The Lumberjack with 2 Rods – The Shape of Love Read Online S.E. Law

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)

Heigh-ho-timber! The lumberjack has not one, but TWO huge chainsaws that make me purr. My neighbor at the trailer park is gorgeous. Carl Jonsson is older, definitely, but he’s also H-O-T. He’s got broad shoulders, pecs like heavy slabs of marble, and an enormous package that makes me go quivery inside. But when he shows me his package, to my surprise, Carl’s got TWO TOOLS! They’re both huge, thick, and throbbing with power. My mouth waters because I have to ride his appendages … both, simultaneously! I’m a genetic mutant, but I’m not ashamed. My anatomy is something I was born with, and if anything, it makes me even MORE attractive to the ladies. But Chloe’s something else. The sassy curvy girl thinks she’s seen everything when it comes to men … … but everything doesn’t include my particular anatomy! What in the world? Is this some kind of fantasy? Or maybe I’ve died and gone to heaven because where can I find a man like Carl Jonsson? He’s literally the stuff of dreams hahaha! But seriously, this is not an alien, sci-fi, or paranormal romance. Instead, it’s a steamy contemporary tale but with a man who can offer his woman DOUBLE … and I mean that literally, and not just figuratively! Break out your electric fan because you’ll need to cool down after reading this story! This book is a follow-up to 2 Cherries for My Dad’s Best Friend, but all of my stories are standalones and do not need to be read in order. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always an HEA for my readers.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



I stare out the window of my trailer. St. George Crossing is nice, although the name gives the trailer park a fancy air that it doesn’t deserve. After all, we don’t have sprawling estates with infinity pools nor emerald lawns dotted with tinkling fountains. Hell, we don’t have a pool at all, not even a community one. Instead, the trailer park is a dusty couple acres bordering the woods on one side, and the highway on the other. Cars roar past at all hours, spewing exhaust into the air, and it seems that everything’s always covered with a fine layer of sediment: the buildings, our cars, our lawn furniture, heck, even the people. There’s grime on my skin whenever I step into the shower, and my clothes have a never-ending gritty feel even when they’ve just been pulled out of the washer.

But St. George has its plusses too. The folks are sociable, and we look out for one another. I’ve only been here a year or so, but I’ve become friendly with Mrs. Jenkins to my west and Eddie Frey to my east. To the north are a few families that blow up inflatable pools for their kids on hot summer days, and the splashing and screaming can be ear-splitting. But I don’t mind because I’ve always liked children. I have no idea if I’ll ever have any myself, but in the meantime, I can put up with the ruckus.

After all, I’m a forty-five-year-old single guy who just moved to St. George, Minnesota, as a lumberjack for Crenshaw Forest Products. We get up early in the morning and do everything required of us: chop trees, sharpen tools, haul wood, evaluate forest growth, and even set controlled fires if need be. Usually that’s the responsibility of the local fire department, but sometimes, they ask Crenshaw to take charge. After all, we’re on-site all day, every day, and we know these parts better than anyone.

But after a long day at work, I’ve finally settled in for the night. It’s not too late. Maybe only eleven or so. I sit by the window in my small trailer, looking out over the park. The moon gleams low on the horizon, casting a silvery glow, and the park is still and quiet for a change. Only the hum of crickets fill the air, as well as the never-ending dull roar of traffic from the highway.

But the white noise is soothing. I lift my beer to my lips and take a large swallow. The hops are mighty bitter in this particular IPA and I wince a bit. What is this brand called? Cinnamon Alley because it’s a supposed “classic IPA” infused with cinnamon and CBD. I snort. Where the fuck do they come up with this shit? Why did I even buy it? Well, there’s no sense in wasting money, so I force myself to take another gulp.

But that’s when a noise catches my ear. A quiet moan sounds out in the air and I jerk my chin to the left. Was that…? Indeed, it was. I wait a few moments, and then the moan comes again, along with a few rhythmic grunts. Holy fuck, someone’s at it, and I think I know who. Moving like a panther, I get up from my seat and quietly exit my trailer. Then I stalk around to the left of the property before moving three rows down. There’s a clump trees at the edge of the park, and I position myself in the shadows beneath them. I’m not “spying” per se. I’m just standing here because I have a feeling I know what’s going to happen next.

Sure enough, a few more moans reach my ears, as well as the obscene sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh. Then, there’s a loud roar, as well as some exhausted panting and a sweet giggle. Clearly, the couple’s just climaxed and I think I know who it is.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the door to the trailer closest to the woods opens, and out steps the beautiful Chloe Mackie. The blonde teenager is lush and curvy, with the most innocent features: a tiny tip-tilted nose; small, pointed chin; and big blue eyes that a man could drown in. Not only that, but she’s got a figure that makes my mouth water. A thin, filmy robe is the only thing wrapped around those luscious assets, revealing creamy Double D breasts that jiggle and sway, a narrow waist, and wide, sassy hips that rock side to side as she carefully steps down from Tom Jerrity’s trailer. Oh yeah, Tom’s a motherfucker. I know him because he’s also picked up a job at Crenshaw, and a lazier asshole I’ve never met. Instead of working hard, this dude tries to slack all the time by disappearing in the woods to do “reconnaissance.” Reconnaissance, my ass. This guy is going off to smoke, and he comes back stoned half the time. It’s only a matter of time before he’s fired by Crenshaw.