Life was not always thus for Packer. Eight years earlier, when he was thirty-four, he never would have even fantasized about avenging himself upon an errant lover by seducing her daughter.
Eight years earlier Packer was living like a monk up in New Hampshire. After his divorce at age thirty he fled Boston for the north country, abandoning the life he had known, ensconcing himself alone in a small cottage on a picturesque lake. He strove to purge himself of all the bullshit he ingested working for an ad agency. He worked out on his Soloflex, cross-country skied, ran, bicycled, swam, canoed, hiked in the mountains. He did odd jobs tending bar and freelance photography for the regional newspaper. He worked at writing the fiction his marriage and job had kept him from for too many years.
But he was lonely. He missed a woman's touch. Oh, there were women around – but Packer was not skilled at seduction. And he was shy around people he didn't know. So on occasion he drank too much – staring out at the lake – and on occasion he was known to howl at the moon. He masturbated to girlie magazines and hungry fantasies that surprised him with their force and power.
So when Brenda rode into his life he was primed for action. He was also more vulnerable than he could possibly have realized at the time – vulnerable to beauty, to female wiles and desires, to his own thwarted sexuality, to that peculiar human need to be loved and to be permitted to return that love in kind.
Brenda rode into his life late one quiet Monday morning. It was high summer, a close, hazy day of green and cerulean blue. Big fluffy thunderheads floated lazily above, slowly billowing piles of white with pale gray-blue undersides. Packer had been swimming and lay sunning himself on a towel on the deck of the cedar-shake cottage.
He was drifting off behind his sunglasses when he thought he heard footsteps coming down the wooden stairs that led from the lake road above. The footsteps were light, almost tentative, so Packer figured it wasn't his landlord from across the road. Maybe it was his landlord's wife, come for a swim and to sun herself. Packer wasn't sure, but he thought Molly had an interest in him. He didn't think it a good idea to get involved with a married woman – especially when she was married to your landlord – but he was horny as hell and found Molly attractive. He half smiled at the thought of fucking her silly and then handing her the rent to pass on to her husband.
His cock stirred in his swimsuit.
"Excuse me?"
It was a woman's voice, but not Molly's. It was a rich contralto, strong but feminine.
"Excuse me?" The alluring voice washed again against the shell of Packer's ear.
He rolled over on his belly and looked up at a goddess. A modern American goddess about his own age with a white bicycle helmet pushed up on the back of her head. A goddess with full red lips and copper-colored hair. She wore a tight white T-shirt over full round titties – 36D's, Packer guessed – and very scanty denim shorts. Long tanned legs like twin staircases to Xanadu, ascending from immaculate socks and sneakers that were almost laughable in their startling virginal whiteness.
Like Packer's eyes, the goddess's eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but he knew instinctively that those eyes would be man-traps.
"Hi," was all he could think to say.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but my bicycle just got a flat." She waved up toward the road. "Do you mind if I use your phone to call my husband? We're honeymooning at the inn up at the end of the lake."
Just my luck, thought Packer. A husband. A honeymoon. The most gorgeous looking woman he would never kiss. His stirring erection retreated with disappointment as he got to his feet and glanced at his own bicycle hanging from hooks beneath the cottage eaves.
"Let's take a look at that flat," he smiled shyly, slipping into his sandals. "Maybe we can patch it up and let the lucky guy sleep in a little longer."
She smiled at that. The kind of smile that could disarm a SWAT team or make an earthquake pause to reconsider. "That's very kind of you," she said.
Packer's cock reversed direction again as he followed the woman up the wooden stairs to the roadside. Her luscious ass filled those faded shorts like the devil taking names. Packer pressed his lips together and shook his head. Just his luck to meet an ass like that while it was on its honeymoon.
Honeymoons.
Fuck me, thought Packer. Please, baby, just once.
He thought he could feel her gaze on his arms and shoulders and back as he lifted her ten-speed and turned to carry it back down to the deck. He flipped the bike over on its handlebars and seat and worked on it there, disappearing into the cottage to get his repair kit and a drink of cold water for his damsel in distress.
She sat on a deck chair, sipping the water while quietly watching him work. Packer liked that she was interested in watching him. His cock snaked hungrily downward along the inner thigh of his swimsuit. Normally he would have been embarrassed by this but he reasoned that this babe was a fresh bride and he didn't have a prayer with her anyway, so what the hell? He knew it wouldn't get farther than a little naughty exhibitionism.
Packer stole glances at her from behind his sunglasses as he squatted and worked with the punctured inner tube. Her nipples were proud and erect against her white T-shirt. As if sensing his frank admiration, she turned her head sideways and smiled. Packer adjusted his position slightly so that when she looked back she would be able to see up the inner leg of his swimsuit, which was stretched full of cock at this point. Packer had grown so hard he could have screwed a bear trap.
When she looked back his way she turned away again quickly, this time without smiling, so Packer knew he had made his point. She nervously took a gulp of water.
"You're awfully quiet," Packer mused softly. "You're not shy, are you?"
The woman who had suddenly – if only temporarily – become the center of his life turned back to face him again. This time she seemed to stare unwaveringly at what Packer knew was the thick purple head of his engorged shaft, perilously close to popping right out the bottom of his swimsuit.
"No," she said, her strong full voice suddenly gone somewhat faint and dreamy. "I'm not shy at all. I really like people."
Packer nodded. "Actually, I'm pretty shy myself."
"Really?" Still dreamy, but seasoned with a dash of playfulness. "I wouldn't have thought so at all." Still staring at his cockhead.
Packer shrugged. "In groups, anyway. I'm at my best one on one."
"That doesn't surprise me. You seem like a one on one kind of guy." Again, that dreamy tone with an almost disembodied timbre; but the playfulness had modulated into something else again, some hypnotic quality with a firm but soft supremacy about it.
"Do you live here all alone?" she asked.
Packer nodded. "Yes," he said with genuine sadness. Was this woman playing him? "All alone."
"It's not good to be alone," she said.
Summoning his courage, Packer stood up and began working the mended inner tube back into the inner groove of the tire. Even someone across the lake couldn't miss the huge sausage surging along the leg of his swimsuit. Glancing down as he worked, he saw that the glans of his cock was fully exposed. He felt the precum oozing onto his inner thigh.
"I guess that's why people get married," he said.
She gave a hurt little laugh that startled him. "I guess," she said, the dreaminess gone, replaced by something bitter.
Packer straightened, holding the bicycle tire in front of his chest. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," she said, suddenly all business as she set the empty glass on the deck and rose to her feet. "Not at all. My husband drank too much last night. Way too much. We had a tiff. That's why I'm out riding alone this morning. I left him to sleep it off."
For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes, Packer felt his errant prick begin to reverse itself. He felt a deflating shame for seeking pleasure in a place where he had inadvertently uncovered pain.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She laughed.
"No," he insisted. "Really. You must feel disappointed. I feel bad for you. I wouldn't lie to you."
"I know."
"Excuse me?"
