Went Fishing Got Hooked

One of the great freedoms in America is the opportunity to own real estate. You can actually buy a piece of land and kick everyone else off. What a great country!

I mortgaged fifty acres of mountain wilderness as a present to myself, to insure crucial times of reverential solitude. A stream tumbles through my slice of paradise, and a pair of beavers found it irresistible. The industrious critters did what beavers do, built a dam and created a pond where scrappy trout like to hang -- from my hook when I'm lucky.

A few weeks ago when trees were budding, flowers were sprouting and the trout were rising, the call of the wild beckoned me. The time had come for my yearly pilgrimage to the mountains for a little hand to fin combat.

My peaceful drive down the tree canopied dirt road ended 100 yards from my pond. There were two cars parked on the grassy shoulder and I was annoyed by the intrusion.

“Who the hell is on my rock!” I muttered, cresting the hill and approaching the boulder that served as the prime fishing spot.

A woman lay in the sunshine reading a paperback novel, while a large, white poodle stood guard. The dog's fuzz-ball tail wagged as if he were genuinely glad to see me. A warning bark resulted in a swift, over-the-sunglass inspection by the woman. She did not smile or wag her tail, and seemed genuinely irritated to see me. After scratching the dog's chin she went back to reading.

Ownership begets boldness so I climbed onto her granite sundeck and, using my best hayseed impersonation, I said, "Howdy, my name's Orville how 'ya doin?"

My name isn't really Orville, but I decided that in response to her cold shoulder annoyance was my modus operandi. If I wasn't Mr. Right then maybe I could be Mr. Orville Wright and make her fly away.

Not even an, "I'm fine", from her in response.

The title of her book, ‘The Admiral's Son’, caught my eye. Nicholas Demillion, is one of my favorite authors. A ‘delay departure’ sign flashed in my head.

"Great book you're reading. I just finished that a month ago."

She gave me a standoffish, “That’s nice,” and kept her eyes glued to the page.

Granted, I may have looked like a homicidal maniac posing as a fisherman, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was afraid of me. I tried to be friendlier. "Did you get to the part where they discover the Admiral killed him?"

She frowned.

"Just kidding. He didn't really kill him."

She was attractive in a mysterious way. The baseball cap with a thick, auburn, ponytail exploding out the back and black wayfarer sunglasses clinging precariously to her ski-jump nose only whetted my interest. A baggy "Morristown Marauders" sweatshirt and faded Levi's completed the nondescript ensemble. She reminded me of a vacationing movie star trying to stay incognito. A tan line on her ring finger made its absence conspicuous. Not that I cared. I'd given up on love a long time ago and settled for lucky in business... well... almost.

Setting down my gear, I prepared to do battle with both fish and female -- clearly over-confident -- when I noticed an open sketchpad containing a finely detailed rendering of the pond and beaver lodge, complete with the flat-tailed critters gnawing down trees.

“Wow, that's a beautiful drawing of my pond."

Of course it was macho posturing to slip in the "my pond" trivia. Letting her know I wasn't just an ordinary fool. I was a fool that owned stuff she liked! And, if she were nice, maybe I'd let her stay and share it with me. Perhaps it’s modern man's equivalent to pounding on his chest, showing a perspective mate his potency. However, I'm no Freud. I should have known a woman unpretentious enough to wear a community college sweatshirt wouldn’t fall for such a thinly veiled materialistic gimmick. She said, "I think the beavers might have a different opinion about who owns the pond. But thanks for the compliment."

"Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

"No, be my guest. Just don't touch it. I haven't sprayed it with a fixative yet."

It truly was a work of art. There was no signature so I had to ask, "What did you say your name was?" Maybe I'd heard of her.

"Nancy", she smiled, "Nancy Drew... and you are Mr. Redenbacher?"

Nice comeback, it made me laugh. We were sparring and she seemed a woman who'd never ask for quarter nor give any. This was going to be fun.

I said, "Actually I was thinking Orville Wright. Just call me Mr. Right." My foot in mouth disease was back.

As I set down her drawing, she sat up, and hugged her knees -- not smiling anymore. In fact, she looked distressed.

In a stern tone, she said, "I think we'd better remain strangers. It's safer that way."

I cast the fishing line out into the center of the pond and slowly reeled in the lure, repeating the motion for a few minutes until I had my first strike. The thrill of tension on the bending pole as I struggled to land the splashing rainbow was contagious. ‘Nancy’ stood next to me, brandishing the net. When the fish neared the shore she deftly scooped it up. The poodle danced and barked playfully around our legs.

"Wow, he's a beauty!" She looked at me with a questioning expression. "Now what?"

"Since I belong to PETA, he's going on this stringer and I'll eat him for dinner."

She looked skeptical. "That doesn't sound like something PETA would approve of."

"You're right." I nodded in agreement. "People who Eat Tasty Animals would want me to catch a couple more so that I could invite a friend over to enjoy my success. Would you join me for dinner?" I hadn't totally given up on the Mr. Right position.

When she laughed, I saw a brief moment of indecision before she shook her head. "I have to be going. It was nice to meet you, Orville."

"Feel free to come back anytime. If you ever want to sell that picture let me know," I said, pulling out my wallet and handing her a business card with my real name and number. Hope springs eternal in the horny breast.

She glanced at it before sticking it in her back pocket. "I'll keep it in mind, Mr. Benson.”

Ouch! That was a blatant ‘forget about it’.

She and the four-legged powder puff had barely disappeared over the rock ledge when I heard a scream, followed by barking and snarling.

'A bear!' flashed in my mind’s eye.

Last year a jogger was mauled when he accidentally ran between a sow and her cub. Bears fish at the beaver pond and since I’m a coward and feared an attack, I always came prepared for a close encounter.

The next few minutes passed with a surreal intensity.

As I cleared the ledge what I saw rooted me like a sapling. Ten feet away, a bear sized man waved a club at the lunging poodle's snapping teeth. His stocking mask looked like something from an old B movie. ‘Nancy’ sat on the ground, doubled over.

The bear-man spotted me and I became the focus of his rage. Lifting the club for a strike, he charged wildly, and yelled, "She’s mine!"

I'd probably be dead now, but at the last second the poodle chomped a mouthful of his calf.

Screaming in pain, the man stopped to kick the dog off and then resumed his attack.

In that brief reprieve my brain engaged and moved my quaking limbs. I pulled the 357 out from under my jacket, fired a shot in the air, and then pointed the muzzle at his head.

The bear-man’s eyes transformed from madness to shock as he realized the error of his ways. He ran off. I was ecstatic.

Nancy, now on her feet and leaning against a tree, watched his retreat without saying a word. When he finally disappeared she looked at me, and said, “That was my ex. He’s not very good at first impressions,” and then groaned when she laughed.

This mystery woman, who joked about a near death experience, I found oddly desirable. From that moment, I wanted to know her a lot better. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline making my heart pound, who knows.

“Are you all right?” I asked, while picking up the art supplies strewn about. She stumbled and I put my arm around her waist to help her walk toward the cars.

“I’ve been worse.”

The telling statement gave me a glimpse into what her life must’ve been like.

She stopped and said, “What about your stuff?”

Instead of saying something heroic like, ‘Your safety is more important’, my true nature surfaced and I said, “I don’t care, I just want to get the hell out of here.” What a coward. I felt like shooting myself for saying that. Although, she didn’t seem disappointed.

My Lincoln Navigator and ‘Nancy’s’ Honda Civic were the only cars left along the roadside. The other vehicle must’ve been the ex’s. The Civic had a flat front tire.

I deactivated my car alarm, and she gave me a quizzical look. “You turn it on even out here?”

I felt like a dweeb, and had to think for a minute before I said, “It’s a habit.”

We piled into my car and I pushed the panic button.

“On Star calling, this is Bill. How may I help you?”

As we sped toward Mossville, ‘Nancy Drew’ explained to the voice from space what had happened. Thankfully, she left out the gunplay -- smart woman. The State Police were notified and they met us in town. She drove off with the trooper and I drove off with Max the poodle and Nancy’s car keys. We returned to the scene of the crime. Cautiously, I gathered my fishing gear. While I changed the flat tire the gun sat on the ground next to me. No bear was going to catch me by surprise twice in the same day. Max stayed in the car and kept watch with his head out the window in typical doggy fashion. When the job was done we drove to my cabin and locked ourselves inside.

Cold Silver Bullets waited in the fridge, so I grabbed one and guzzled it down to calm my nerves. The second can I carried to my favorite chair and plopped down to enjoy the golden elixir along with the panoramic view. My hands had finally stopped shaking. Of course drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea, especially when a psychopath is nearby, but I didn’t care. After my third beer I was past all fear and started pointing my loaded gun at imaginary stalkers creeping toward me from the woods.

A loud knock on the cabin door nearly made me hit the ceiling. “Who is it?” I asked, sticking the 357 in the waistband at the small of my back.

“Joyce.”

Max barked at the sound of his master’s voice. I opened the door, and said, “Max says he wants to stay with me.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Her big, warm smile made my heart race. I said, “Come in and have a beer. I’ve got a head start on you.”

Her car parked alongside mine made me wonder if her ex would be looking for it.

She knelt to pet Max, and said, “Thanks for changing my tire. You didn’t have to do that. I’ve caused you enough trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it. Things like that happen all the time around here.” Finally, I was able to act cool, calm and inebriated.

Her crooked grin and raised eyebrow signaled amusement. She had an expressive face, and I liked studying it. So while I stared, I asked, “What happened? Did they catch him? Would you like a drink? How about something to eat? I’ve got some steaks to grill and salt potatoes to boil. There’ll be a spectacular sunset in a couple of hours.” I knew I was babbling, but the beer and frazzled nerves had taken over. When she place a finger on my lips to shut me up I fought the urge to suck on it.

“I brought you a gift,” she said, and held out a rolled drawing. “Thanks for… well… everything.”

Words failed me, so I smiled, accepted the paper, and admired the picture of the beaver pond quietly for a minute. “This is beautiful. I’ll have it framed when I get home. Thank you.”

She’d walked into the kitchen and pulled out a beer. “Do you always carry a gun?” she asked, before taking a sip.

I’d forgotten about the pistol in my pants. “Only when I’m afraid,” I said, which is most of the time, but this was information she needn’t know.

“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” she asked in a tone of disappointment.

“It would’ve ruined my vacation.” In reality, I just don’t have the killer instinct.

She strolled over and stood closer than expected. “Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to cause you anymore trouble.”

I took the gun out of my pants and laid it on the table. “I’d really like it if you’d stay.”

“What if he comes back?” she asked, reaching over to trace a finger along the gun barrel. “Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do?”

“I’m more worried about what he’d do to you if I wasn’t around.” Wow, that sounded brave. The beer was talking again.

Her finger left the gun, ran up my arm and traced down along my jaw. “You’re sweet. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this safe.” The finger continued on, to tease over my lips. Disagreeing with Joyce would have been counterproductive. I just smiled and basked in the hero worship.

The hat was gone and thick hair framed her oval face, a few strands fell across her emerald eyes. I was frozen in her spell until she broke contact and left to look out the window.

Gazing down the blossoming valley, Joyce said, “It’s so serene, like the Garden of Eden,” and then turned around, silhouetted against the setting sun. Her contours radiated with an ethereal glow. “Phil, are you married?”

“No.”

“Where’s your girlfriend? You must have one. Or are you…”

“I’m not gay.” It pisses me off when people think I’m gay just because I’m 30 and never married. “I had a girlfriend last year. I caught her in my office stealing files. She was working for my competitor. I’m developing a new wireless audio transmitter that can send digital quality sound to remote speakers throughout an office building without affecting other electronic equipment. If I can sell the idea, hospitals especially would benefit…”

She interrupted with, “Would you let me sketch you? The light here is perfect. Sit in the chair and I’ll get my pad and pencils. You’re face has character.”

When you have a receding hairline and a crooked nose nice people say your face has character. I’d grow accustomed to it, over the years.

Joyce didn’t wait for an answer, she went out to her car and a few minutes later I sat in the sunshine while she sketched. I tried to be still but it was hot. This whole scenario was a little dopey, but the attention of a beautiful woman is a rare pleasure in my life and I’ve always been a sucker for kindness.

She was sipping her second beer when she said, “If it’s okay, I’d like to draw you nude.”

Before I could protest she began to unbutton her blouse and I realized I wasn’t the one who’d be naked. She peeled her clothes off without pomp and circumstance. I wondered if she’d modeled nude for art classes, she was so nonchalant. Nevertheless, my penis decided to give her a standing ovation as if she’d performed Swan Lake. The beer had me fuddled enough not to dwell heavily on why she’d taken her clothes off. My guess was it was her way of repaying an ugly, skinny, geek, who may have saved her life -- a charity strip. I’ll admit that this was the closest I’d ever been to female perfection.

When she began to sketch again, the pad was large enough to block most of the view and the sun beaming in behind her made it hard to see anything clearly. But just an occasional glimpse of skin was enough to keep me at the ready. My heartbeat was pounding a rhythm to my groin and it was increasingly difficult to sit still. I didn’t say anything, for fear of making a mistake. Maybe there was a charity fuck in this for me if I didn’t screw up.

“You must be hot,” she said over the top of the pad. “Why don’t you take something off. Take off as much as you like, I don’t mind.”

I’d had three beers and nature was calling. “Okay, but it’s time for a break. I’ll be right back.”

Seconds later all my clothes lay in a pile on the bathroom floor, and I hurriedly washed the parts I thought essential, just in case. Donning the terrycloth robe that hung on the door hook, I went back to pose after grabbing beer number four. Joyce hadn’t moved. She still busily scratched pencil to paper.

“How’s it going?” I felt safe asking that much.

Absorbed in the work it took several long seconds before she said, “Almost done.”

Now I was nervous and excited. She’d asked me to take off my clothes even though she was done with me.

“Can I see?”

“Later,” she said, getting up and slinking toward me. “I need a break before I put the finishing touches on you.”

What a body! My physical response seemed instantaneous. She put her hands on the arms of my chair and leaned down. I was trapped… Oh well, I surrendered.

“Can I show you how grateful I am?”

My guilty conscious spoke in a tiny voice, ‘Don’t do this. Have some self-respect. You don’t want just a gratuitous fuck. Don’t use her like that. If she was in her right mind she’d never have sex with someone like you.’

The head of my dick controlled my larynx, and it said aloud, “If you want to.”

Apparently she did, because her hands untied the cloth belt, separated the robe and began to explore. Joyce was an artistic lover, as well. The way her hands teased me to a crescendo of pleasure was a phenomenon I’d never experienced. She straddled my lap and I felt the warm wetness of her pussy surround me. As she sat motionless, I played with her nipples and kissed her. My hands roamed free. A wide variety of squeaks and moans encouraged my advances. I began to gain confidence in my technique. Her neck tasted salty and her fragrance combined spring air and cocoa butter sunscreen. I wanted to eat her up. Instead I lifted her up and down by cupping her firm ass. She got the hint and began to help. I had one hand on her clit, one hand on a breast and my mouth sucked on a nipple when Max decided to interrupt by jumping up on the arm of the chair. It broke my concentration.

Joyce laughed and said, “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

“Great idea.”

In the movies, this is where the man stands up with the woman wrapped around him like a mink stole and he carries her to the bed. I wish. Instead, Joyce dismounted and I pulled her by the hand to the bedroom. We embraced and kissed passionately. Her skin was smooth and soft. Her hair flowed through my fingers like fine silk.

As gracefully as I could, I lower her onto the bed and we start over from the beginning, only more comfortable, and now I’m on top. This way, I could postpone the inevitable and prolong this once-in-a-lifetime coupling.

Joyce was a giving lover. She used her whole body to inflame my senses. There was never a moment when she looked at me with anything less than eyes of lust and appreciation.

My game rose to her level. At least I think so, because she responded well. The pride I felt when she arched and squealed through several orgasms felt nearly as good as my own coming. The final sensation seemed to last for minutes.

And then we snuggled like spoons. I wrapped my arms around her and fell asleep.

I woke up alone and dismayed. How did she get out of bed without waking me? It was the beer’s fault. Quickly, I threw on sweat pants and searched the house. Max was gone, as well. Her car was gone. My dream of happiness, gone. “Shit!” I slammed the door and stalked to the front window. The horizon glowed with a purple twilight. A spectacular view made for romance. Now, it just depressed me. The recent sketch still sat in the chair. It was a picture of me, all right. But I wasn’t seated in the living room. The rough draft showed me pointing a gun at her ex-husband. She had a fine memory for detail.

Slowly I raised my eyes, afraid of what I wouldn’t see. Sure enough, my pistol was gone from the table. “What is she thinking?” A thousand possibilities flashed through my head and they all ended with someone’s death by a bullet fired from my gun.

And then my devil side began to ponder why she fucked me. DNA evidence to implicate me somehow? My fingerprints were all over the gun. It was registered in my name. Why else would a beautiful, talented woman make love with me, to frame me for murder, perhaps?