Mountain View

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Couple on vacation encounters a horny fugitive.
15.2k words
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romancer
romancer
391 Followers

Finally, a week alone at their mountain cabin! Sandra basked in the thought. Buying the cabin had been her husband Don's idea, one she'd grudgingly gone along. But now that they'd found a trustworthy agent who kept it spotlessly cleaned and rented so often that it was a financial benefit, she found that her practical self could relax into loving the surroundings. Nestled in the Appalachian forests of southwest Virginia, the cabin's nearest neighbor was two miles away down a dirt road. Water from a spring down the hill had tested safe and tasted great. Their accessions to technology were a generator for electricity, a Bose system, and Don's cell phone, which they avoided using but checked for messages from the kids from time to time and were glad to have for peace of mind. It was just about perfect. No TV, no computers, no traffic, nobody else. The place had a history between them for being the site of their very best sex and their best battery-charging relaxation, and they were both ready for some of both of that, she knew.

Don and she had returned to the mountain home for an early summer week of relaxation, after not having been there at all through the winter and spring. The pleasantly warm, cloudless weather made the four hour drive seem downright soothing to her, although Don seemed a bit agitated from time to time. Not angry, just a bit jittery – she put it down to shedding the stress of their hectic everyday lives, and they both seemed relaxed and refreshed when they arrived at the comfortable cottage. But upon opening the door, it was apparent that the house had been occupied, and recently, which they knew was not scheduled, as the rental agent always had it cleaned on checkout days for the tourist inhabitants. There were dirty dishes in the sink, rumpled sheets on the queen bed - nothing was damaged, but it made them angry. Remembering that her rarely-do-well brother also had a key, they concluded he'd used it for weekend tryst with the latest of his babe girlfriends. Soon, their mood recovered as they settled in for an unavoidable afternoon of cleaning up the evidence of neglect, gathering, stacking, and generally preparing the place for a week of vacation.

After their dinner of cheese, apples, sausage, bread and wine that they'd brought along on the drive, Don made a fire, since the June nights could still get chilly despite the warm days. Finishing the bottle of wine, they discussed what to do the next day, then had surprisingly uninspired sex. Don didn't even come before he lost his erection, and he seemed unusually edgy about something. She accepted his explanation of being really tired after the long day – it wasn't as if she'd never been out of sorts herself, she reasoned, but regretted the dispassion, finding herself vaguely but pointlessly needing more. Don took out the trash and made sure the raccoons couldn't get into the can, returning to find her already asleep in bed. He followed suit, being careful not to awaken her.

An early riser, the next day Don watched the sunrise from the front deck, sipping fresh coffee. When she awoke at 7, late for her, he brought her a cup and announced that he was heading back into town to buy groceries for the rest of the week. He had always enjoyed grocery shopping, a change of pace for him from the office grind, and it was a chance to enjoy the smallness of the village. Sandra suspected he was just going through urban-detox and was going to get a newspaper fix, but that was ok - she finished the coffee outside, then finished the housecleaning for an hour. Her to-do list complete, she dawdled through a shower to clean off the dust and perspiration, feeling better now that the house was back in the condition they'd expected. She chose a comfortable bikini, then went out onto the deck that wrapped around the front of the house, clipping her blond hair above her head. The view was incredible, and it always made her thankful for the retreat. The house was only a couple hundred yards from the top of the mountain, and it overlooked a sloping meadow with a lake at the bottom. The vista from there was of the mountains, row after row of hazy ridges. She could see the occasional house, miles away, but the effect was that she was absolutely alone, a real treat.

She stood outside on the deck and on impulse took off the top, then the bottoms of her suit, feeling daring and free as the breeze caressed her breasts and folded about her skin. The bright sun was already warm as she turned, padding nude into the house to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. She brought cushions out of the house for the chaise lounge, arranged it, and returned into the house. She loaded the CD player. After debating, she rejected the Yo Yo Ma Bach since it was so sexual and worth saving for later, and chose the Chopin etudes. With a book she'd brought for relaxation, she returned outside for an hour of veg'ing.

Hoping Don would be back soon, she took the suntan oil and applied it all over herself, enjoying the sensuality more than was necessary for the protection, but feeling quite all right in the enjoyment. She took inventory, registering as she coated her belly and breasts that she was glad her stomach was still flat (or pretty flat) and wished her tits were full C or maybe D cups, not the B-and-a-half things that were hard to fit to the "B or C, not some of each" offerings at Victoria's Secret. She wished they could spill out of a C cup, tantalizing Don the way she thought he looked at more full-breasted women, no matter how much he protested to the contrary. At least they were firmer than about anyone else's her age - 'never could pass that hold-a-pencil-under-the-breast test, and was hoping she wouldn't any time soon. Then she covered her legs, working up to her crotch. Applying much more carefully than the geography required, she enjoyed the masturabatory sensations but decided not to take it to its logical conclusion, enjoying the pleasant horniness and wanting to wait for Don to redeem his previous evening's tryst. She did, however, linger there, stroking her pussy until its closely trimmed hair was shining with the oil, and she could tell she was contributing to the liquidity. She lay on her back on the cushion, propped up and wearing only sunglasses. Letting herself audibly giggle, she luxuriated at the view she presented to no one at all, naked and glistening, maybe even horny after last night's semi-episode, her vagina feeling especially blatant and feeling especially good about feeling especially blatant. Just a little bit turned one, she started reading her book, a recent risqué she-detective story about someone who never quite got laid by the tough good guy but always got the bad guy. Whether it was the music, the sun, the vision of the heroine checking out the tough guy's package, or the release from the pace of the city, within fifteen minutes her book had fallen to the deck and she was first daydreaming about how who could best play the tough guy in the movie, then dozing pleasantly, then fast asleep, not even dreaming yet.

She awoke to a shadow over her face. Blinking, recalling her surroundings, then suddenly fully awake, she saw a man seated on a chair near her, watching her, cradling a shotgun across his lap, as casually as if it were a walking stick. She started, sat up, crossing her arms over her breasts in what she knew was a ridiculous posture. Obviously, he'd seen her sleeping in the nude, and she wondered for a moment if her legs had been spread, not remembering in her surprise. She immediately concluded he was the one who'd been in the cabin, and that he would probably rape her. That's what happened in movies, and she had no other experience to relate to awakening to an armed intruder. Her thoughts raced, wondering if she should run, regretting being barefoot and noting the hiking boots he wore with his cargo shorts. She also noticed he was shirtless and well tanned, and she even caught herself realizing his chest was defined, his abs tight, and he wasn't bad looking in a rugged sort of way. Something like a little bit hunkier Brad Pitt, not as scraggly / scruffy - shorter hair than the usual Hollywood type and clean-shaven. Catching herself, she wondered when Don would return, wished he would, then reflected on the shotgun and hoped he wouldn't. All of this passed in an instant, and in silence. Sandra determined to stay calm, to watch everything, to find a way out of this. She was scared but not in a panic. Running would be out of the question, barefoot, even if the opportunity came. Attacking him seemed foolish. Why did he have a coil of rope? Duh. Could she survive this and get him to leave before Don returned, since Don would just make a reason to escalate from rape to murder? Her thoughts jumped about, being relieved that her sunglasses were dark, wishing they'd skipped this trip, looking at the shotgun, wondering what he did up here, missing Don, wondering if rape would happen and if it would be as bad as she'd been led to expect, realizing that "merely rape" was the best she could probably hope for, actually momentarily hoping that he would rape her as a sign that he wouldn't kill her immediately, hoping he was a robber with a girlfriend nearby. She was scared and felt utterly alone.

After a long moment, he said, "You'd better get inside." Then he stood and motioned her to rise with the shotgun. She rose obediently walked into the house. "Sit," he said, pointing, and she sat in a straight-backed chair in the living room. He produced some sort of shackles and bound her to the chair silently. They were like hand and ankle cuffs with straps on some, except they had a locking mechanism she'd never seen before. She was relieved that they didn't hurt, but disappointed that when she strained against them, there was no give in any direction, even oiled as she was. He had her wrists bound to the chair frame and her elbows strapped behind her, so that her breasts jutted pushed out by the posture. She wished for a change that they were smaller, glad that they at least weren't bigger. Her legs were bound to the chair legs, forcing her thighs to be parted, which was more embarrassing than having her breasts exposed. She was unable to quell the glistening that her skin provided to the light in the room, and wished she'd just kept cleaning or something so that maybe she could have heard, seen his approach and avoided this whole thing. Meanwhile, he seemed oblivious of her, and he rummaged about in the kitchen after turning off the music. It occurred to her that your casual trespasser in the mood for a good time didn't carry cuffs with him, and her fear of something psychopathic deepened.

Returning, he complained, "No groceries? I suppose the guy you drove in with is out shopping?"

She remained silent.

"OK then, silence it is," he commented. Then he disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a filmy pair of her panties and a t-shirt. He tore the shirt into a longer strip, then, forcing her mouth open, he stuffed the panties into it and gagged her with the cloth. Again, relief and disappointment mixed as she realized she could breathe adequately but not make a loud enough sound to warn Don if he returned. Momentarily she thought, "so washing really does clean them of all my traces," as the taste was simple cotton and hint of Bounce. More to the point, she rued her judgment in remaining silent, and wished she'd engaged him in conversation to stall things instead.

During this, he'd propped the shotgun against the door, seeming to be blithely relaxed for someone who was obviously a felon, or in the process of becoming one. Finally, he pulled up a chair and sat in front of her.

"Lady, let me tell you what's going on here. I've been living here, I suppose on what I'd guess you'd call "your" property, for awhile. You have nothing to be afraid of, if you cooperate. I'm just a regular guy, I don't want any trouble or notice, and now that you're here I'll be leaving. I figured this would happen eventually, so I had the cuffs and straps prepared - I think you'll find them secure and comfortable. Actually, leaving will take me a couple of days to arrange. So, we'll just sit here and wait for your friend to return, restrain him like I did you, and spend the time together until I leave. I'll make sure you're watered and fed, and I'll use each of you to make sure the other doesn't pull any stunts. After I leave, I'll make a call in a day or so to tell someone you're here, and other than getting a little thirsty and having to sit in your own piss for that day or so, when it's all over, you'll have a great story to tell your friends in the city."

She was greatly relieved to hear all this, but she didn't know whether or not to believe it. This is just what a really bad person might say to keep me calm and unresisting, she realized. Better to watch for an opportunity to escape, to warn Don, to do something other than be a victim. "Mmmmh, mmmhh!" she mumbled.

"Let's go with yes or no's," he said. "You want me to ungag you so you can say something?"

"Mmm-hmm," she nodded.

"Not a chance," he replied. "Do us both a favor and don't insult my intelligence, ok? We'll think about ungagging you after your friend is secure. I would have done this yesterday when you arrived, except I wanted to make sure it was just the two of you; but don't worry, if more show up, I'll be ready for that as well. Please understand that while I'm not your worst nightmare, I do break the law in my occupation, and if I have to, I'll do whatever it takes to keep you from ruining my day."

It was only about 10 in the morning when Don returned. Arms full of groceries, he walked into the waiting trap, seeing too late Sandra's naked form in the roped chair, turning to see the shotgun leveled at him.

"Put the groceries on the table, take off all your clothes, sit down. Don't worry, she's hasn't been touched, and you'll both be ok if you cooperate."

Don followed orders and was soon bound and gagged across the room from Sandra. He looked mortified by his nakedness, especially in front of this guy. After explaining the situation to Don as he had to Sandra, the stranger disappeared out the front door. Sandra and Don managed to hobble their chairs across the floor to each other and get back to back, but they were unable to make any progress on the locks when the stranger returned.

"Yep, I thought so," he said. "You two are going to ruin things and get hurt in the process. No more of this TV heroics. The next time either one of you tries something, I punish the other one. If you both try, you both get punished. You really screw it up, and I change the rules, which I promise you won't like. Understand?"

He disappeared into the back of the house after dragging Don back into a corner, and a moment later they heard the toilet flush. Returning, he manipulated her bonds, which fell free. Then he suggested she shower off the oil while he stayed with Don. So he's not exactly blind, she registered, and went to the bathroom. Relieving herself felt good, and she cast about the bathroom for ways to escape. Through the window and into the woods would only get Don punished if not killed, and she wouldn't get far running on the rocky or forested ground. The handle of the plumber's helper might be worth staging, but she expected the stranger to be waiting for her with the shotgun when she emerged, so she took off the plunger and propped the handle in the corner, she hoped unobtrusively, in case she needed it later. Considering other options and coming up with none, she ran the shower, stepped in and washed herself efficiently. Drying off, she continued to search for options, came up with no reasonable solutions, dried off and returned obediently, wrapped in a towel.

The stranger was waiting as she expected, just outside the bathroom door. He pulled the towel off her, took her arm firmly, and nudged her to the chair. As she walked, she wondered if he was watching her ass, the ass that Don so often complimented. She bounced between hoping not, so they could survive, and hoping so, so they could survive. Pissed at herself for getting distracted by herself of all things, she found herself back in the chair. Once she was rebound, he allowed Don to go through the same sequence, with the same results, right down to the towel, which she realized added a comic touch. Poor Don, the great lover who never had gotten over his less-than-porn-size penis, having to appear both naked and obviously going through a bout of "shrinkage," as she couldn't recall his member looking so abashed and, well, small.

"That's better," he said, retying Don's cuffs and straps but leaving the gags off them both.

"Can we at least be dressed?" she asked.

"Not a chance," he said. You're too good looking, and he's too vulnerable when he's naked - it's a guy thing."

Next, he unloaded the rest of the groceries and unbound her so she could fix them all sandwiches for lunch, which he had her feed to Don. On the way, she placed a paring knife under a napkin on the table next to the kitchen door, as close as she could get it to their chairs without risk. She didn't know what she'd do with it, but knowing that it was there and that he didn't know gave her an edge, she thought. He retied and regagged them, then rigged a string of bells between them and tied it to various other items so that any movement would ring the bells, and then with a warning to keep the bells silent, he retired to the bedroom, apparently to sleep.

It was less than an hour later when he returned, awakening. They were both stiff and felt cramped, so they were grateful when he loosened Don and let him walk around a bit. Don managed to work his way around to behind the stranger, then leaped onto his back. The ensuing fight didn't take long, and ended when the stranger threw Don to the floor and pulled a small pistol out of his cargo shorts pocket.

"Well, now you've done it!" the stranger panted, recovering.

He dragged Don to the chair and retied him, tightly, and then dragged the chair to several feet behind and just off to her left. She could no longer see Don without craning her neck to its limit, and she was relieved to see he wasn't hurt visibly. Turning back to the front, she heard a loud thump, and turned to see Don, strapped in the chair, crashing to the floor from the blow. He grunted, and gasped as he lay sideways on the floor.

"I really wanted to get along, you know, you stupid fuck!" the stranger raged as he tied him. He was out of breath, but he was also furious and looked as if he was struggling not to explode. She sensed that he'd exploded before and was fighting to avoid whatever had ensued then. That scared her worse than anything thus far, and she resolved to go along with things - if he was really going to just them or rape her or whatever, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of all this. She hoped.

"You're Greer, aren't you," Don blurted out. Suddenly, finally it occurred to her - this was the escaped nut the FBI had been hunting for, for reasons she'd never quite understood. It was something about guns and money, or drugs, or both. She couldn't remember, but she knew he was wanted and they'd given up the search for him a year ago out in California. Now she was really concerned, since Don had just given him reason to kill them - reason to do whatever he wanted to. Anger rose in her against Don, and simmered.

"That's not your concern, but now I'll have to make it awhile longer after I leave before I make that call. By the way, you should know that's a pretty stupid thing to say, whether or not I'm whoever you think. Your wife's obviously a lot smarter than you, as well as having just gotten even better looking thanks to your little stunt."

Don finally looked subdued, as the import of his actions and words sunk in. She felt a bit of satisfaction in Greer's words, and realized she'd accepted that as his name and identity. Then she adjusted, remembering that she and Don were the allies here against the common enemy, and she shifted again into a focus on listening and watching, staying calm, not being in the stupid mode of the earlier hours.

romancer
romancer
391 Followers