Logs On the Fire (L) ~ Ignite Giveaway 2020 Winner

This story contains strong language (L).
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Although the following narrative is written in the third person, it is not fiction. It captures a moment in time, experienced by my wife and me just days ago. I have elected to write in the third person as a way of watching the scene unfold, reliving the moment as if an observer. It was hot both ways.

They had the house to themselves, late on this Sunday afternoon and into the early evening. They had been to church with their family earlier in the day, but now they were alone. The weather was changing, with a bitter cold front blowing in; heavy snow was in the forecast, the first of the winter.

As his wife sat curled up in the comfy chair in the corner of their bedroom, sandwiched between two tall windows and a Christmas tree he had provocatively decorated for her because he knew she liked it, he stood in front of his closet and began to change clothes. “I’m going outside to be sure the house is ready for the Arctic express,” he said nonchalantly, with his back toward her.

“What do you have to check?” she wondered out loud, looking up from her mobile and staring at her husband’s back and butt as he pulled on a pair of old skinny jeans and a sweatshirt with a zip collar.

He turned and buttoned up his jeans. “I’ve got to pull in the garden hoses—I’ve left them out too long in the year already. And, I’ve got to be sure the hot tub is set and ready for the freeze. I’d love to soak out there when the snow comes. It won’t take too long, I promise.” He knew there would be some sex in the deserted house today; he was going to make it happen, one way or another. He also knew his wife and could feel her desire building as well. It was hard to pinpoint; it was just one of those things: he could read her body language and the hint of sultriness in her voice.

“I was hoping you would build a fire,” she replied, shifting in her big comfy chair. She looked casually out of the window, past the Christmas tree, imagining her husband’s touch. “It’s going to snow, Christmas is around the corner, the house looks beautiful, and I think sitting by the fire with some Christmas music sounds… well, it sounds relaxing.” She turned back to face her husband, who stood in front of his closet across the room, now dressed for the outdoors. He had put on a black knit cap that hugged his head. His blond beard and sideburns outlined the rest of his face, his blue eyes staring back at her as if to say, “You’d better be careful what you wish for.”

He slipped on his puffer jacket and walked toward her chair. Leaning over, he whispered close into her ear, “I can do what you’ve asked. And more.” He pulled back and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, his beard brushing her softly.

“Yes, I know,” she said, barely audible, seductively.

He stood back up and took a snapshot in his head. His wife had been growing her blond hair out, long enough now to braid and fold fashionably on top of her head, in the way Scarlett Johansen wows sometimes. It was how she wore her hair when they first met, and he had always preferred it that way, up and off her shoulders. She pulled her legs up onto the chair, with knees bent to the side. She was still wearing the incredibly soft white sweater with subtle silver highlights, which caught the eye and light with the slightest movement. She had worn the sweater to church with black leggings that she still had on. The sweater lay across her breasts that, just then, begged to be touched. To say the outfit turned him on would be an understatement, but everything about her routinely turned him on.

“I won’t be long,” he said, walking out of the bedroom door and into the second-floor hallway, then down the open staircase into the foyer below. She sighed and returned to scrolling her phone.

He ran into the garage and pulled some wood and kindling together from the shelf on which he stored all the fireplace stuff. He quickly went back into the house, knelt by the fireplace, opened the glass doors and damper, and set the fire perfectly. The big stone fireplace topped by the very traditional and finely crafted white wood mantle became a stage for warm, dancing flames that made the whole room glow. The large, paned glass windows—none with window coverings, but all simply framing the trees, sky, and world outside—reflected the fire in no time. “Yes!” he thought to himself, knowing what was to come.

The sky had turned grey and was already spitting snow, and the temperature had plummeted in just the few hours since lunch. The hot tub needed some adjustment, but leaves had to be brushed aside first. The garden hoses in the front and back yards were not easily disengaged from their faucets; he had to get his toolbox out to grip the threaded heads. His hands were raw in the cold, his gloves useless to manipulate the faucets. The day faded, and evening light fell.

She wandered downstairs and saw the fire’s passion warming the room. Finding a cozy sofa blanket, she settled into a loveseat near the fire. She could see the snow falling outside as she listened to some classic Christmas, the music of earlier generations, from Frank Sinatra to Karen Carpenter, then some Michael Bublé. She knew she was getting wet, that her most personal space was as hot as the fire. She thought about her husband outside, always the responsible guy but also with a wild streak when it came to sex. He was always hungry, often electric and electrifying. She wondered, as she often did, whether other wives must contend with a man possessed with so much energy, sexual and otherwise, or if he was an anomaly. Whatever. She sat by the fire, glad he was hers alone and that he owned her as she did him.

He pulled the toolbox back together, folded the hoses up inside the garage, secured the hot tub, and returned the rakes and brooms to the pegboard hooks along the garage wall. His shoes were soaked by the fast-accumulating snow, and his feet were cold. He closed the garage door, sat on the garage steps, and pulled off his shoes and socks before walking into the house. Through the mudroom, laundry room, kitchen, and dining room, he made his way into the glow of the fireplace itself to find his wife curled up on the loveseat, now dressed only in a robe. The robe was opened at the top just enough for him to see the upper reaches of her breasts, her blond hair still braided. She resembled a page torn from a Nordic version of Vogue. “Yes!” he breathed heavily, pulling off his jacket and sitting down beside her.

She snuggled up close. He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer still. His cock, already engaged, strained even more forcefully against the stretchy fabric of his jeans.

“Let me read you a story,” he suggested with a smile.

“What kind of story,” she asked hesitantly, ever the more cautious partner when sexual adventures wait.

“Here, you choose,” he answered, pulling out his tablet and bringing up the MarriageHeat page.

“Oh, okay,” she agreed, having shared MarriageHeat with him before. She pointed to a story written by SouthernHeat. He read it out loud, in a conversational style that made every phrase alive. When the story was done, they smiled, and he held her close, drawing her into a tight embrace and a deep kiss.

“Let’s lay down,” he said softly in her ear. “I’ll get the blanket.” “The blanket” was a large, black, luxurious-to-the-touch spread with a moisture-proof underlining designed for opportunities just like these; it was designed for wet and sloppy sex, with no fear of stain or fluid transfer to surfaces underneath. Their house was full of deep-pile white carpet; “the blanket” is one of the best investments they ever made.

She nodded, and he jumped up to grab “the blanket” from an upstairs drawer. In two swift moves, he had his jeans and sweatshirt off, too, and pulled a Ziploc carrying some edible lube and an assortment of toys out his bedstand drawer.

Because of the bitter cold outdoors, he had worn some light-weight long underwear under his skinny jeans to add a layer of warmth. He always dressed commando and rarely wore underwear of any kind, but this day, he appeared before his wife with the long johns still in place and a simple black T-shirt above. The long underwear had a pouch design that pulled his dick out and up; they were very comfortable, but also magnified his erection, with its every ridge and vein visible through the thin fabric. She smiled as he walked in front of her and threw “the blanket” on the carpet, edging the slate surface that fronted the fireplace. He tossed his bag of tricks to the side and lay down on his back, sprawled across the soft black, and motioned for his wife to join him. She left the loveseat and dropped her robe, standing at his feet, completely nude.

His cock practically tore the fabric pouch of his long johns, jerking at the sight of her. Her blond hair, her green eyes, her perfect medium-sized breasts, her curves, her smooth slit, her legs… the whole of her was in the Greek goddess category, at a glance. She knelt and then covered him, pressing her pelvis into his own and grinding against his cock and balls. All he could do was moan.

He could tell she was slightly cold, though, and so he reached for the soft blanket she had brought to the fire and threw it over her. Still lying flat on his back with her on top, he reached his long arms to the fireplace doors and opened them wide, so that the full heat of the fire caressed them. She moaned appreciatively and began to play with his nipples.

He ran his hands over her ass, fingering her crack from back to front and then back again. He kneaded her lower back in just the way that makes her crazy as she continued to grind his stiffened dick and pinch, to the point of pain, his tits. But he loves that, and she knows how to play him. He growled as she did so, in a way that sounded angry and, at the same time, made her feel even more treasured.

Rolling her to the side so that her naked back was warmed by the fire, he kissed her mouth deeply, then her neck and down to her breasts. Still fingering her wet spot, he also licked and sucked on her breasts. She groaned and squirmed until he brought his fingers, glistening with her succulent juice, to his mouth and sucked them next to her lips, then dove his hand in between her legs for more.

Then he slipped to the side and turned her on her back and stood before her, this time at her feet, as she looked up at him. The room was dark, except for the dancing light of the fire. Outdoor lighting, including up-lighting of several large trees just beyond the paned glass, highlighted the heavy snow still falling and dressing every branch in elegant white.

He pulled off his long johns and let his dick spring free. He just stared at his wife—from head to toe, as before, but this time silhouetted against the soft black of “the blanket.” The golden firelight and the smooth tone of her naked body were breathtaking. Her breasts. Dear God in Heaven, so beautiful. Exquisite.

And, as his eyes moved to her pussy, he said in that low voice she has learned to recognize as the expression of his most primal self, “I am intoxicated by you; I love you; I need you; I want you. I want to eat you out and cover my beard with your cum. And then, after I make you cum, I want to fuck you and fill you until you can take no more.”

She stared back at him, too, listening as he talked bluntly, crudely, and, yes, tenderly; she has told him before that his rough vernacular made her hot, perhaps because his speech in every other context is never profane. But as with his sex, in his passion, his raging hard-ons, and his bedroom commands, she feels the power and covering of his exclusive love; she feels herself safe, respected, and honored as the only one—the only woman alive—who sees this side of him, who experiences this piece of him. She loves him, deeply. And he is devoted to her.

“I do not want you to go down on me tonight,” she replied, admiring his legs, his steel rod, and the south end of his pleasure trail on its way to his navel and chest, but disappearing at the edge of his black V-neck T-shirt. “I just want you to cum inside of me. Please. I need to feel you inside me. Now.”

He looked carefully down on her, examining her expression. “Are you sure? You know how hungry I am to taste you.”

“Yes, I know, but this is what I want.”

“What can I do but please you?” he grinned and grabbed his Ziploc nearby.

“What are you doing now?” she, now almost pleading, asked.

“I am going to ride you with a butt plug up my ass,” he laughed as he lubed up a favorite butt plug and quickly slipped it inside his own hole. “Oh man, that feels so good,” he shouted as his dick jumped, and the plug massaged his prostate. She often fingered his ass during intercourse, but every now and then, he was into the butt plug. She wasn’t sure why, but she understood it gave him unusual pleasure. And she was always turned on by seeing him turned on.

He grabbed some lube and palmed her pubic bone and then fingered her clit, up and down, around and around, soft and hard, slow and fast. She squirmed as he knelt between her now open legs, clenching his own ass jammed with the plug and causing his cock to bounce and jerk in front of her.

At last, he grabbed his dick and aimed for her unspeakably gorgeous opening. He dove in, balls deep, with a groan. She flinched as his plunging head pressured her cervix, and he backed off; she likes him deep, but sometimes, in some positions, they’ve learned it’s too deep.

After some vigorous thrusting, he slowed and pulled her legs up over his shoulders. “Oh fuck, that is so good,” he gasped, he growled, he breathed the words out loud, several times. She looked up at the ecstasy on his face and, first calling out his name, next called out loudly, “I. Love. You.”

He stared down at her, his eyes on fire. “I love you, too,” he whispered, “and I am now going to fill you with my best.” His breath slowed down, and his groans dropped an octave. He pulled her legs together, still holding them above his shoulders. Both hands squeezed the sides of her throat, but gently.

She knew he was close. He knew he was close but tried to slow his approach to the point of no return. He took long, deep, slow breaths, which made the approaching orgasm build in extraordinary intensity. She began to breathe in this same way and shudder. Her internal muscles seemed to grab his cock rhythmically, which made him throw his head back and scream with pleasure. Both of their bodies were melting into one, synchronized—two distinct individuals, one male and the other female, each with their own orgasmic response and unique explosion of sacred pleasure but, yet, as one.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all he could say as his orgasm crested and sent streams of jizz deep inside his wife’s seething, impossibly wet, surging, spasming cunt that held and owned his boner, until both were spent. After some almost-violent thrashing at their climax, he leisurely continued to thrust for a time, his erection still solid and a source of intense pleasure for both, in the gentle afterglow of the mountaintop.

He pulled out, and they lay side-by-side. The fire still danced next to them, warm and full of life. But they, eyes closed, dozed to the sound of Andy Williams singing Christmas, as their parents and grandparents had once done.

The snow continued to fall until the fire began to die down. He, always the responsible guy, cleaned out the ash and embers so that the damper could be closed. She folded “the blanket” and took it to the laundry room, soaked on one side. They walked together through the house and upstairs to their bed and spooned under the covers. His cock began to stir again, but she was asleep. He remembered an old lyric, a classic from Christmas long ago, “Logs on the fire, fill me with desire…” In another breath, he, too, was asleep.

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4 replies
  1. Southernheat says:

    Love this story! Brings back the memories of all the many sexy nights we’ve spent in front of the fireplace! Sex in the living room is one of our favorite places! On a blanket on the floor by the fire or on the ottoman or the couch all great fun!

    I’m glad one of my stories got you both warmed up! That’s a great compliment ! Hope you write many more stories and most of all keep having fun together!

  2. hornyGG says:

    Thank you for this! Brings back memories of my husband Ben and I screwing in front of the fireplace at the camp. Stay horny always and God bless!
    ❤ GG

  3. Captain J says:

    When we were younger, in one of the older houses we lived, CJ added onto our Master bedroom and put in a Fisher Baby Bear wood stove. He made it big enough we had plenty of room to make love on the floor. When we wanted a romantic joining, he'd leave the door on the stove open after letting the fire die down a bit. I had forgotten about some of our fantastic sexual escapades until reading your story. Might have to share one in the future! Your story was very hot and I'm sure will cause some heavy breathing between me and CJ.
    Thank you

  4. LovingMan says:

    TorrHead, you write so well. I love your use of words. The way your relationship is described is brilliant!
    We have a tradition of a romp in the living room each Christmas season that’s always near the lit-up Christmas tree. It started with Christmas lights strung up in the bedroom. but it moved to the living room when we became empty-nesters.
    For people without a fireplace… We love firelight too, but since we don’t have a fire, we often use a fireplace DVD or fire and soft relaxing music on YouTube on the TV. (We have a flatscreen TV in the bedroom too.) We also got a diffuser with a firelight setting and halite lamps that cast a fiery glow too. I absolutely love how my sexy wife’s curves light up in firelight or halite lamp-light.
    May you two keep on enjoying each other as God intended!

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