Wood working

We both loved projects.  She was a woodworker, and she loved using exotic hardwoods in her work.  She'd call and say she was in the neighborhood when she was at the store that carried the woods she loved.  Truth be told, that store wasn't in my neighborhood at all, but I wasn't about to point that out.  See, a call from her meant a visit, and she was always so full of light and energy after she'd been browsing the ebony, the rosewood, caressing the curly maple.  I loved seeing her in that mood.

So I'd broken my bed some time back--showing off to a past love, trying to impress her with my incredible strength by carrying her into my bedroom and throwing her onto the bed.  Crack!  Oh, shit-- this was my grandparents' antique bed, and I'd broken it queering off.

My lovely woodworker friend offered to fix it for me.  She brought over her wood glue and clamps and settled into my bedroom to tackle the project at hand.  Did she do it on purpose?  I can't tell you for sure, but what I remember is that wood glue looked so suggestive, smeared over her fingers as she spread it down the cracked frame of the bed.  My breath drew in, and I couldn't let it out.

Those strong, capable fingers coated in that glue had every ounce of my attention.  She stroked, spread, smeared... and I was gone.  It took all I had to keep myself from licking that glue off her hands and replacing it with my own wet.  When I dared to pull my gaze from her fingers and up to her face, she was staring right at me, a devilish gleam in her eye.  She knew what I was thinking!

My breath still captive in my lungs, I somehow managed to ask if I could help.  She offered the glue and our hands moved together over the wood, carefully filling in the cracks between the broken pieces and sealing our agreement that this was about to get messy in a very good way.

We kissed, and to be honest, I don't think anyone washed their hands.  The best we might have done is to wipe the excess glue on our jeans as we rushed to remove one another from our clothing.  Finally, her fingers were soothing the ache they'd created, and mine were seeking the wet I craved.  We fucked right there on the floor, right there in the midst of the bed frame and clamps and glue, the scent of our sex co-mingling with the smell of the glue and the wood. 

To this day, I can't look at a tube of wood glue without having a smile creep across my face.  Wood glue, or the cutting board she made for me from some of her exotic woods.  The smell of fresh-cut lumber can make me blush, and I'm always up for a good project.  There's always the possibility of something delicious when tools are involved...