by Gabi Moore
Suddenly, I am pushed to the floor, and a hand is squarely placed on the small of my back. As I balance on my knees and elbows, I feel the length of his cock push into my body. I open for him, and I feel the release of warmth flowing from between my legs.
The initial pressure right before anticipated penetration is something that I always enjoy.
No matter what.
Wanting someone to come inside of me is a primal desire that can’t be dismissed. When I want to be fucked, each centimeter of girth that stretches me apart is its own private source of ecstasy. The feeling of being pushed open wide is fantastic. I wonder how much wider he'll be able to go. All of these questions paint the experience of a new sexual partner. These questions fill the experience with such an overload that I can’t wait for it to happen again.
I guess I'm a bit of an addict in that way.
Another element that always takes me by surprise is the sheer heat. The temperature of blood and sex always surprises me. Whether the heat is coming from my own arousal, or from his cock, I have no way of knowing for sure. To be honest, the friction itself could even be the culprit.
Whatever the source, there is a wet flame between my legs. The heat is reaching outward through my body in all of the right ways. I close my eyes, and focus exclusively on the sensation. My only concern is allowing myself to be present with his cock.
My facial expressions gradually lose their composure. The longer the strokes, the more intensely my eyebrows furrow together. The tips of my fingers crawl out toward the floor in front of me, and I realize that there are bloodstains on the wood.
The color is a deep red, and is an indicator of violence that has take place in this very room.
The warmth of the heat of his cock and the color of the blood on the floor meld together.
As my senses re-focus, I realize that the blood is rising up from the floor beneath me. At first, only my fingers are covered. Then the blood is up to my hands. I watch ripples pass through the blood on the floor. The pulsing ripples match the hard thrusts from his hips into mine. I am stretched, and I feel fingers clawing at my breast. The ripples turn into waves, as an orgasm tears through my body. The blood washes the two of us away, and the dream fades into nothingness.
The orgasm removes all sense of horror from the experience. Instead of feeling any disgust, I feel like I am part of the entire scene. We are going to live through the blood. The afterglow from the sex tells me that I am going to be all right.
I don’t wake up immediately. Instead, I find myself in a place where a heartbeat is resonating throughout my entire body. The heartbeat feels like it could be mine, but it could belong to someone else. It wouldn't surprise me if the heat and the heartbeat came from the man who fucked me - whomever that was.
I feel my body has been on the threshold of life and death for long enough. Now, it is time to live.
Time to return from the darkness.
Chapter 5 - Lorin
The last thing I remember, we were headed out to the woods. I had been bound, gagged, and beaten within an inch of my life. At that point, I hardly cared about anything any more. You tend to lose faith after a while.
At this point, I was ready to accept whatever death might bring. In some ways, death seems like it might be more of a relief than anything else.
No need to go into why this happened. People are going to believe what they are going to believe. That’s the difficult thing about sharing a narrative. If I told you my perspective, how would you know that how I was telling the truth?
You wouldn’t.
All you would have is a perspective. You would also get whatever ingrained rationale was presented alongside that perspective. Nothing else really matters. Every sense of righteousness, blame, injury, or logic is subjective. You couldn't know if I was preaching values or spreading propaganda. You wouldn’t be able to know if I was lying to you, or lying to myself.
I’m from New York. Well… actually, I’m from a small, midwestern town you’ve never heard of before. I choose to make it easy for folks, and just tell them I’m from New York City.
I’ve worked my way up through the ranks of one of the most forward Ad Companies in the history of the city.
The incredible thing about what I do for a living is that my finger is on the pulse of America’s sex. I don’t define arousal, but I use it to inform people about what they are interested in feeling. Much like our democracy, the soul of the people has been funneled into a social contract. The contract of most people's soul is with Madison Avenue.
You give me control of what arouses you, and I turn you on; it's that simple.
A few companies end up making a hell of a lot of money out of the arrangement. Apart from garden variety neurosis, nobody really gets hurt. As long as money changes hands, and people buy their identities, I call that victory. We have done our job, the consumer is satisfied, and everybody who has enough money to play the game wins. Everyone else gets to be a spectator.
All of that is fine until somebody gets hurt. In my case, hurt actually meant raped, kidnapped, and left for dead. At some point, I have to say that the whole arrangement breaks down into a dysfunctional pool of regret.
I suppose the best way to describe what happened is to use the following basic question: if desire is a flame, and my job is to craft desire — why should I be surprised when I get burned?
The correct answer is that I shouldn’t be surprised - and I’m not. What did surprise me was that I didn't wake up in a frozen hell. Somehow, I had dodged the bullet of suffering eternal damnation. That special circle for marketers would be waiting for me at some point; but not today.
I woke up, shocked to be alive, curled up like a cat in front of a fire.
Fate, God, Karma, Jesus Christ — who knows, but somebody’s got a sense of humor.
“You’re up.”
The man who spoke had a flattened affect, and it seemed like he could have cared less one way or the other.
When a shock is already in your system, it’s hard to be surprised at anything else that might come your way. My surprise took the form of a rugged, shirtless man, cooking steak over a fire.
I didn’t quite have the life force inside of me to lust after him at that point, but his body was incredible. He was heavily tattooed and I watched as the firelight cast shadows on his sculpted chest.
A quick assessment of the situation, and I relaxed. If this man hadn’t hurt me already, then it wasn’t likely that he was going to do me any harm now.
After verifying the likelihood of my own security in my own head, my eyes turned immediately to the meat. He caught my glance, and threw a steak that was already done in my direction. I caught it with both hands, though it nearly fell down to the floor.
Without any sense of grace at all, I tore into the meat, savoring its texture and juice as it spilled into my mouth. I was so incredibly hungry; I couldn’t even begin to explain it to you. Only when I was done did I realize that he had been watching me eat the whole time.
I wiped my mouth with my hands, and met his stare evenly. He turned back to the fire and then offered me some tea in a stainless steal camping mug.
Only at that point did I realize that I was naked on the floor of a cabin, likely in the middle of the woods. I was covered up by what appeared to be the only sleeping bag in the room. A quick deduction meant that this man had already seen me naked. He had likely also slept next to me while I was unconscious. Immediately, I wondered if he had raped me while I was out. When treated with generosity, it's a shame that this is the first thing that came to my mind. Still, it is what it is.
I decided after only a moment’s consideration that any level of distrust was not likely to help. I needed to contribute positivity to the situation, and my response should reflect that. I give myself credit for keeping a level head so soon after recovery. I was not dead, and every indication seemed to point that this man was responsible for that fact. Might as well give him the benefit of the doubt.
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br /> The tea was strong, and I enjoyed the fact that it cleared my mouth from the fats of the steak. Venison and tea was by no stretch of the imagination a full diet. After everything I had been through recently, it sure did a fine job of bringing me back to life.
He didn’t bother to ask me any questions, or even pick up idle conversation. In fact, I got the distinct impression that he wanted nothing to do with me. He regarded my presence as more of an inconvenience than not. I wasn’t used to being treated so dismissively by men. I actually felt a bit uncomfortable not being the center of his attention.
“So, you found me,” I said, looking for anything I might try to say in order to initiate conversation.
He let out a long sigh through his nose. I watched as the flames danced in their reflection off of the contour of his biceps. He didn’t respond to me, and instead opted to stare into the fire for another handful of minutes.
I could see him breathing, and the rise and fall of his chest and shoulders encouraged me to focus on my own breath.
Without prompting, the two of us sat there, inhaling the warmth of the cabin into our bodies. Breath was our peace of mind. We exhaled away the anxieties of our unanticipated encounter. Well, I was anxious anyways. I couldn’t get an honest read on Mountain Man’s emotional state.
“I’ve given your body a close look,” he started.
I stiffened, immediately doubting having given him credit for being a gentleman. The admission immediately triggered a warning that he may have sexually abused me in my sleep.
He noticed the subtle change in my body language, and shot me a look of disgust. After the look, he shook his head, and stared contemptuously back toward the fire.
I had never before been so immediately and transparently shot down.
“Apart from the superficial damage, you should be able to walk and move around. I was concerned for a while that you would lose functionality in your hand and feet. Given that you're already accusing me of hurting you, that doesn’t seem to be a problem.”
I looked down at my wrists and at my ankles and saw the most ugly form of bruising that had ever marked my body. The color of the bruise was a deep purple.
Suddenly, I became aware of the pain and sensitivity I felt around these injured areas. Once my brain picked up on the fact that I was all right, it immediately reminded me of my recent trip through hell. Areas of my body that I rarely gave any thought at all were all aching and in various states of dull pain.
He was right, though. I would most definitely be okay, but my body had been seriously abused.
I winced.
The reaction didn't come from the pain itself. It was caused by the flashes of memory that came tearing through my brain. I was reminded exactly how I had gotten these unsightly injuries. The worst part about it was that it was entirely my fault.
Sort of.
He scowled at me, and I realized at that moment that he was deciding whether or not to kick me out into the cold.
“I don’t even have clothes,” I told him, lowering his sleeping bag to show off my chest.
He stared at me with the flattened affect of a killer and said nothing. A moment longer passed and I realized that whatever usual tricks might have worked for me in the city weren’t going to work with this guy. I felt ashamed, immediately, and then shrugged that emotion off nearly as quickly.
He got up from his position by the fire and walked over to a milk crate stashed in the corner of the room. Digging into it, he came up with a spare set of clothes. They were men’s clothes; designed to fit his frame, not mine.
I couldn’t bring myself to be standoffish about being naked in front of him. The man had already seen me at my worst. There was nowhere else for that relationship to go but up. A bit of intentional nudity was already thrown into the relationship dynamic. I might be able to pass off the flirtatious breast flash as a caviler attitude toward nudity in general.
I let the sleeping bag fall to the ground and stood naked in front of the fire. I tried not to be too self-conscious. I usually took a lot of pride in my body, and I didn’t feel attractive in the slightest. There were bruises and marks all over my body. I wouldn’t have sexualized myself at all, except that there was some spark of attraction. My preoccupation with vanity came to mind without any real prompting from myself.
Stupid really.
He treated me with respect, and didn’t flinch whatsoever at my body. Instead, he pulled out the clothes that he had, and threw them in my direction. I caught them; one after the other, and then began to get dressed.
My body was stiff, and it was difficult to move. I was also hesitant to make anything too tight. My skin was more sensitive than normal, and my pride was injured. In the end, I managed to figure everything out. By the time the shirt had been pulled over my head, he was doing calisthenics on an overhead crossbeam. This exercise routine of his went on for a while. I watched him for some of it, but then my mind grew preoccupied with the questions. I needed to assess the details surrounding my situation.
“Where am I?” I finally asked.
“Allagash Wilderness, 20 Miles East of the Canadian Border, Maine, USA.”
The response was punctuated by another round of pull-ups on the bar. The explosive way he moved reminded me of a military man. He moved like someone for whom these types of exercises were compulsive, and ritualized.
“How did you find me?”
“I was hunting, and you were tied naked to a tree, in a snowstorm.”
There were other questions that had been in my mind. Suddenly they didn’t seem nearly as important as I thought they were. My attention shifted toward the vague, drug slurred memories from before. My sub-conscious was still preoccupied with being left in the forest to die. Pictures of faces, and tones of voices came to mind. Nothing clear, but everything menacing. I got lost in there for a few moments, then, my reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.
I bristled, and my attention turned to pounce in the direction of my host. His face grew dark, and he dropped to the ground of the cabin. From the frown evident on his expression, a feeling of fear rose up inside of me. He pushed me toward the bunk in the corner of the cabin out of view from the door. Then he grabbed his pistol off of the mantle of the fireplace, and stalked toward the door.
I held my breath.
I understood by his reaction that my additional company was neither anticipated, nor desired.
Chapter 6 - Lorin
The door came complete with a peephole that had been drilled through solid layers of oak.
The cabin relied on the sheer thickness of the cob and wood for insulation and protection against the elements outside. There were no windows either. The only openings in the cabin were the chimney, and the front door. The door itself was barred shut from the inside, and it seemed as though it would take some heavy lifting to pry it off from its hinges.
I watched him look through the peephole, and then step back once more. He closed his eyes, and pulled in a deep breath of air. The pistol at his side remained in position as he decided how he would move forward.
Long, treacherous moments passed as I watched him decide how he would move forward through this scenario. As though reminding us that the choices we had were slim, the knock came to the door once more. This time, the pounding was accompanied by an authoritative shout.
“Aden Wallace, this is the Arostook County Sheriff!”
A pause, and the tension in the room grew palpably. The voice from the outside was muted by the thickness of the walls, but the cabin wasn’t soundproof.
“We have a few questions we’d like to ask you about a recent kidnapping. We have reason to believe that you might have critical information which might be helpful about the case.”
He sat down on the floor, legs crossed to either side and began to breathe.
The room had been buzzing with a form of anxiety, but that same buzz was now dissipating in spite of the heightened tension of the situation at hand.
The
door shook, and was tested from the outside. I watched him brace himself, and load check the ammunition in the pistol at his side.
“Mr. Wallace, we will be entering the building by force if you refuse to open the door.”
I watched his composure grow to a point where there was nothing human about him any longer. He appeared to take on the form of a spirit. He moved with his body still, but the efficiency of his movements was startling and automatic.
I heard the muffled sound of boots around the perimeter of the cabin near the spot where I hid.
Aden cleared his throat, walked over to the side of the fireplace and grabbed a bottle of whisky. He poured some of it on his hair, and squinted his eyes. Falling into character, he began to swagger toward the door — swaying from side to side as he did, as though it was difficult for him to stand up at all.
“Yeah, I’m comin'!’”
His voice came out like a slur. The perfect character of an alcoholic hermit who had been rudely woken up from his peaceful oblivion. The fact that people had shown up at the door was an inconvenience - nothing more.
The act was immaculate, so well practiced that I wondered exactly how much of it was real, and how much of it he was putting on for show. My musings were cut silent. I realized that though his body had fallen into the form of an alcoholic, he still held the pistol confidently in his left hand. The sure grip on the weapon signified danger.
He shifted weight on the crossbar for the door, letting the heavy beam drop down to the floor. He kept the thick iron chain that was attached to the door in place, so that though the door could be opened, it was only able to be opened two or three inches. With whisky on his breath, and a leer in his eyes, he leaned around the doorframe and peered out into the light of the clearing.
“Well hello, Officer…“
The door pushed open, and the chain on the wall strained, but held. Instead of showing that he was jostled in any way by the sudden attempt to break down the door, he simply swayed back and forth. Then, he took a long drink from the bottle of whisky in his right hand. His feet were firmly planted, and it looked as though he was unafraid.
