A haze crept across the valley floor as I crested a ridge on the northwest border of Tioga County. The morning began bright and cool. The summer was still clinging to the seasonal calendar despite the equinox passing but by lunch time, autumn awoke and pushed back with cold wind and a threatening sky. I watched the changing sky. The dark clouds were gathering in a conference but I calculated an hour or two before they agreed to a plan of attack. I leaned against an aging maple watching the sky while tugging a drink from my water bottle. The tree remained steadfast in supporting summer's grasp by showing leaves still glistening green with only a few spots of gold etchings. I surveyed the valley before me. To the east stood rows and rows of beautiful hardwoods. Trees holding the history of the area and the secrets for every traveler. To the west, I spotted some dairy farms and the county road. Pristine country visages painted against a canvas of green fields and rolling hillsides. A point to the south offered a small river or maybe more of a creek meandering through a grove of plantation trees. The area was probably private property but locals didn't fuss much over hikers. I kept to myself and didn't impact any planted fields or livestock so I was rarely stopped. I readjusted my pack and left the hillside behind me. The grove was a good mile or more from where I stood and its idyllic arrangement of trees and creek suggested a perfect lounge spot for lunch.
About halfway to my destination, I discovered my estimates on the growing storm were off. First, the low grumble of mischievous clouds forming together warned me of their rapid descent. I could smell the rain in the air. The stand of trees was still a half mile or so and while I originally was hoping for a lunch spot and some shade, I now needed shelter from the storm. I backtracked up the incline and surveyed the area. Before the storm clouds curtained the final sun rays, my eyes spied a glint streaming from a pile of metal. I headed towards it knowing that in these farm areas metal means the possibility of a shed, tractor trailer or hopefully a barn; any of those were enough to protect me from the rain. The merging clouds burst into an initial splattering of drops, just enough to cool me off and dampen my clothes. I picked up speed and headed in the direction of the metal, praying for a shelter. As luck would have it, an old barn appeared as I drew up. I moved too quickly to totally take it in but would definitely plan for pictures or sketches after the storm passed. Right now, my focus narrowed on the avoidance of getting soaked which is a serious threat to hikers in the fall as the weather changes rapidly and hypothermia results.
As I rapidly approached the barn, a side door offered an access. Half off its hinges, it hinted to me to push inward. I edged my way inside right as the sky exploded with lightening. Heavier raindrops pelted the metal roof creating a symphony within the barn. A shiver struck me. I needed to change my clothes before I got cold. I entered the barn to wander some and get to know my surroundings for my brief stay.
It was definitely in the centennial age range. A early 20th century row crop tractor sat in one corner. The metal seat still in position. A pot belly sat with it accompanying by a large circular saw blade resting against the outer wall. The flat metal was often used to reflect heat. The lower floorplan offered open stalls and bays for equipment rather than livestock. There wasn't much left on the main level so I climbed the ladder to explore the loft. At one time, it provided a great deal of hay storage but now only a few bales littered the worn floor boards. I spotted some old canvas tarps and dragged them over to the upper doors. I cracked one so I could watch the rain. It was coming down in torrents or at least the tin roof echoed it that way. The sound consumed the barn's interior like a rock concert.
I opened one side of the loft door and watched the rain. The old barn wood framed the landscape below. It reminded me of black and white photographs. I shivered again. My pack had an extra shirt which I hung on the door latch while I pulled my damp t-shirt over my head. The material fought against my efforts causing me a momentary entanglement. "Here," a male voice said, "let me help you with that." Startled, shocked, surprised, stunned, I couldn't move or see the owner of this voice. He helped me pull my shirt over my head but trapped my arms inside by twisting the shirt back over my shoulders and behind me. It was an impromptu straight jacket. I tried to turn but a strong hand firmly secured my head in a locked position facing out the window.
"Don't be scared," the voice whispered. His open palm held my head, his free had stroked through my hair.
"Amazing view," he said in my ear. His hot breath hit my neck causing a shiver to erupt. Screaming would be pointless. I controled my breathing and forced my mind to remain calm. He slid the coated rubber band through my hair releasing my curly tresses. The breeze from the open doorway caught the loose curls and sent them scurrying across my face. I was helpless to push them back into place but his hand brushed my cheek and gathered the wild strands. I heard an low intake of breath. Did he just smell me?
Originally, to remove my shirt, I was sitting upright with my back straight. He took advantage of my position to sit directly behind me. I felt his strong thighs on either side of my hips. His pelvis pushed up against my lower back. I shivered at every touch of his hands which were now grazing my bare flesh. His fingers reached the edge of my spandex bra which was also wet from rain and barely held my breasts.
"You're cold. Let's get you free of this damp material." Not that I had much method of resistence, I relaxed and acquiesced to the strangers imposition. He pulled the bra upward and away from my breasts leaving them bare to the cold breeze blowing in. Raindrops periodically ricocheted from the edge of the barn so the splashes graced my exposed skin. My nipples were hard and exposed so he cupped them both with his warm hands. I closed my eyes to focus. In my head, I could hear my yoga coach telling me to lengthen my spine and push off with my hips. To do so, I needed a full breath. I begain to intake when he moved my hair away from one ear, "don't fight me," he half-whispered.
His voice was seductive and rather calming. He rubbed my breasts with the palms of his hands. Up and down across my chest. He touched my face and massaged my arms until he came back to my torso once more. A mental conflict prevented the relaxation intended by his movements but my body reacted to his ministrations. I let out a quiet breath then felt his lips agasint my neck. His thighs left my side but before I could shift or react, I heard the rusty squeak of a pulley long neglected.
"I'm going to take your shirt. Are you going to allow it?" The sound of the pulley was still in my ears causing me some panic and questions. I didn't say anything but did not resist as he pulled my shirt away and managed my wet bra off of my neck. He positioned his hand firmly atop my head and applied a slight pressure. Just enough to restrict me from turning around but not to cause any discomfort. The pulley squeaked again and I felt something brush my shoulder. It felt like leather but I didn't turn or look. I sat still and waited.
A milking stool appeared in front of me seemingly out of nowhere. He asked me to remove my boots. I hesitated. "I asked you to please remove your boots." He sounded less seductive and more stern with that statement. The item from earlier brushed my shoulder. It was definitely leather. Perhaps reins or a rawhide lasso. I pondered whether he would use it to hit me as I stood and leaned forward using the stool for balance. I took my time to unlace my boots removing one slowly, then the sock, then switching to the other and unlacing it. Why am I prolonging the inevitable? I stood barefoot on the canvas tarp glad for some protection from the splintering barnwood below it. The window view remained the same as I stared out watching the black overtaking the gray. An hour had passed since arriving at the barn and it was now dusk although the storm clouds caused some time confusion.
"Nice," he uttered with a reflective tone of someone studying a painting. He was right behind me. I tried to estimate his height but could only determine a larger build one that I could probably not overpower. He already out maneuvered me on every level plus he controled my clothing. His hands massaged my shoulders, then my arms and finally reached my hands. He held them momentarily then pulled them up above my head. The move was sudden and surprising. It caused me to lean back allowing him to fasten a wide leather belt around my lower torso. My hands were wrapped together in rawhide, the kind used to braid lariats. Neither restraint was tight or uncomfortable; just secure and prominent. I fully understand his message: I am not going anywhere. He moved away from me and at first, I felt the sensation of falling backward but the band around my torso caught me. I was leaning at an angle and it was oddly comfortable. My arms bent at the elbows creating a support for my head while the rawhide kept my hands close together. I was bound in some kind of swing ensemble.
The room went dark or the world did. I panicked. I thrashed against the bindings but the belt tightened against my midriff and the rawhide contracted to the point of pain.
I screamed, "let me go, let me go, let me go!" My cries grew louder and louder until I was near screetching. I continued to thrash like a wild horse bucking against ropes but his hands gripped my shoulders and he nuzzled my hair.
