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.
