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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 (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 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
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." 
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 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
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 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 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."
Her fingers found his and pressed against the fishing lures. "The
way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach."
"Nope. The way to a man's heart is through his fly."
 For all non-Pacific Northwesterners and those not "in the
know," certain breeds of salmon turn 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.
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