Brandon

Damn! I really must’ve over done it! God, damn! Compared to yesterday, chopping wood is hell. It’s really damn hard. Every time lift up the axe to bring it down on a piece of wood, my arms seizes up. Even when I bring my good arm onto the handle to help swing, it still puckers. Spasms, and threatens to weaken my grip.

Which it does, making me drop the axe almost as soon as I succeeded in burying its head into a piece of kindling. I can’t even bring it down and through all the way without the tool wobbling and falling to the ground. Handle first, thankfully, but it’s maddening. Irritating.

A chopping job — one that should only take me an hour, two hours at most — has now taken at least double that. Maybe longer, considering I have to stop and rest after each pair of logs I chop.

While my arm does act up from time to time — feels sore and numb — it’s never felt like this. It’s never felt like it’s got lightning bolts ricocheting through it. Ripping up and down through the veins. But there it is scorching under my skin like lava. Like my nerves are left on top of an open flame.

The pinching and aching that’s going up and down my arm and into my hands and fingers is so bad I’m not even sure how I’ve gotten through as much of the chopping as I have. But it’s still not enough. It’s still not everything I wanted to get through. The pile of “to chop” hasn’t gotten small enough for my liking. Especially for this time of year, when I should be lighting and stoking fires to keep myself and Juliet warm.

Although, I guess there are other ways to keep warm. Other ways I’ve been doing a lot of to get my arm so bent out of shape, I muse, thinking about how many times Juliet and I have had sex today alone. Especially that last romp on the tabletop after breakfast. That must be where I fucked my arm up. I did grab her and maneuver her around. Or maybe it was keeping her suspended on my dick the night before. Even so, I need to take it easy. I need to not get a lame arm tonight. How else am I gonna get anything done? One-handed is gonna be a hard way to have to cook and clean later. Briefly, my mind wanders to the possibility of having sex with her again. Of hoisting her over me. How fun it would be to fuck her up against one of the walls, but I still need two functioning arms for that. And right now, my bad one can barely do a chore, let alone give anyone pleasure.

Whatever. I guess I deserve this. Especially after taking so much advantage of her and the situation over the last 24 hours, maybe I deserve to get a little gimped up?

I sigh, beginning to think that maybe that’s for the best. Juliet should be resting more than fucking anyway, no matter how much it’s done to improve her mood or mental state.

Just then, though, I see her there. Juliet, standing there beside me. Beside the chopping block. She suddenly there, as if she really is an ethereal being, not of flesh and blood.

She’s in a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt. Fully clothed from the last time I saw her, but that doesn’t remain the same for long.

Soon after showing up at my side, Juliet strips out of her sweatshirt and down to her bra. Her sweatpants and shoes she keeps on. Tossing his shirt to the ground next to the chopping stump, she picks up the axe and finishes splitting up the log I started.

She gets there that piece of wood, and chops to another before glancing at me. When she does, it’s with unbridled mischievousness. But it’s only a glance, and then she’s back to chopping more wood. Tossing the chopped blocks into a pile. She does all of this effortlessly.

I rub my arm sympathetically. Absentmindedly. “A guy could get used to having a woman around,” I muse.

Juliet smiles at me, bringing the acts down through a particularly stubborn piece of kindling. “Oh? Is that so?” She pauses, tossing the recently-cut wood in the pile, and grabbing for another full piece.

“Yeah,” I say, mesmerized by her muscled and sleek arms. The way her bra accentuates her strength and her femininity at the same time. “Especially when they’re good for so many things.”

She smiles at me, the little devil. “What for, exactly? Chopping wood?” The way she emphasizes that word includes my meat stick along with the logs, and I like it.

I laugh, deciding to let her see how much I enjoy her feistiness. Her lack of a filter. “I suppose so.” I point her, as she goes to shop another piece of wood. Amazingly, the pile is actually getting smaller now with her help. “I’m gonna make you pay for that later, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Another piece of wood splits, falls apart like butter. She winks at me, taking extra time to slide the axe head down the length of another piece of wood, before slicing into it. “I look forward to it,” she says and sticks her tongue out at me.