The sound of an axe echoed through the trees—steady, rhythmic, powerful.

Jack Johnson stood shirtless in the clearing behind his log cabin, muscles glistening with sweat, the sun catching the sheen on his thick, tanned shoulders. He was a man of few words and many secrets. Mid-40s, carved from years of manual labor, with a body that seemed sculpted more by nature than design—broad chest dusted with hair, powerful forearms, thick thighs under well-worn jeans, and a jawline that could split wood as easily as his axe.

After years of city living and a marriage gone cold, Jack found peace on the edge of a quiet mountain town. He worked with his hands—cutting timber, planing raw slabs, crafting heavy farmhouse tables, bedframes, and cabinets that people from neighboring counties came to buy. But it wasn’t just furniture they were after.

Not until the widow came…

Margaret Hollis had been a widow for almost two years. She was in her late 30s, sultry and statuesque, with raven-black hair, olive skin, and a walk that told the world she still knew how to turn heads. She didn’t believe in mourning forever—and she hadn’t been touched in far too long.

She showed up mid-morning under the guise of ordering a custom bookshelf for her home office. Jack met her at the edge of his driveway, sweat-slick and holding a log under one arm. Her eyes dipped to his chest, then to the trail of sweat that slid between his abs and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

He noticed. And smirked.

They talked about dimensions and finishes. But the pauses were long, her lip-biting frequent, and when she leaned over to point at a blueprint on his workbench, her blouse slipped open just enough to reveal a lacy black bra that Jack’s eyes didn’t miss.

“You want this shelf built into the wall?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

“I want it sturdy,” she replied, slow and deliberate. “Something that can take a little… pressure.”

They locked eyes. Neither blinked.

Margaret returned the next day—unannounced. She brought lemonade and wore a sundress with nothing underneath. The breeze lifted it just enough as she walked across the porch, giving Jack a glimpse of smooth thigh and bare hip.

“I just wanted to check the grain of the wood,” she said innocently.

“Come inside,” he told her, stepping aside. His shirt was off again. He didn’t bother to put one on anymore.

They stood close in the workshop, surrounded by cedar and pine. She ran her fingers along a plank, and then down his forearm. Jack caught her wrist before it got too far.

“Tell me what you really came for.”

Her lips parted. “You.”

He pushed her back gently until she bumped against the workbench. Her breath hitched. Jack leaned down, pressed his face to her neck, and inhaled.

“You smell needy.”

She gasped, her hips bucking against him. “I am.”

The first kiss was slow. Exploratory. But when Jack grabbed her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the bench, her legs wrapped around him without hesitation. His hand pushed the sundress up. No panties. He growled against her thigh.

“You planned this.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “Every second of it.”

Jack knelt and buried his face between her legs, tongue working slow, methodical circles that had her trembling, moaning, clawing at the wood beneath her. His beard scratched at her inner thighs as he devoured her until she screamed, legs shaking, juices dripping down his chin.

She didn’t leave until the sun went down.

The next morning, she returned again. No excuse this time. Just need.

They didn’t even make it inside. Jack bent her over the railing of his porch, fucking her hard, her hands gripping the wood, her moans echoing through the trees. His cock slid deep inside her, slick from the night before, the sound of skin on skin mixing with her gasps.

When she came, she came loud, back arched, voice hoarse. And Jack followed, grunting her name into her ear as he emptied inside her, pressing his chest to her back, breath ragged.

Afterward, she sat on the steps, legs open, body used and sated.

“You always fuck like that?” she asked, still dazed.

Jack lit a cigarette and looked out at the woods. “Only when someone needs it.”

Jack’s Page