Wilderness Paradise Pt. 02byu06la14b©
A recap of the story so far; this is for those who don't want to or haven't read the preceding opus:
My sister Rachael and her friend, Kyla, are trekking the Rainbow Mountains in Bella Coola, BC. Along with them are two of Rachael's college friends, Andrew and Susan. Unbeknownst to them, they are being followed by Josh Woodard, a dangerous wilderness recluse, who has his sights set on one of the women. He has picked Susan as his target.
Kyla, Rachael and I grew up together and a few years back, on her Prom night, my sister and I had indulged in an incestuous relationship that was both confusing and compelling. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it and am hoping to rekindle those filial affections on this trip.
I was supposed to have been with them but circumstances, fate, karma or whatever it is has connived against me and I was delayed, reduced to playing catch-up. It was in Bella Coola that I met up with Daniel Benn, a giant of Paul Bunyan proportions, and someone who knows these mountains better than most.
A few paragraphs from Part I that connects you to the sequel -
Near Hunlen Falls, on an obscure pathway off the beaten track, Rachael and Kyla share a tent and are talking about Andrew and Susan.
"Rach? Are you awake?"
"It's Andy and Sue ... they look an awful lot like each other. They are they related, aren't they?"
Rachael was quiet. She wasn't sure if she should confide in Kyla. It was very personal and unless she could empathize with them, it was bound to color her perspective and possibly affect the relationship adversely.
"She's his sister, right?" Kyla persisted.
"Yes. They are twins." Rachael confirmed reluctantly.
The ensuing silence was uncomfortably deafening. From the moment Kyla had met the twins she knew there was something unusual about them. She had wanted to pursue this but could never find the right moment. She also knew that something had transpired between Rachael and Luke after their Prom, something that had affected their relationship but that night was strictly off limits. It was an unspoken contract between them that barred them from ever broaching the subject. The condition had been set by Rachael and one that Kyla agreed to honor. It had taken a while to mend the breach and both of them never wanted that to happen again. Kyla, especially, didn't want to lose Rachael.
"You know that they've been making love every evening, don't you?" Kyla asked.
"It is easy to judge things you don't or can't empathize with ... I used to do that and it's a trap. Passing judgment is how we demean others; put them down so we can feel better about ourselves." Rachael said as though talking to herself.
"I want to understand, Rach, I really do," Kyla said whispering across the darkness, "Please talk to me ... please? What happened? I mean, between Luke and ..."
And then they heard the scream.
Read on ...
The scream, a single, strangled cry that lingered within the abbreviated quotient of time was an auricular alarm that shred the silence for a moment before acceding to the stillness of the night. In the distance, the strident yelp of a young jackal badgered the uneasy quietness with its sham. Both women in the adjacent tent reacted immediately and with an efficiency that resembled a military exercise. They unzipped their sleeping bags, wiggled free then undoing the side flaps of the tent, they crawled into the open, alert and ready. It had taken them all of three minutes.
"Shit! Where is it?" Kyla muttered as she fervently felt around for her pocket flashlight.
Rachael was the first one out. She stood balanced on the balls of her feet, her senses honed to a razor's edge, the hair on the nape of her neck prickled and bristling. The 'fight or flight' response had flooded her body with adrenaline. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing had quickened, pupils dilated and attention focused. She held the pepper spray extended in front of her, armed, scanning the trees and the shrubbery, expecting an attack from any flank. Her mind devoid of rationale was panicked and racing, creating monsters in the dark; zombies and ghouls of childhood nightmares that shook and shivered within the sibilant rustling of the leaves.
'Calm, stay calm... slow it down and breathe ...' she told herself taking slow, deliberate breaths.
She could see the other tent bathed in nebulous hieroglyphics, silhouettes teased by the silvery streaks of moonlight filtering through the dense cover of the evergreens and the naked branches of the deciduous Red Alders. The sides of the tent were shredded, ripped open by some unnatural act of violence, the shorn fabric fluttering helplessly in the night's breeze. There was no sign of life from within.
"What the ..." Kyla had started to say when Rachael called out.
"Sue? Andrew?" She paused then called again, a bit more loudly, "Susan? Are you okay?"
Then throwing caution to the wind, she rushed in and was stunned by what she saw.
"Oh, God!" she whispered and stifled a scream, putting away the canister of pepper spray.
It was a mess. There was blood splattered on the sides and around the interior. The large sleeping bag was tangled and twisted in an adventitious ball; the propane heater lay toppled over on its side, its indifferent flame licking precariously at the frayed edges of Susan's woolen tippet. And, lying against the anodized frame of the tent was Andrew Breland's motionless body.
There was a smell of violence in the air. A pronounced odor baptized by the epoch of blood and in its unscrupulous wake was left a sullen emptiness; a frozen cavern with no sign of Susan.
Rachael moved the scarf away before straightening the heater and turning down its flame then leaning over the body she felt for a pulse in his neck.
"Hurry, Kyla ... get in here and help me ... let's get him out! He's still breathing," Rachael hissed.
Moving Andrew out of the tent was not as easy as it initially seemed. Though he wasn't a big man, the confined space and crouched positions had the women at a disadvantage. But they struggled, half-dragging and pulling the comatose body until they finally maneuvered it onto the soft grass outside.
"He's heavy!" Kyla gasped.
They propped up his head using a rolled up blanket for a pillow and examined him thoroughly under the white glare of their flashlights. There was a large gash on the side of Andy's head above the right ear and blood seeping out of a wound, below the liver, on the lower right side of the abdomen. His upper lip was split open and his nose seemed to be broken, the bridge dislocated awkwardly to the left. His breathing was shallow and hoarse, rasping softly in the night air.
'What in heaven's name could have done this and disappeared that quickly? Where was Susan?' Horrific thoughts raced through Rachael's mind as she struggled to keep her composure. 'Oh God! Luke, where are you?'
"One of us needs to look for Susan," Kyla offered softly realizing that every minute lost exponentially increased the probability of never finding her.
"No! That's what he wants ... or whatever it was that did this. It wasn't a bear, that's for sure! No, we stay together," Rachael snapped with finality, "help me clean him up then we can go looking for Sue."
They worked frantically over the unconscious man, washing his face and cleaning the wounds. Rachael used the first-aid kit to bandage his head and abdomen while Kyla wiped away the coagulated blood from under the broken nose. It was obvious that the septum had separated and the nasal bridge was smashed.
"He's left-handed," Kyla said softly.
"What?" Rachael asked, baffled by the non sequitur.
"He's left-handed." Kyla repeated while cleaning Andy's nostrils, "The stab wound, the blow to the head, the way the nose is pushed over ... the man is a southpaw!"
Rachael stopped what she was doing and looked at her, surprised by the deduction, and then checked Andrew again. She was right: the attacker definitely favored his left hand. All the damage was to the right side of Andy's body. She felt the relief washing over her as the logic of Kyla's analysis set in.
"You're right, Kyla, and it had to be a loner ... otherwise they would have attacked us too!" she exclaimed her voice taking on an optimistic tone.
There was an irrational reassurance in knowing that it was just a man and not some terrifying, demonic creature that had crawled out from the epicenter of hell. And in that moment of ameliorated relief, the girls were oblivious to the opprobrious eyes that studied them, barely an arm's length away, camouflaged so totally within the brush that it was impossible to pick him out. They had no idea that their friend's body lay bound and gagged and unconscious so close to them.
He watched the women with amusement. He was surprised that the man was still alive; he should have made sure but the woman had distracted him. She was a spunky little thing, jumping on his back trying to protect her man. The idea of concern for someone else was foreign to him. His laws were Nature's Laws. He could no sooner fault a lioness for taking a day-old fawn or a wolf for killing a lamb than he could his actions. What he did was not personal but rather, steeped in his own survival. He had never killed for sport or in anger. Well, maybe in anger ... a long time ago, during the war.
Was it even a war or some political gambit by a bunch of greedy Fatcats in Washington who had never so much as held a gun let alone risked their lives? It was these same Congressmen and Senators whose power-hungry schemes placed in jeopardy the lives of the young American men and women without a second thought. Yes, he had killed in anger. He should have gone after these sick fuckin' bastards in Washington but instead he had unleashed his wrath on those who had murdered his buddies; some faceless Taliban motherfuckers with no regard for their own worthless lives. He felt compelled to avenge his friends. How many? There had been too many to recall. Men, women and even children ... he had never meant to harm the children but it was collateral damage and in the end, it was of no consequence. He was the Avenging Angel balancing the karmic equation and exacting his pound of flesh as judge, jury and executioner.
He heard the women speaking, their voices carrying in the stillness. So, her name was Susan – interesting. He had known a Susan in high school. And Kyla ... 'Kyla' what a pretty name, was the tall, lean one. She was beautiful. But it was the leader he was most attracted to. She was just his type ... tall, blond, and full bodied. It would be nice if he could get these two beauties too.
He weighed the risks and quickly concluded that there might just be a way – tricky, but then what was ever gained without risk? A plan began to take shape in the brilliant but twisted mind of Josh Woodard ...
The Day after the Prom – flashback 6 years
The next day was Sunday and when I finally tumbled out of bed, I was sure that I had dreamed the entire 'episode' with Rachael. It was the small, bloody stain on my bed sheet, a confirmation of my sister's sanguinary sacrifice, which hammered home the reality of what had transpired. I had fucked my sister and taken her cherry! It signaled the advent of a new and confusing aspect to our relationship - I loved my sister as a sister but I also wanted to fuck her as a woman.
I closed my eyes and felt my cock twitch as the images of our incestuous union filled my mind. Images of my sister lying under me, her legs spread and wrapped around my hips, her fingers digging into the muscles of my back while she moaned and fucked me back. It had been, by far, the best sex I had ever had. Every detail seemed to have been burned into a secret cache in my mind. A vivid Pandora's Box that was labeled, 'Sex with my sister, Rachael'. I recalled how her body had trembled when I pumped my sperm deep into her tight little cunny ... it was something! I don't think I had ever climaxed for that long or that intensely.
My cock was now painfully erect. The post-coitus revulsion I had felt last night was replaced by a desire that was as strong as ever, if not, stronger than before. I had joined the ranks of the illusionary Lotus Eaters; those disenfranchised souls who were addicted to the petals of the forbidden flower. It was this emotive craving that manifested in an overpowering urge to fuck her again. But when I crossed the hallway to her room, it was empty; there was no sign of her.
We were so different, not just in appearance but in personality. Her room was as neat as mine was in disarray. Her bed was expertly made-up with the comforter pulled tightly across the mattress without a crease or a wrinkle, the edges dropping evenly over the sides so that they barely touched the floor. The cluster of throw and decorative pillows was neatly organized in cascading sizes at the headboard. Her pink and white, bunny slippers were placed under the bed on a small Indian rug next to the side table. And, on this mahogany end-table was a vase of flowers that filled the room with the fragrance of lavender and rose.
However, the pièce de résistance was a large poster of Bugs Bunny holding a bottle of booze in one hand and hanging high in the air off of a steep mountain ledge. The caption read: It is happy hour somewhere, Doc! I had given her that poster when she had taken up rock climbing.
There wasn't a thing out of place: from the pictures on the wall to the frilly, lace curtains, everything oozed of femininity and tidiness. As much as I was disorganized, my sister was compulsively methodical. That is what made her such a good climber.
I saw a note on her bed folded into a tight little square with hand-sketched hearts and smileys all over it. It was lying juxtaposed to a pair of her panties, not the one she had on the previous night but a pink one with a pretty, floral design. I picked it up and pressed it against my face burying my nose into the silky-soft fabric and was immediately filled with her scent, that spicy, cumin-tinged odor that was irresistible. And, mixed in was the imperceptible hint of laundry detergent. The narrow bridge of her crotch was moist and slippery and stained with her juices. This pair wasn't from last night but one she had on recently, possibly this morning - 'Damn! This was hot! My little sister was as horny as I was.'
I opened the note and in the middle of the page in her distinctive, small handwriting was a simple sentence which said it all: It was beautiful. I love you! And next to it was a big, perfectly shaped heart. It wasn't addressed to anyone but I knew that she had meant it for me. The anonymity was an exculpable ploy against the nosy inquisitiveness of my mother. It was a house rule that our parents could search our rooms at any time as a hedge against the prevalent use of drugs at the local schools, a rule that Mom often evoked to go through our dresser drawers. As aggravating as that was, we both knew that she had our best interests at heart and tolerated her fussing. She needn't have been concerned; neither Rachael nor I had any interest in drugs. We had been into sports ever since we were kids and were almost fanatical about our health.
Mom! Shit! I had better check on them. My parents either played golf on Sundays or went to church. Don't ask, I'm haven't figured that one out as yet. It was almost 9:00 AM and in either case they should be gone by now. But I needed to make sure before I jerked off into Rachael's panties.
I shoved the note into my pocket and trudged into the kitchen. This must have been the day for notes – there was one from my mother on the kitchen table: Honey, French toast and eggs in the oven. Save some for Rachael. She's at volleyball practice. She said you had a great time at the Prom. That was nice of you to be there for her. Try and make it to church if you can. Hugs, Mom.
At the mention of 'church', I felt the pangs of guilt pricking at my blistered conscience. I was suddenly harangued by the dogma of evangelical beliefs, of what was right and wrong, and fucking my sister was certainly deemed as wrong. I tried to think of other things to distract myself but the pertinacious images of Rachael broke down any semblance of resolve I could muster. The memory of our lascivious tryst the previous night was too fresh and just too relentless. I was now conflicted by the urges of the flesh pitted against the sanctity of higher reasoning and purported by the advocacy of a revived conscience.
I opened the oven door and peeked in at the breakfast Mom had cooked – French toast, bacon and scrambled eggs - It looked appetizing but I wasn't really hungry. Maybe a quick workout was the answer.
"Screw it, I'll just go for a run," I said to myself and left.
When I finally got back I felt rejuvenated and though it was nippy outside, I had managed to work up a pretty good sweat. Rachael's car was parked in the driveway an indication that she was back. I felt my cock lurch lewdly at the thought of the possibilities - so much for a reinvigorated conscience.
After church, my parents typically went for brunch with friends and rarely came home before 1 or 2 in the afternoon. So there was time and what better way to broach the subject than to ask Rachael about the note.
When I opened the front door, I was met by the strains of one of my favorite rock songs, an oldie by the Eagles: Life in the Fast Lane.
"He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude,
They said he was ruthless, they said he was crude,
They had one thing in common, they were
good in bed,
She'd say, 'Faster, faster. The lights are turnin' red.'
Life in the fast lane,
Surely make you lose your mind,
Mmmmm ... are you with me so far?
Eager for action and hot for the game,
The coming attraction, the drop of a name ..."
I listened to sexual innuendos of the lyrics before running up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and headed for the bathroom that Rachael and I shared but she was in it. I could hear the shower running. I stood outside the door debating whether I should surprise her but then decided against it. I wanted this tease to last as long as possible. It had something to do with the thrill of the chase.
I often used my parent's shower so grabbing my towel I walked down the hallway to the Master Bedroom eschewing my usual dip in the hot tub choosing rather to play out Rachael's next chapter as soon as I could.
I managed to finish showering without jerking of; something that severely tested the limits of my resolve but I had succeeded in saving it all for my sister. I turned the shower off and slid the curtain back and that was when I noticed her. She was standing in her bathrobe resting her butt against the edge of the counter. Her hair was wet and plastered back and her skin had a dewy dampness to it. But amazingly, her eyes that were wide and bright were shamelessly glued to my semi-hard penis.
I felt a satyric thrill shoot through me as my cock twitched and began to harden and I'm not sure what got into me but I began stroking myself stepping into the bathroom and turning to face her. I heard her gasp and saw her eyes widen like saucers. I was certain that at any moment she was going to come to her senses and bolt but I was wrong. It became quickly apparent that she couldn't look away; it was as though she was hypnotized. Her lips parted and I saw the tip of her tongue snake out to wet her bottom lip as I continued to slide my hand back and forth over my shaft, rubbing the bloated dome at the end of each stroke. My cock was now rock hard and pointing up at the ceiling. Then, I saw her move.
She undid the sash around her waist and let her robe drop to the floor and stood there naked with her legs slightly parted. Her expression was an incongruous synthesis of sensual promiscuity mingled with an insecure shyness but she needn't have worried, she was truly a beauty, far more erotically sensual than any airbrushed centerfold I'd seen. She then did something that I'll take to my grave. She reached down and inserted her fingers deep inside her cuntal lips, moving them in and out until finally she touched her clit. She shuddered and closed her eyes letting her fingers settle at the apex of her cunt, wiggling it in small circles as I watched fascinated by my sister's pleasuring of herself. And when she looked up again our eyes met briefly before her attention was drawn back to my cock. We watched each other masturbate, our strokes timed to the moans and groans and the squishy concerto of our fingers working on our sex.