Return From Yuon

being a continuation of

"Yukon" by ukresearcher

Ukresearcher spins a tale of a five-years-married couple who take their month-long delayed honeymoon at a remote cabin in the Yukon wilderness. On their fourth day there, Pierre, the gigantic and muscular stevedore from the boat that dropped them off, appears and asks them to put him up for the night. They offer him the guest room; instead, he forcibly takes the husband's place in the master bedroom and in the wife for the remainder of their honeymoon. At first, the wife talks of making the best of it, but after a week or so, she tells her husband she is enjoying it and he should just "sit tight for the rest of the month." Then they will go home, she says, and everything will be as it was before. The story ends when they arrive home, with the wife pregnant and wanting to keep the baby because it might have been conceived the one time she had sex with her husband.

Intentionally or accidentally, the author leaves several clues in his story that all might not have been as it seemed to the nameless husband / narrator while they were at the cabin. What might happen should he notice the clues and connect the dots?

My grateful thanks to those who pre-read this story and encouraged me to post it anyway: you know who you are. I have contacted the original author through the Literotica site to ask permission to continue the story, but have not received a reply. As always, I have no compulsion to see that my characters get what they deserve: I'm not sure I have the wisdom to even decide what that might look like.

*

Helen and I tried, we really did, to put it all in the past and move on. We never mentioned our "holiday," known to me as my month of hell. The word "honeymoon" was never spoken. We both tried desperately to act as if that month had never happened. Helen, still early in her pregnancy, was more beautiful than ever, except during her brief bouts of morning sickness. Her pussy and ass had recovered to what they had been before her month-long ravishment by Pierre's brutal strength and huge cock, just as she had predicted. Sex felt the same to me as it had before, physically, at least. Helen took great pains to let me know how much she enjoyed making love with me, before, during, and after the act, but something was missing. Maybe because something was there that shouldn't have been.

Pierre was dead. I, of all people, knew that. But sometimes I could swear he was right there, in our bedroom, snickering at my efforts to please my wife, while he patiently stroked his huge cock and awaited his chance to replace me. To show me how she should be fucked. To take her to a place I could never reach.

There had been an abandon about her when he fucked her; a throwing away of everything except him, his body, his cock. With him, she had been completely in the moment, surrendering her body to the elemental force that had overwhelmed her, immersing herself in it, becoming one with it. With me, her responses like something she thought she had to do for me, something she owed me, not something she really meant. We both knew she would never feel the pleasure from me that she had from him. "I just never dreamed it was possible to be made to feel so good," she had said.

"I'll never do what he did for you, will I?" I asked one night as we lay together, me on my back, she on her side, snuggled up to me with my arm around her.

The tender, loving expression on her face never changed. "That's backwards, Darling. He could never, not in a million years, do for me what you do every day, in bed and out of it. You give me love. You're ten times the man he was. Besides, you won. Didn't you?" My beautiful wife smiled and snuggled her face onto my chest. Didn't I, indeed. Somehow, my victory, if that's what it was, seemed Pyrrhic.

One afternoon I came in hot and sweaty from doing yard work to see Helen sitting at our kitchen table, smiling tenderly as she leafed through the pages of a catalogue, with one hand lightly resting on her still-flat-for-now abdomen. It was a familiar sight: she had dozens of catalogues for baby furniture, baby toys, baby clothes, and so on, and she spent hours looking at them, always with that same sweetly devoted expression on her face. I admired her for a moment, thinking what a lovely mother she would make, raising a daughter who would be just like her, with a perhaps little of me thrown in just for variety. (That's an indication of how thoroughly I was pretending.) I razzed her a bit now and again because she never seemed able to decide which set of furniture she wanted, or even what color she wanted the nursery to be painted. Fortunately, she had a limited amount of time for making up her mind, I smiled to myself.

"You're going to have to decide on one or the other sometime, you know."

Helen jumped. The face she turned to me had lost all its color; her wide eyes stared at me and her mouth hung open. I took the catalogue from her shaking fingers.

"Yukon Adventures," I read. It was opened to a page showing a little log cabin set in deep woods, near a picturesque river. In the background, barely visible, was a pile of fallen boulders beneath which the worst man I ever knew lay dead, a posy of wild flowers by his head. Everything I'd been suppressing came roaring back into my mind.

"God damn your cheating heart to Hell!" I growled. I wasn't sure I meant it, but I needed an exit line and that seemed as good as any. I think it was from a movie.

I walked around for about thirty minutes to cool down, then came home. Helen was sitting in the same chair, in the same position I had left her, but the tender smile was replaced by a worried expression, and the catalogue was nowhere in sight.

"What did you mean by that?" Helen asked point blank.

"I just had to get outside and blow off some steam," I said, slightly ashamed of myself for running away. "I'm sorry, but..."

"No, when you said I would have to decide. What did you mean by that? What is there to decide?"

"I thought you were looking at one of those baby furniture catalogues. I meant you were going to have to decide which set of furniture you wanted."

"Oh." She silently stared at the table for a moment, then looked at me.

"It was a beautiful place," she said wistfully.

"Yes it was, for the first three days."

"Darling, can't you remember anything pleasant after that? Anything at all? What about our walks together? What about that night in the tent?"

"You mean the walks where you told me how hot he made you, how much better he made you feel than I ever had, and that I should just sit tight and let him do whatever he wanted? The night in the tent, when I couldn't feel anything when I entered you because he'd stretched you out so much?"

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry it didn't turn out to be what you hoped for, but if you could think of something positive from our holiday, I think it would help you. I will always remember that night in the tent fondly." Her repeated mention of that night half-reminded me of something, but she didn't give me time to pursue it. "Now tell me, what was the best thing that happened on the trip?"

"Killing him." I looked Helen in the eye as I said it, and saw her shiver. "Even those first three days weren't all that great."

"I was on my period, remember?"

"Yeah, but you didn't seem to have any energy at all." There was something else about those three days that troubled me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. We sat in silence for several long moments. Finally, I couldn't hold it back any more.

"Helen, we can't go on like this, or at least I can't," I said. "We're walking on eggshells, trying to be extra loving to each other, to prove to each other that everything is like it was before. It isn't working. It will never work, because nothing's the same, and it never will be again. Yes, we love each other, but neither of us is the same person we were before we went on that trip. We've both been trying to pretend it didn't happen, but it's just not going to work." I put my head in my hands, and tried not to break down. In an instant, Helen was out of her chair, standing behind me, wrapping her arms around me.

"Darling, don't you remember? We had this discussion while we were there. We agreed I would make the best of it, and that's what I did."

"Yes, until you decided to make the most of it."

All the ways she had made the most of it were suddenly clear and present in my mind. For the first time since we came home, I completely lost it. I sobbed as she held me, telling me she loved me, and it would be all right. I had no idea how she could possibly think that. Finally, I got myself back under control. Helen sat back down in her chair and looked at me with sympathy, or maybe pity.

"What can I do to help you, Sweetheart? How can I make it better for you?"

"Raze out the written troubles of the brain," I muttered. I couldn't think of anything she could do that would really help except be sorry it happened, and I knew she wasn't. Not yet. So I temporized.

"Helen, could you take some time, and write down exactly what your feelings for Pierre are? Not so much what you felt then, but what you feel now? I know you have feelings for him, and I know I'll have to deal with them, but to do that, I need you to tell me honestly and completely what they are. Can you do that for me?" I thought that might help her understand some of what I was feeling.

Helen thought for a moment. "Don't you think it would be better to just put it all in the past? We're home now, and that was a different world. Nothing like that will ever happen again. You're right, I do have some feelings for him. I've been suppressing them, and I'm not proud of them, but they're there. Wouldn't it be better to just let them gradually die, as they will with time, than bring them out into the open? Why can't we leave this in the past, and move on together?"

The grimmest suppressed reality of them all, that she was almost certainly carrying Pierre's child, could no longer be avoided. I didn't say a word in answer. I raised my hand, my finger pointing to her abdomen. Helen knew what I meant. She gasped and her eyes went wide. One hand covered her mouth; the other instinctively moved to her belly, which would soon swell with the new life already growing within.

Our eyes met. At that moment, we were both certain the baby was Pierre's. He had won again.

"Never mind," I said. I stood and left the kitchen. I went to our bedroom and packed a suitcase.

"I have some thinking to do; I'll be back tomorrow night," I said. "Meanwhile, just so you know: I will not raise Pierre's child, nor will I support it."

"Darling, it's not the baby's fault."

"Nor is it mine." I turned my back on my wife and walked out.

The tiny hotel room should have been conducive for thought, because it certainly held no other attraction. My troubled mind and breaking heart didn't cooperate. All the images and feelings and memories from the month of hell that I had so carefully suppressed since we came home were once again front and center in my mind, in excruciating detail. I'd suspected she still had feelings for Pierre, and now it sounded like she wanted me to raise his child.

That wasn't going to happen. Never. I fell asleep with my thoughts in turmoil. Unlike those horrible nights in the cabin, I didn't get an erection.

The next morning, my head was clearer. I remembered thinking something was off about those first three days at the cabin; I tried to figure out what it was. Helen had seemed almost depressed, or maybe anxious, with a low energy level, which was very unlike her. Helen was a strong, athletic woman, and stayed very active even during her periods. She'd been looking forward to exploring the Yukon wilderness for months, but during those three days, we only managed a couple of short walks. Our first long walk had been the day after her first night with Pierre. What had changed? It was almost as if Pierre's arrival had restored her energy. But why?

I smiled ruefully as my mind drifted to my various escape plots. I remembered thinking that it would have been nice if the radio worked, but I knew it didn't, so I had hatched the plan with the kayak. My ears burned as I remembered Pierre laughing at me, almost as if he'd been waiting for me to show up.

Wait a minute, though. That morning, he had left Helen and me alone in the cabin, with the radio. How had he known that I wouldn't use the radio to call for help? I knew it didn't work, but how could he have known that? I thought back to the day we arrived. Pierre had taken the cover off the radio, put it back on, then said that he'd reported our safe arrival. I had followed exactly the same steps two days later, but without success. I play a lot of bridge, and I'm good at memorizing sequences. I knew I had done exactly what he had done. Why had it worked for him and not for me? For that matter, why had he thought he needed to report our arrival? Surely the Captain would have taken care of that using the radio on the boat. Why had Pierre needed to touch the cabin's radio at all?

So he could disable it, that's why. He knew it was safe to leave us with the radio, because he knew it didn't work. He knew that because he'd disabled it himself on the day we arrived. He had deliberately isolated us, cutting off our only means of communication. Why? So we couldn't call for help when he came back to fuck Helen. Which meant there was nothing random about his showing up at the cabin and asking us to put him up for the night: he had planned what he would do to us days in advance. I was even gladder that I had killed him.

So, once he decided to fuck Helen, why did he wait three days to get started? He certainly never missed a day once he did start. Why didn't he just wave cheery-bye to boat and captain, and stay? Because the Captain could have radioed for help, and he wouldn't have left us there if he thought there was anything wrong. Pierre could have gotten out of that by asking me if he could stay in the cabin the first night before he went off trapping. I wouldn't have known why I shouldn't say yes. Then he wouldn't have had his kayak, though. So why didn't he load the kayak on the boat with our gear? Because when he was loading the gear onto boat, he hadn't met Helen yet, so he didn't know he was coming back to the cabin, so he had no reason to load his kayak.

Okay, then why not ride the boat back to town and kayak downstream to the cabin that day? He'd have had plenty of time because of the late Arctic nightfall, and he still could've fucked Helen that night. Maybe he had to go back to town and work those three days? No, that first night he was there, he said he had "resigned on Saturday" to go trapping, as he did every summer. I tried to remember what day of the week we had been dropped off, and couldn't. Still, if he'd resigned that day or the day before, he'd have said "today" or "yesterday." So that was out. Why, then, had he given up three days of fucking Helen?

I paced the floor trying to figure it out. I wasn't worried about wearing a track in the shabby rug; it was already there. I guess some other poor sod had used the room for the same purpose I was. I knew why I hadn't had sex with Helen those three days: her period. But that didn't apply to Pierre; he couldn't have known... No. It couldn't be that. I kept trying stranger and stranger theories in my desperation to avoid the one I feared the most. But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must contain the truth. Only one possibility remained.

Pierre waited three days to fuck Helen because he knew about her period. He knew about her period because she told him. She told him when she set the whole thing up, while we were on the boat. My wife invited him to take over our honeymoon, and fuck her for a month, after waiting for the end of her period. It was too monstrous to consider, but it was the only explanation that covered the facts.

I remembered the look he'd given Helen as we got off the boat. It wasn't "that's hot and I want to fuck it;" I've seen guys look at her that way often enough to recognize it. It wasn't checking her out, either. It was a ratification of an agreement, a claim of ownership. Other things began to make sense, too. What had she said, "three more days and you'll find out what a sexy and lascivious trollop you married?" Well, I guess I found that out, didn't I? With her affair with Jack Fallon thrown in as a bonus. A "honeymoon to remember," she said. Indeed.

She set it up. More and more little things, barely noticed at the time, began to fit. Her spending the entire boat ride below deck while I was at the rail. Her lack of energy for the three days until Pierre arrived. Her refusing all sexual contact with me for those three days. Her eagerness to get back to the cabin after our walks. Her insistence that I do nothing to upset Pierre. Even that first night, when she wasn't nearly as upset at me as I had anticipated, and didn't seem upset with him at all. That alone should have given me a clue.

What about that night in the tent, when she said "something special" happened? There was something off about that, too. I'd been so shocked when Pierre just showed up the next morning I didn't think things through, and after that I was so preoccupied with the physical pain and humiliation that constructive thought wasn't a possibility. In light of my new knowledge, I thought through the events again. I had no trouble remembering them exactly.

Pierre was used to our long walks, so he would not have known anything was up until we didn't return to the cabin for supper. By then we should have had at least eight hours' head start, perhaps as much as ten. How had he made up all that time? We hadn't spent that long in the tent, we'd walked almost until dusk. Even in the Arctic summer, there were a few hours of darkness in the woods, when the faint light couldn't penetrate the canopy. Then too, it hadn't been a clear night; there was a front coming in, so he'd have had to spend at least a few hours off the trail. There's no way he could have made up the time, unless...

"Didn't you know enough to cover your tracks?" Pierre had asked derisively. Tracks had nothing to do with it. He didn't track us, he followed us. It would have been easy: we'd taken no thought to being quiet. How had he known to follow us on that particular day? He'd been told. By my wife. That was why I was punished after the attempt failed, and she was not.

So why had he waited until morning to spring his trap? Why not confront us when we stopped for the night, kick me out of the tent, and screw my wife as usual? Making me try to sleep in the open while he fucked my wife in the tent would have appealed to him, I'm sure. Not that screwing my wife ever failed to appeal to him, of course, except during her period. So why didn't he?

The answer was in Helen's words. "I'm almost certainly going to end up pregnant before this month is over. If I'm sure that the child is Pierre's, I'll get rid of it like a shot. Darling, if there is even the slightest chance that it might be yours, it will be a much more difficult decision." Helen had said that to me a week or so earlier as her excuse for refusing sex with me. Why had she changed her mind? Simple. My discharge into her, pitiful as it was, would provide life insurance for his spawn. No wonder she'd said it was perfect and couldn't be better. It was over in an instant and she had what she wanted: an excuse to keep his baby.

The next morning, Helen told me her feelings were the exact opposite of hating doing it with him and praying for it to end: which meant she loved it and didn't want it to end, presumably including the deliberate humiliation of her husband. It was now obvious she'd felt that way all along. She even compared my feelings to how she would feel if we'd done the historical holiday I had wanted. How dare she? How could she possibly think her going on that holiday would have been as painful and humiliating to her as her sex holiday was to me? I was livid. I had never been so angry with anyone in my life. Walking usually calms me down, but it took over two hours of randomly stalking I knew not where before I was again capable of rational thought.