The Snowplow Problem
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2020 by Mat Twassel
Romantic Sex Story: So much snow. Go out and shovel? Or stay inside and make love? Illustration.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Oral Sex .
(Don’t forget to show your work.)
Sometime during the night, the snow started to fall. Saturday morning, Jim and Julie wake up to see that the world is white. “Wow,” says Julie, looking out the bedroom window. “Come see how pretty.”
“And it’s still coming down,” says Jim, now standing behind his wife, his penis brushing her bottom.
Julie turns towards her husband, her eyes full of mischief, her hand caressing the underside of his erection. “You know what?”
“What?” says Jim, a grin of anticipation spreading across his face.
“You’d better get your ass in gear.” She gives Jim’s buttock a smart smack. “The walks and driveway need shoveling.”
An hour or so later Jim is back inside the house. “Whew,” he says, taking off his cap and kicking off his boots. “Practically a blizzard. The more I shoveled, the faster it fell.”
Julie helps Jim remove his coat. “My big strong man.”
Jim frowns.
“What?” Julie asks. “Should I have gotten you a snow blower for Christmas?”
Jim’s frown turns to a half-hearted scowl. “It’s not that,” he says.
“Oh?” Julie sets Jim’s coat over the back of a kitchen chair and turns her attention to the top button of his shirt.
“When I was a kid I really wanted to be a professional athlete,” Jim says, while Julie opens a few more buttons. “I shot baskets in the driveway hour after hour, day after day, spring, summer, fall, and winter, even when the driveway was covered with snow.”
“Mmmm.” Julie’s fingers soothe Jim’s bared chest. “Should we put a basket up on the garage?”
Jim snorts. “Too late for that. If I didn’t make the freshman team back in high school, it’s not likely the Celtics are going to want me now.”
“Aw, honey.” Julie’s fingertip circles Jim’s nipple. “The Celtics’ loss is my gain.”
“Back then, I also wanted to be an artist,” Jim continues. “But I had no talent at drawing or painting, and I couldn’t sing a lick. For a while I thought I had some talent at playing piano, but after a couple of years of lessons, I knew I’d never be good enough for the church basement, to say nothing of Carnegie Hall.”
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