) {MF Rom, F-solo, oral)
Date: Mon,  9 Jul 2001 05:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Fisherman's Wife.txt" begin>

This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by 
adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation 
other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect 
this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me 
first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual 
content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the 
geographical location in which you reside, please do not 
continue. 

I'd love to hear from you - please, please, please let me know 
what you think.  Like most writers, I take what I do here very 
seriously, and I'd appreciate any feedback, suggestions, or 
comments that readers are kind enough to send.  

	Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)



~~~~~~~

Summers in Alaska are short in duration, but long in activity.  
We like to pack as much into the days of extended sunlight as 
possible, knowing that winter--and cold--is just around the 
corner.  Alaska is famous for world-class fishing. The abundant 
salmon runs have created a whole group of women known, like their 
golf counterparts in other parts of the world, as "fishing 
widows."  

Alaskan women are resourceful and have generally learned to take 
matters into their own hands.

~~~~~~~

The Fisherman's Wife (or The Salmon Widow)
(MF Rom F-solo, oral)
No seafood was harmed in the making of this story.


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 3am.  

"Saturday," she sighed, as she realized that he must have 
unwittingly awakened her when he left at 3:00.  "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.  Sex was almost non-
existent from June to August, and weekends were horrible. He 
brought his fishing gear to work with him and spent hours each 
evening standing hip deep in Ship Creek casting over and over.  
Early morning weekend sex--a mainstay during the long, dark 
winters--was a thing of the past. Saturdays meant 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 a 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. 

Her fingers gripped her breasts, 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."

~~~~~~~

[1]   For all non-Pacific Northwesterners and those not "in the 
know," certain breeds of salmon turn red before they're ready to 
reproduce--or 'spawn.'  We call those "spawning reds."  The time 
to catch salmon is during the spawning season.  It's when they 
return to their birthplace each year to mate and reproduce.

~~~~~~

So, I'd love to know what you think.  Please, if you're so 
inclined, drop me a note about it!

Alexis Siefert

ealexissiefert@yahoo.com


<1st attachment end>


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