This story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives.
Sixty-five miles south of the Arctic Circle, just west of the border of Alaska and Canada, Andy and Kate and their sled-dogs live alongside the Yukon river. For most of the year there's nobody else for miles; nobody to pry or bother, nobody to kiss, nobody to fuck except one another. Andy seemed always to do the lion's share of the work while Kate, unshapely, denim-clad, frizzy blonde-grey maned, seemed always to be complaining. Andy'd go off with the dogs or his snow machine to log or to lay traps, his white hair wind-blown and his cheeks chapped red by the sun reflecting from the snow, doing a hungry sweaty day's work, and he'd come back to Kate, leaning on the front door, ready to upbraid him for something. All he wanted was a beer and something hot and wet on his cock.
Don't women understand that hard work makes men hard?
"When are you going to get started on my garden, Andy?" Kate'd been going on about a garden for the fifteen years since they'd moved out to the Yukon. Back then, Andy would come home and Kate would just about pounce on him while he still straddled his snow machine. He'd get hard as he rounded the bend toward home. Hearing the dogs' barking was Pavolvian; his cock would salivate knowing his wild-haired woman would jump into his saddle and squeal and squirm till she'd been fucked. No sooner had she yanked off his thick gloves than he slid his cold hands under the waist of her thick denim, feeling the heat of her cunt on his fingers. He'd slip in to her and feel his whole body thaw, feel his cock radiate onto his thighs tense from gripping the saddle, feel his lips snap like a magnet to Kate's neck, smelling the coffee she'd brewed for him in the wool of her sweater collar. He felt like a grizzly as his left hand undid Kate's jeans, the button freezing momentarily to his skin but yielding as he worked it out of its slot and brought his left hand to join his right. Andy's rough fingers drove her into ecstasy. His fingers, newly animate, would bring Kate to her first lurching orgasm even as she undid his buckle and slid her hand down his shaft till her elbow reached his waistband. Andy's head rolled back as his cock swelled to meet the diminutive hand that stroked it. He was never bigger, never harder, never quicker to cum than when he knew Kate's every muscle was tensed to bring him closer to her, into her. That was then.
"And that was TWO years ago!" Kate's harping brought Andy back to the present. He looked at her, lips pursed, hand on her hip, and struggled to remember the wild woman who mounted him crazed each day. Now he fucked her in the evenings when he couldn't take her complaining any more. He'd squint to find something in her to make him hard as he had been those fifteen years ago. Lately his eyes had taken to squinting so hard that they shut. He fucked his wife with his half-hard cock and his eyes squeezed shut. She came, he rolled off, she fell asleep and he'd beat off with her juice on his cock and her snores in his ears. He opened his eyes and got turned on by his own cock in the kerosene light, thick from top to bottom, long and straight as the logs he felled. It was veiny and deep red like fresh flesh. His rough right hand glided over the ridge of the head as his left hand caressed his body. Andy was strong from his labor, wiry and lean. His skin was burnished from chopping wood shirtless in the yard -- which always used to guarantee round two with Kate, but no more -- and his lats flared. Andy was slim but his muscles were tightly stacked under his smooth skin. More and more he found beauty in his own body, and stared at his flexing forearms as he jerked his cock. He leered at his abs rising and falling as he worked himself up, then as they were covered in his avalanche of cum, dripping over the sides of his stomach onto the sheets. His jizz steamed into the cold night. He wiped his hand on the bed and rolled over as sleep came instantly to him.
"ANDY! Cody's plane just landed. Get UP!" Kate stormed out of the bedroom door as Andy woke, sour, trying to remember the dream that left his cock as hard as it had ever been. He couldn't for the life of him figure out who the fuck Cody was, or why there was a plane, or even where he was -- so weighty was the mixture of thick sleep and lust on his mind. The sound of propellers blew it right off: Cody. Client. Wilderness training. Early morning arrival. Fuck.
Andy got out of bed with a "fucking god-damn this shit," noticed his huge steely erection, smiled, then frowned as he swung his legs over the bed and stood. He rubbed his eyes, felt the good weight of his cock swaying between his thighs, pulling on his abs, smiled again, and then frowned again. He looked for his jeans and pulled them on, just about buttoning them over his boner that wouldn't go down. He pulled on a thick sweater that would conceal the inches of dick that stretched over his waistband, and then a fleece, and then his fur-lined boots. He yawned and stretched his arms up, felt his sweater ride up and the icy air hit his cock -- a feeling particular to Alaska. Now he was awake.
He went down, hoping for a moment for coffee but finding only Kate fluttering around for her boots and smoothing her hair all the while. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked at her.
"Well, what are you gawking at?" Kate asked, momentarily pausing.
"Nothing," Andy replied, speaking unusually honestly for a change. He looked around. "Am I supposed to go out and get him?"
"Well, of COURSE you are. Somebody's got to and I've got to put on some coffee and find my boots and do something about my hair and --"
"Fine, fine, I'm going." Andy picked his parka off the peg by the door and put it on as he backed out the door, shaking his head at Kate's frittering and wondering why she never made him coffee anymore.
The dogs were frenzied by the sound of the little prop-plane's engine powering down by the river.
"WHOA, whoa," Andy said to quiet them, briefly. He hardly noticed their barking anymore; it was as constant and unremarkable as Kate's nagging. As he crossed the yard he petted his favorite dogs, stopping occasionally to kneel down and give one a good scratch behind the ear. The dogs' barking picked up. He looked up and saw blocking the sun a huge shape. Staggering toward him was Cody, burdened with a comically vast rucksack. The dogs strained at their chains to size up the newcomer and Andy rose from his knees and said again, "whoa, WHOA."
Cody offloaded his rucksack and ran his ungloved hair over his sweating forehead and blond ruffles of hair, pushing back his ski-cap. He held out the sweaty hand to Andy saying his name, probably, but Andy was deafened by the sight. Cody had to have seven inches and eighty pounds on him. His chest hair curled over the top of his collar, nearly meeting his thick beard that had already begun to crust over with ice. His lips parted wide and curved up to reveal a little snaggletooth knocked back behind his lower teeth. His legs were each as thick as Andy's waist. Andy felt the precum rise out of his cock and stick to his thick woolen sweater. He felt the ice crystals in his lungs melt as he reached out a hand into the paw of the burly twenty-six-year-old who'd come in the plane that was now gearing up to go. The dogs started up again and he was happy to be inaudible even if he could manage to say something. He was dripping from eyes and mouth and cock, stiff in place, mind racing for what to say when he could no longer blame circumstance for his muteness.
"ANDY," he said. "CODY," he said, smiling even wider. "ANDY!" Kate yelled from the porch. "Fuck," Andy muttered, as both turned to wave at Kate. Kate beckoned. Cody picked up his rucksack and started off toward the house. "Fuck," Andy said again, seeing Cody's thick ass as he lurched toward. He followed, his dick straining against his jeans.