A story of the building up of sexual tension and its inevitable explosion between a runaway and a man who takes her in. This grew in the telling so for those in search for a quickie, scroll down to chapter eight for the first intercourse.
Chapter one
Siri's life wasn't actually a life as much as it was an Easter egg, carefully painted layers of chocolate to cover all the things that should have been there and weren't. She'd dreamed of leaving since she was fourteen and after ten years knew exactly where she'd go - Eastern Europe. To be sure, it wasn't the safest of destinations for a woman travelling alone, but an ideal choice for anyone hoping to disappear. At Helsinki West Terminal she boarded the M/S Baltic Princess with the firm intention of never to return. What ever she would decide to do Siri was confident that no one could trace her from a country like Belarus or Slovakia and she would be in peace.
***
As it was 2000s Siri had expected to get by relatively well with English, but she didn't. Neither did her moderate skills in Russian help her as much as she had hoped for. In addition the rather romantic expectations she'd had of her chosen refuge to large extent proved to be misconceptions. Eastern Europe was loud, pushy and restless and the gypsy life proved more taxing than she'd anticipated. She took in the flood of people, colours and sounds without resorting to her medicine, however, after the hustle and bustle of Warsaw she was in desperate need for silence.
She changed busses at the Ukrainian border and in a few hours felt the tightening in her chest ease as she gazed out the window at the fields, moors and lakes of Shatskyi national park. After a careful study of her map Siri got off the bus seemingly in the middle of nowhere. From where she stood stretched out a ten kilometre hike to one of the smaller lakes of the area, hopefully a paradise of peace and quiet.
She skirted fields and crossed through thickets of deciduous trees among open fields of short grass. The ground was even and the day wasn't particularly hot but the marching tired her out quickly. She reached the lake hours later than she'd estimated, sweaty and utterly spent. Feeling faint she struggled to put up her tent and fell asleep as soon as she had her sleeping bag and mattress unrolled.
She slept fitfully, shivering from cold, drifting from one terrifying nightmare to another. Every time she stirred she gulped down large amounts of water, and eventually she had to pee. Too spooked to unzip the door to the unknown she urinated into the bowl of her Trangia, too befuddled from fever to feel the slightest bit silly.
When dawn chased the darkness away her fear let go and she slept for a few straight hours. Besides that the morning brought little in the way of relief. By ten a.m. the temperature inside the tent had climbed to uncomfortable levels but Siri was too sick to move her bed outside. She had only one litre of water left which meant she would have to move before it ran out completely. In one of the Shatskyi lakes the water was said to be safe to drink, but it wasn't her lake.
It was near eight p.m. when Siri forced herself up on wobbly legs and left her camp. She staggered towards the road, but the whole world was gibberish. She clung to her map and compass but couldn't bring her sluggish brain to remember how to use them.
Dusk fell and her unease returned. Startled by every sound and shape she hurried on, consumed by her fear. Tears streamed from her eyes and she talked to herself in whispers, hanging on to the last semblance of self control. She had long finished the last of her water when in the looming darkness her eyes suddenly focused on a tiny distant light.
Hope went a long way. She let her backpack thump on the ground and ignored her thirst, aches and fever. She kept on for another two hours until the light went out and the house that had emanated it was swallowed by darkness. In an instant the hope that had sustained her died and took with it all her strength. She took a few hesitating steps but her knees bent and she collapsed. Just before fading into nothingness, she saw the first promises of a new sunrise in the horizon.
Chapter two
Choma carried the girl in the house and laid her carefully on the sofa. He might have walked right past her had his ears not picked up the sharp wheeze of her breathing. The girl looked like death and his mind was in shambles. He knew the first priority was to get off her wet clothes but it didn't feel right to strip the poor girl naked. He needed help. Larisa would know what to do but he didn't like leaving her alone in the state she was in. Yet, too worried not to, he covered her in blankets and hurried to his battered old truck.
***
"What is she doing in those wet clothes?" Larisa exclaimed walking in the room. "Choma Danylovych, what on earth were you thinking?" It was the first time in years Choma heard Larisa swear. "You old fool, it's the wrong bloody time to be a prude." Choma hung his head. Larisa was right and he was ashamed of his earlier sheepishness. "Off with you then. Put water to boil and bring her something dry to sleep in," she said hurrying to remove her clothes.
Choma returned with a long cotton shirt. "You'll have to help me. I can't dress her on my own. Don't be ridiculous, Choma, God knows it's not the first time you see a naked woman."
This isn't a woman, she's a girl
, he thought dismally but didn't contradict.
"Prop her up," ordered Larisa and Choma slid his hands to the small of her back and pushed. As her body rose into a sitting position, the blanket slid down and Choma saw her beautiful round breasts with tiny half erected nipples. His thoughts instantly wandered to what they would feel like in his hands, how would it feel to press his lips to that soft flesh.
As soon as it had appeared the sight was gone; Larisa had gotten the girl's hands into the sleeves and buttoned the shirt up commanding him to carry their patient upstairs. Her body felt soft through the thin fabric and, shivering, Choma took her into the small bedroom and lay her on the mattress. There was something disturbingly erotic in her unconscious form on the bed before him, but Larisa's voice woke him to reality. "Bring some juice and all hot water bottles you have. And a decent book if you don't mind, I'll get under the covers to warm her up."
"Will she be ok?" asked Choma.
"I honestly don't know," answered Larisa shaking her head.
Choma tried to go about his work but was plagued by images of the girl's naked breasts and the two women huddling tightly against each other under the blankets. He couldn't concentrate and spent the day walking around aimlessly, his thoughts constantly on the room upstairs and the sick girl within. In the evening Larisa took her leave imploring him to vigilance, "She has a high fever, keep a close eye on her. I'll be back tomorrow to see how she's doing."
Choma sat with her the whole night wiping her face with a wet cloth. Larisa had remade her dishevelled braid, and it ran on the duvet leading Choma's eyes once more onto her chest. He tucked the coil of hair in with the girl to rid himself of the image of her breasts. Choma expected to unravel her mystery but though she kept murmuring and babbling it was impossible to make out what she was saying. At times she woke up from a nightmare, eyes wide in terror, but when he tried to talk to her she didn't respond and fell back asleep.
Choma took pity on her. She was restless, tossed and turned, kicking her duvet aside. Dutifully he tucked her back in, each time trying to ignore her pale legs and thoughts of placing his hand on her thigh and sliding it up along her soft skin all the way beneath the hem of her shirt. His solitary life had mellowed his passions, but to have someone enticing and vulnerable there for his taking rekindled the needs he'd long subdued.
No,
