Ivy

After Breakfast

Up north where roofs might leak—or did leak, in the case of her shed—tarps were mandatory. The one for her topless Jeep made total sense, and so did the one for her Diamond T. She hadn’t covered the whole truck, just the top of the cab, down to the door handles. Instead of being tied down, it was weighted with rocks tied to the grommets and a few bungee cords for security. Just enough to prevent rain and snow leaks from drenching the interior, and secure enough that what wind came through the cracks in the shed wouldn’t blow it off.

The tarp wasn’t custom-made, it was an off-the-shelf generic silver Chinese tarp from a big box store, probably mine.

Formerly mine; I’d missed enough shifts by now I was effectively fired. As if my final message on the radio hadn’t made that clear. Whatever, there were lots of companies willing to underpay unskilled workers. I could have a new job by Monday afternoon, or whenever Ivy decided to drive me back.

She undid a couple of bungees and flopped it over the roof, giving me the first look inside. There was something about the cab of an old truck—a proper truck—that was lacking in more modern ones. There was no thought given to comforts, you got gauges that told you what you needed to know and that was it. The dashboard was stamped steel, painted body color, with a thin pad on the very top, cracked from years in the sun. Her Jeep was the logical extension of this truck, something small and nimble and capable and also lacking in features.

The engine was simple, and even in the small engine compartment it didn’t look crowded. I knew my Honda had a tiny four cylinder, and it was surrounded with all sorts of sundry parts, antilock brakes and cruise control and lots of other stuff. This was a machine from a bygone era, elegant in its simplicity, one step removed from a steam engine with a giant flywheel.

I could see why it would appeal to Ivy. It was the missing link between her Jeep and a steam tractor.

Some paint still clung to the truck, but it was mostly a combination of rust and moss and neglect. I didn’t think it was beyond help, though; more like it was in a long slumber just waiting for the moment it was needed again. Everything was well-aged, but nothing looked like it was missing or broken.

The shed was more than old enough, it could have been built with this truck in mind. Had the former owner bought it new, or had he gotten a great deal on it used?

From what I could see, the bodywork was good enough it could be restored to its former glory, maybe be driven in parades and on nice days, but that didn’t feel right to me. It was meant to be used as a workhorse. Restoring it to a showroom condition would only cheapen it.

“I can get it to crank over, but it won’t stay running,” Ivy said. “Figure the fuel system’s filled with varnish or rust.”

“Or both. You got any tools with you? Pretty sure that’s the carburetor.” I’d picked up lots of vocabulary at the home improvement store, and the knowledge that gas went bad if it was left unused for too long. “I’m not much for repairing engines, but there’s got to be YouTube tutorials, it doesn’t look complicated.”

“Project for later.” Ivy slammed the hood shut. “Not like it can get very far in the woods, and I’ve got my Jeep for hauling, maybe when my deck’s built. Although, this thing would be convenient for hauling lumber.”

I nodded. “They’d turn their heads if you showed up in an antique, that’s for sure. Although they probably do anyway.”

“I’m enough of a regular at my local hardware store that nobody bats an eye when I arrive.”

“Or else they’re all fantasizing getting in your pants.”

“Worked out well for you, didn’t it? Cart boy.” She ran her finger up my thigh, almost but not quite touching my dick.

•••

She had a small lean-to behind her shed as well. This one contained a small pile of felled trees, set out on scrap pallets so that they could dry. I’d assumed that they were there to eventually be turned into firewood, but I was wrong.

“They’ll be the frame for the back porch,” Ivy explained. “Once they’re cut to length and hewn, anyway. Probably won’t square them all the way off, that’s a lot of work and there’s no real benefit. I’ll just de-bark the posts, and only flatten one side of the support joists.” She eyed me up and down. “How good are you with an adz?”

I started mentally cycling through all the woodworking tools the home improvement store had. I didn’t think we carried adzes; I certainly couldn’t picture one in my head. “I’m going to assume I’m not at all good with them, since I don’t even know what one is.”

“Figures. Because if we wanted a fun morning activity, we could start shaping one of them. Or split wood, that’s always a good way to spend some of the morning energy.”

“You have any ideas that don’t involve back-breaking labor?”

“Could try our luck at hunting again, but a lot of animals are going to want to stay home since it’s raining.” Ivy sighed. “Shame it wasn’t later in the year, could get some big game and be set for a while. You think you could split wood without losing any of your fingers?”

“God, I hope so.” That was something I vaguely knew how to do. Set the wood on end, whack it with an ax or a wedge, and it’d split in half. “It looks like you have plenty.”

“Sure, it looks like it, until it’s the middle of the winter and you’re drifted in—that pile goes a lot faster than you’d think. The first year I was here, I had to run my Ford up here with a bed full of wood I’d split back at home, just so I had enough to get through.”

It seemed to me like a vacation home—as this clearly was—should be more for enjoyment and less for work, but maybe that was what made the relaxing times better.

What did I do in my time off? Watch too much TV, eat too much, clean my apartment, and that was about it. There certainly wasn’t any satisfaction to be had in a day’s work; even if I was dog-tired, I didn’t feel like I’d accomplished anything at the end of a shift. Maybe the carts were all inside, maybe the cards of drill bits were all where they belonged on the shelf, but it wouldn’t be long before some weekend warrior would mess it all up and the cycle would begin anew.

Here, everything we did meant something. Hunting provided dinner—the squirrel stew was better than the canned beef stew, not just in flavor, but in the effort that had gone to catching the squirrel. I was never going to remember a trip to the grocery store when I cracked open a can of Dinty-Moore beef stew, but with every small morsel of squirrel on the fork, my mind went back to hunting for it.

The porch footings—they weren’t anything special yet, but in time they’d be useful, and if I ever got invited back, I’d remember putting them in, remember our weekend together. It was something I could be proud of, something I’d helped build, something I’d helped create.

In the moment I stepped into her Jeep, I’d dimly hoped in the back of my mind that she was intending to take me up north to fuck my brains out; the reality had been far better than I’d been anticipating. We’d been more intimate than I’d ever been with a partner before, and I didn’t think that would have come if I hadn’t been willing to work, to do what needed to be done.

In the simplest sense, if I did a task, I got rewarded. I wasn’t sure any more if the sex was the reward.

“Well, if wood needs to be split, let’s do it.” I thought about adding ‘how hard can it be?’ but I was sure I was going to find out, and didn’t need to curse myself before I started.

•••

Her chopping block was the stump of a felled tree, out in the open, slick with rain. I’d imagined that it would at least be under cover—the wood was.

For some reason, I’d imagined that she’d do the wood splitting under some kind of a shelter, then I reasoned that the rain wasn’t that bad, and it would wash off the sweat. To a point, strenuous physical activity negated the need for clothes, didn’t it?

“You ever split wood before?”

“Back in Boy Scouts . . . with a hatchet. Usually gave up after a while and just tossed the logs on the fire, let it do the work.”

“It’s not hard once you get in a rhythm.” She pointed over to the wood cribs. “Start grabbing some of the logs and bring them over, I’ll get the tools.”

•••

The bark was rough on my skin. Some of it flaked off, and sometimes when it did, bugs would come crawling out, usually on me. I couldn’t really brush them off with an armful of logs, but when I stopped thinking about them, I stopped noticing them. It might have been all the stimulation of rain on my bare skin, or the rain might have been washing them off—I didn’t look.

Once I’d made a couple trips and provided a decent pile, Ivy placed a log down on the chopping block. “Now, there’s a couple of ways to do it, I’ve got a splitting wedge, or you can just use an ax. In terms of keeping all your fingers, it might be safer to use the wedge.”

She set the wedge in the top of the log and picked up a sledgehammer, holding it near the head with her right hand as she tapped it into place, sticking it in the wood. “Once you’re set—”

I didn’t have my eyes on the wedge. I didn’t have to; I knew what was going to happen. Instead, I watched the fluid motion as she brought the sledgehammer back, sliding her hands on the shaft into the optimal position, and then it slammed down on the log, rending it asunder in one fell swoop.

She made it look easy. Which was going to make my try all the more embarrassing.

I took the hammer and the wedge, tapped it into place like she had, and then took an almighty swing, Thor with his hammer . . . and I missed the wedge entirely, instead launching a barrage of wood chips at my bare chest.

“Maybe a little less enthusiasm, cart boy. It’s about aim and finesse.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I picked up the fallen log and tried again, this time hitting the wedge on its corner, which did manage to split the log partway and also knock the wedge loose. “Maybe I should just carry logs back and forth, that’s harder to fuck up.”

“You just need practice, and then it’ll come naturally.”

Ivy gave me a couple more tries, and I got better, but I wasn’t great. “What about the ax?”

“You’ve got the swing for it, just make sure you don’t lose control, if it bounces it might take a leg off—or your dick.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised, and she handed it over.

I hefted it in my hands and picked up another log, balancing it on the chopping block. This time I made a more controlled strike, since I had no interest in bouncing the ax off and hitting my dick, or any other part of my anatomy.

That was only one thing to aim, and I didn’t have to hit perfectly. Close was good enough. I didn’t split it through on my first try, but I was close, close enough that I might be able to rip the log in half with my bare arms.

Since it was stuck on the ax, I just lifted it off the chopping block and brought it down again, nodding in satisfaction as the two halves fell away. “Yeah, this is better.”

“It’s not good for a whole log, that’s why I’ve got the wedge.” Ivy looked around at the pile of wood, at me, and then at the wedge. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll use the wedge to halve the logs, then you can split them from there with the ax. Stump’s big enough we can both work and not get in each other’s way, especially if we take turns.”

•••

The Boy Scouts had been adamant about proper safety gear when chopping wood. Sturdy, closed-toe boots, long pants—all I had was my bare flesh. And a distraction across from me, as well, and I knew that if I paid too much attention to her I was going to fuck up, and I’d probably bite myself with the ax, or bounce a log into one of us.

Several days ago, I’d have been reminding myself at every turn to focus on what I was doing, but I wasn’t the same person I’d been several days ago. I wasn't entirely sure what had changed or exactly how it had changed, but it had.

The rain made the ax handle slick, something else I had to be careful of.

I kept my focus to my log, and watched her out of the corner of my eye to make sure that we weren’t both striking at the same time. At first we had a ragged rhythm going, the satisfying thwack of my ax out of time with the more sure clang of her maul hitting the wedge, and then we slowly got in time with each other.

I didn’t have to be told to take split logs to the wood crib when I went to fetch more, that was the smartest way to do it. Take one trip.

The logs got stacked neatly, and I grabbed another pile of wood to split. Would have been more efficient with a cart, I could have hauled more at once.

She’d taken my ax and started to catch up on my side, then handed it back when I dumped the fresh logs beside her, and I went back to work.

Walking the logs to the chopping block was a nice reprieve, and a chance to admire the wilderness, if only for a few moments. Some birds didn’t mind the rain, flying around through the trees and occasionally out where it was more open. I remembered hearing on some TV documentary that hummingbirds could starve to death in hours if they didn’t eat, and there might have been other birds who always needed to be eating food, too.

Some squirrels came out as well, darting around under the cover of trees, looking for food.

We worked in silence. This was an unskilled task, I’d learned what I needed to do, and we could have had a conversation but I actually enjoyed the peace. I might have been a useless hunter, an unwanted appendage she dragged through the woods who was barely skilled enough to fetch, but here I could hold my own, I could focus on my task.

There was no reason to talk. We didn’t need to fill the air with conversation; in fact, it felt more appropriate to not. It sounded cliched, but we were alone together, both complete in and of ourselves as we worked at a common task.

•••

The rain was refreshing, cooling, and it provided a different forest noise, punctuated by our strikes. I got grazed by chips of wood and scraped by bark and small branches but that didn’t bother me a bit. I was in the zone.

With every armload of wood carried, the stack of logs got smaller, and the crib got fuller. I hadn’t had the skills to estimate how many split logs could fit in the crib, but now I was, and even though my arms were starting to ache, I’d been eyeing the crib with the goal of filling it to the top. It looked like there were enough logs left to split—even though the pile had dwindled significantly since we’d started.

I was already anticipating the feeling of satisfaction when the last round log got set on the chopping block, but that was not to be. An ominous rumble of thunder split the sky, and then the rain started to intensify.

Ivy jerked her head up and looked at the sky. “We should probably—”

A brilliant flash of lightning momentarily blinded me, and I even heard the sizzle as it hit, right before the nearly instantaneous roar of thunder rattled my bones and temporarily deafened me.

“Jesus Christ!” And here I was holding a metal tool above my head, out in the open. “What the fuck did that hit?”

“Tree, probably. Come on, let’s get to the cabin.”

I set down the ax and reached for the freshly-split wood, and she grabbed my hand before I could even pick up a piece. “Leave it, grab the ax, and let’s go.”

I nodded and the two of us sprinted back to the cabin, lest the next lightning bolt have our name on it.

As she threw open the door and ducked inside, I realized that I’d finally discovered something she was actually afraid of. Understandably so; no matter how strong she was, lightning would kill her, too.

Another thought crossed my mind, one that was probably stupid, but as I pushed the door shut I couldn’t help but ask. “Are your horns lightning rods?”

“What?” She leaned the sledgehammer up against the wall and set the splitting wedge next to it. “How do you mean?’

“Well, isn’t lightning attracted to pointy things that are up high? And your horns are pointy and on the top of your head.”

“Huh.” She ran her hands down her legs, squeegeeing some of the water off. “You mean, if there were a bunch of people and one minotaur in a field, the lightning would want to hit the minotaur?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, maybe. I’d rather not find out. Some cows have horns and others have them cut off; do you think the horned cows get hit more often?”

“That’s a good question. Maybe somebody’s studied that.”

Another flash lit up the inside of the cabin, and a few seconds later, the rumble of thunder, still close enough to rattle the windows. “I was hoping that the sun would come out while we were chopping wood.”

“After this passes, it might. Or else it’ll be rainy all day.”

“Maybe.” She frowned. “Might as well get a fire going, that’ll warm things up and help dry off the floor.”

•••

Ivy was building up the fire when I remembered that her Jeep didn’t have a top. “What do you do if it keeps raining like this? You can’t drive your Jeep back home in this kind of weather.” I didn’t have to worry about losing my job if I didn’t get back by Monday, but she might.

“There’s an old canvas top for it I keep in the shed, just in case,” she said. “Canvas doors, too. The top doesn’t do much, honestly. It’s old and leaks and the mice have chewed a few holes in it, and it’s an absolute bastard to set up. I wouldn’t worry, rain this intense doesn’t usually last. It’ll taper off in a little while.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Ivy shrugged and scratched a match against the fireplace. “Then it won’t be a pleasant ride home, I guess. Can’t be helped.” She settled back on her haunches in front of the fireplace, watching the fire as it slowly got established. “Nothing in the Jeep really cares if it gets wet.”

“I care if I get wet, a long drive and you might be risking hypothermia.”

“Worst comes to worst, I’ll stay an extra day, not the end of the world. Besides, after a good rain everything’s different, just wait and see.”

I got up off the beanbag chair and moved up closer to her, watching the flames as they devoured the kindling and started to work on the larger logs.

There was something mesmerizing about watching the flames lick at the bark and dig their way into the wood. Something beautiful and chaotic and destructive and inviting all at the same time.

She put her arm around me and pulled me close to her as another crash of thunder rocked the house.

•••

The blankets were still downstairs, which was convenient, even though I would have liked to watch Ivy climb the ladder to get them.

Ivy spread the comforter across the floor in front of the fireplace and laid down on her stomach, her hooves towards the fire. I sat beside her, resting my back on the beanbag chair, shivering as I settled in—keeping active had kept the cold at bay. Now that I wasn’t moving any more, I was still soaked and the fire hadn’t started to produce much heat yet.

I could see goose bumps on Ivy’s arms, too. She wasn’t immune to the cold, either.

Without her asking, I got up and picked up the blanket and spread it across her back, then returned to my previous position, covering my legs with it as well, tucking the rest in around her. I didn’t like covering her up, that gave me less to look at.

But not less to touch. Her back had a lot to offer, from the tense muscles to the soft jut of shoulder and spine, down to her tail and the firm curve of her butt, furry and forbidden. It felt different under a cover; it wasn’t just the plush pile of the blanket.

She didn’t take off the trappings of civilization when she came up to her cabin, she put them on when she went down to Grand Rapids.

“Too bad hot tubs are a pain in the ass to maintain,” I said. “Right about now, sitting in a hot tub and watching the storm would be about perfect.”

“I’d be fishing leaves and dead animals out of it all the time,” Ivy muttered. “And the amount of firewood it would take to keep it hot. . . “

“Yeah.” I rubbed her back, right between her shoulder blades. “Like I said, a pain in the ass.”

“This is just as good.”

It was honestly better, when I thought about it. A nice bookend to the weekend, a break from chopping wood—although I was still disappointed that the wood crib hadn’t gotten filled. That wasn’t the biggest accomplishment, and it wouldn’t be the kind of thing that I could look at if I ever got back up here; the wood would be used over the winter. Or maybe another rainy day like this.

Had Ivy split the logs that were currently crackling in the fireplace, or had some other guy?

Did it matter? I was here now.

I looked away from the fire, watching the rain splatter on the windows. They weren’t as sealed as they would be in a modern house; and now that I thought about it, they weren’t modern vinyl windows, either. I didn’t know all that much about windows, that wasn’t my department, but of course I’d passed through the window section a time or two.

I hadn’t really paid attention to them before; they fit with the vibe of the cabin. They looked too old for Ivy to have made them herself.

There were stores that sold architectural salvage, and that felt like a more Ivy solution. Find a window she liked, and build the wall to fit it.

A lot of the lakefronts had small cabins, weekend retreats for factory workers. Usually small and simple, since they weren’t meant as main homes. But then rich people had started to buy lakefront land and build mini McMansions in their place—some of the inland lakes still had janky old cabins around them. Usually personalized for whoever had built it.

What were the rules about cabins? Had she submitted a plan to the township, had there been an inspection when it was done? Or was this a grey area, a place where it was still your land and you could do what you wanted on it, at least within reason?

Whatever the case, like her it fit the land, inside and out. It wasn’t some shining edifice of glossy plastic plunked down on a terraformed landscape; it was a proper house that belonged, built out of as many natural materials as possible. Much like many of the State Parks I’d visited, strong and durable and simple. Fitting in, rather than calling attention to themselves.

•••

Between the blanket and the fire, I was dried most of the way off. I could still feel dampness on my back where I leaned against the beanbag.

Ivy’s leg fur was still wet, although it felt warmer than it had before.

She reached back and pulled off the cover, then shoved it in my direction.

I didn’t need it either, so I tossed it off to the side and turned my attention back to her, complete, from the tips of her horns to her hooves, her ears and her messy hair—if a barber or salon cut that, I’d eat the hat I wasn’t wearing. Her back, bronzed by the sun, crossed with a few faint scars; her furry legs and her tail.

Without thinking, I turned and straddled her, shifting around until I was in a comfortable position—I felt her tense and then relax as I got into position.

She flicked her tail. I was practically sitting on it, and now I had an idea what it would feel like if I’d had a tail.

I put my hands on her shoulders, squeezed them, and then started working in towards her neck.

I’d never given a back massage, nor had I ever received one. I was winging it, hoping that a mediocre back massage was good enough—and if I fucked up, or missed a spot, I knew she’d tell me.

She wouldn’t hold back. She wasn’t the kind of girl to lie to make me feel better.

I kneaded her shoulders, feeling for tension as I worked my way down her back. I figured she’d be sore and stiff in the same places I was.

“Mmh, lower,” she said, and I obliged, finding that spot, and then the next—I didn’t notice right away when she stopped giving me directions, as I began to pick up on her subtle reactions. I didn’t need to be instructed any more, and I lost myself in the massage.

•••

I’d thought that splitting wood would make me sore—and it had—but a good massage was a new kind of soreness. It was all in the forearms and the wrists, and I wasn’t going to stop until they fell off. I was in too deep, I was committed, and I was going to see this to the end. I might not have been able to fill up the crib with wood, but I could do this.

As I started to feel coarser hair and then fur under my hands, I asked myself where a back massage stopped. It depended on comfort, on trust, didn’t it? There was tension in her butt, and I discovered when I hit just the right spots I could make her tail move. I could feel muscles moving under my hands, muscles I didn’t have—or did I? I still had a coccyx, the sad remnant of a tail; maybe there were some vestigial muscles that had once controlled it.

There was no worry about privacy or proximity; we’d moved well beyond that point. Maybe she was expecting that once I got to her butt, I’d start feeling her out, and it was tempting. My hands were right there, she was already soft as putty—or maybe I should continue down her legs.

That felt like the right approach.

I was in a place where I was straddling a naked minotaur who would have no objection to anything I did, and I wanted to massage her legs. Life was strange sometimes.

Had she broken me, like she threatened to do?

I didn’t think so. If anything I felt like I was stronger now than I had been. Even if my arms and my back ached, even if my stomach was grumbling because I’d used up every bit of our breakfast.

The fire was nothing but embers, the rain had stopped, and I started working on Ivy’s thighs, kneading those muscles, working through her fur—still damp against her skin.

I’d reached what was inarguably the end of a back massage—her hooves. They couldn’t be massaged, although I tried to work a little around her dewclaws, watching her carefully since I had no idea how sensitive they might be. I hadn’t triggered any kicks or tailslaps when I’d been low on her legs before, but this could be different, since I was putting on more pressure.

And I was in prime tail-slapping range. I always kept it in the corner of my eye, although it mostly stayed limp between her legs. A good sign, I hoped; a sign of relaxation rather than a sign of tension.

I hadn’t massaged it. Her tail was mostly bony, though; I didn’t think there was anything in there to massage.

•••

I hadn’t expected her to reciprocate. When I’d finally finished, she’d rolled over and sat up, leaned in and kissed me; we’d embraced and then she told me to lie down.

Having her straddle my back was weird; the fur on her legs was tickling me and I could feel the heat at her center, I could feel her tail stretched along my back, draping over my buttcrack, the bristly end of it occasionally flicking against my balls—that felt weird.

I tensed up as her hands gripped my shoulders—maybe it was ancient species-memory. This was not a good position to be in; I couldn’t defend myself at all when I was prone.

Who was I kidding, I couldn’t defend myself if she decided to come at me. She wouldn’t even need one of her guns.

I told myself to relax, demanded it, and it eventually worked.

Her touch was soft when it needed to be and hard when it had to be, and as she worked down to my lower back I hoped that I’d massaged her half as well. This was better than sex, a different kind of pleasure.

I tensed again as she reached my ass, and she poked a finger against my butthole in response. Whether that was to get me to relax or just for fun, I wasn't sure, but she was soon back to business, working my gluteus maximus, reaching further in than I’d dared, and then she started her way down my legs.

I’d known how tense and sore most of my muscles were, but I’d completely forgotten about my calves—as she started squeezing there was a twitch that was almost a charlie horse and then the instant relief as it vanished.

She didn’t have to stop when I did; I still had the soles of my feet.

I tried to pull back; on the best of days my feet weren’t much to look at and after a weekend without shoes or socks? They must have been filthy.

That was no deterrent; she took each in turn, holding them in her hands and pressing her thumbs in the sole, and it was one of the weirdest, most amazing sensations I’d ever felt.

When she finally finished, I didn’t want to move. I wasn’t sure I could. Besides, it would be a shame to undo all that work she’d just put into me.

I knew sooner or later I was going to have to. We might have lunch or we might not—my stomach wanted it, but was currently being outvoted by everything else. But we would have to pack up and leave at some point.

Ivy must have felt the same as I did; she laid down beside me. I reached out and she took my hand and that was enough to make everything complete.

We didn’t speak, for there was no need. Nature provided the gentle dripping of rainwater off the roof, the last vestiges of the storm. Birdsong had picked up again, I could see the light through the windows was getting brighter. In time we’d move, but for now we didn’t have to, for now we could lie beside each other in silence.