She Works with Wood

She Works with Wood

Woodwork is her trade. She has made her way as a young businesswoman in the big city, boasting a prospering shop full of various goods and knick-knacks.

She makes little boxes and pen holders. She makes rulers and stamp blocks. On the more expensive side there are cuckoo clocks and carved owls - so well put together and so crisply varnished that they look to be made of polished marble rather than of trees: perfectly sound and smooth both in function and appearance.

She herself is very pretty. On the shorter side, with tanned skin and freckles. She wears a sunny yellow dress and a pale cardigan that falls loosely over her shoulders. She has a habit of leaning over the desk and chewing her lip on the slow days, drooping into her elbows with her back arched. There are often daisies in her flaxen hair. But, make no mistake, she is far from dainty like most of the girls in this city.

See her in the workshop, wood dust clinging to her lithe forearms and thick apron. Watch the offcuts cascade into the waste bin in the corner. Her drive for perfection is evident in piles of discarded projects, rough and unfinished. She sits there, earmuffed and masked, forgetting the clock as she (oftentimes quite literally) whittles away at the task at hand. Just an hour of this work is exhausting for both one's mind and body. Try five hours thrice a week, tacked onto running a small business in this economy.

Yes, it is a good thing that she knows how she likes to unwind.

She flicks on the light and pulls out the box. She taps away at it and finds the false bottom instantly. The waft of varnish hits her and her breathing quickens. A habitual response. She runs her hands along her prized possessions and picks one. Closes the box. Locks the door to her room.

She first had the idea when she was turning knobs for a set of drawers. She made too many and went to discard the spares when the devilish notion took her. There was a great deal of work to be done - she turned to her finest grades of sandpaper and the silkiest of her varnishes to achieve her desired finish.

When she could polish it no smoother, she splayed herself out on her bed and spat on it. Then she used it to plug herself up. It put her cheap little plastic one to shame.

She grew addicted and made several more. She would patter down to her workshop late at night to complete the jobs, abuzz with an intoxicating blend of shame and excitement. Professional levels of skill put to work crafting tools of pure carnal pleasure. Her favourite moment was undoubtedly when a new creation nestled against her for the first time, slicked with oil, slowly (or quite suddenly) finding its way inside, then back out again, then back in.

There were short, stout ones, essentially just thicker variations of the first knob, brutally simple in function. There was one that curved upward with a bell shape at its end which could be endlessly relied on grind in at a perfect angle. And then there was her most shameful masterpiece: a squat stack of balls, five of them, growing wider towards the base, from a marble's width to that of a golf ball, balanced with a thick handle for efficiency.

She holds her chosen piece and strokes it gently with an oiled hand. She has chosen the balls tonight, and breathes shakily as she works her wet fingers from knob to knob, starting at the playfully small tip, rubbing down, down to the girthy base. Enough foreplay. She lets the first notch into her puckered hole. There is a satisfying friction and she giggles, twists it around inside. Her free hand plays along her bare chest, pinches at her nipple before walking on down to her crotch. She draws little circles on her clit and feels herself melt into the sheets.

She plunges her plaything deeper. The second ball slips in. There is a touch more strain but nothing she is not used to. She rolls in between ball one and two, moaning softly and clenching her toes; clenches on the toy as well, fighting against the third ball for but a moment before letting it in. She gasps. The pressure is growing quite real now. She breathes deep and works her chosen depth a while longer. Her fingers start to bury themselves hungrily in her slit. The oil and her juices are making an ever-spreading puddle between her open thighs, sticky and shameful.

Her dirty hole is begging for the next notch, burning for it. The scent of her own lust blends with the oil and varnish in the air and she is rolling about, fighting the urge to go deeper and lose herself. She whispers to herself as she applies pressure on the wooden handle, slow and insistent. No, no, no... There is a moment of beautiful tension before ball four burrows into her and she hisses with satisfaction.

She is stretched open with a new intensity and she is drooling onto the pillow. Her hands work hard and steady, wrists aching with the effort. The last ball is yet to be used. She has not dared to try it before, but she can feel her grip tightening, verging on a final push.

Will she? Won't she?

To hell with it.

She takes a deep breath, ignores her hole's protests and the thickest notch lodges itself inside of her, not without some effort. She moans noiselessly, her mouth agape, eyes vacant. It feels like she might break.

Her climax is instant and explosive. Her back arches and her sweaty palm slips from her plaything to claw hard into her sheets. She whines desperately, breathing quick and shallow through her teeth. Her fingers dig deep in her snatch for a half-second before being shoved out forcefully - she is spraying wildly out onto the towel and beyond it onto the carpet. She squeals shamelessly. She can feel her toy quivering in her aching hole and she grunts, pushing it out with her final spasm. There is an obscene pop as it reluctantly exits her body and splashes into her puddle, its duty fulfilled for the night.

She lays there panting for a while before cleaning up her mess and going to bed. She has an early start tomorrow and plenty of new bookends to sell. She is, above all else, a businesswoman. At least that is what she tells herself as she wrings out her soaked towel in the sink, her thighs still trembling.