Lobster Shack

A regular fantasy is set on the coast of Maine, a place I've never been. I live in a simple apartment above a pub, white washed walls, an old clawfoot bathtub next to the fire, windows facing the sea. Its quiet and the only sound is the wind on glass and the creaking structure. I live for one purpose; for the sexual desires of my lobsterman. He's older, perhaps by 20 years or so, salt and pepper shadow on a strong face. His body strong and scarred, stained by the sun and salty sea. He comes back to the apartment reeking of pipe tobacco, wet wool, and lobster. He never speaks, no affectionate greeting, no eye contact, just eats the stew I've prepared. He draws a batch and strips naked. Submerged in the tub, the fire illuminates his sparrow tattooed chest. He's glistening and I'm throbbing with desire to be acknowledged. He pets the cat, whispering to it. Dressed, he smokes and reads a catalog while I stoke the fire. I sense his movement and feel his presence behind me. He proceeds to fuck me with a rough, controlling edge. Scooping me up to hang from a beam, pulling me here and there, small slaps across my ass, tits, and face. He grunts like a lion, biting every part of my body. When he finishes, we sleep. In the morning, he's gone before I wake. I never know how long he'll be gone or if he'll ever come back.