Camp Woody Gap
By HermesMendoza.
The ladder slips, just a half-inch.
“Hey!” she yells down. “Watch what you’re fucking doing!”
“All good!” I call back up with a smile. She sighs and gets back to work. I’m not entirely sure what she’s fixing up there — the wires for the weather monitor, I think, which runs out of an old, dilapidated shack way out on McConaughey Loop. Camp Woody Gap is isolated enough out here that it runs its own small, unmanned weather station, and that station barely works on a good day. Case in point: we’d headed out this afternoon expecting clear skies for a two-mile hike up the mountain, and now we’re racing an oncoming storm. She’s up there swearing, has been swearing since the clouds rolled in, and probably since we left camp.
Me? I’m just happy to be here, to be with her. Our boss, Mrs. Flintock, sent her most valuable employee to fix it and her least valuable one to hold the ladder. But there’s no way Flintock could have known that I’ve had a crush on Pam Pfluger since the seventh grade.
“Is the green light on yet?” she asks.
“What green light?”
“There’s only one green light, Mikey.”
I squint away the tiny rain droplets spraying my face and look into the open weather box beside her leg.
“Oh yeah,” I say, nodding. “It’s on.”
“Now tell me if you hear a click.”
A loud metallic snap comes from inside the box.
“Check!”
“Okay, good,” she says, shutting the box and screwing it tight. “That means it’s working.”
She slides down the sides of the ladder in one motion, landing just in front of me, and spins around, holding the screwdriver between her teeth like a pirate. She’s as close to me as I can ever remember her being: her white ‘Camp Woody Gap’ T-shirt pulled tight in the front from the rain and wind, strands of hair stuck to her forehead, a single bead of water rolling down her cheek. All I can think is God damn, she’s cool.
She takes the screwdriver out of her mouth. “Move the ladder inside,” she orders, looking up at the darkening sky and the first of the rain. “And let’s get the hell out of here.”
I drag the ladder into the weather station, a sagging one-room cabin built almost forty years ago. It’s made of warped plywood and damp cedar, tucked against the trees. The temperature is several degrees cooler inside, almost chilly, the air like a cellar. Old tools hang from nails on the wall beside shelves full of paint cans, batteries, and faded maintenance supplies. As we enter, the rain starts in earnest, bouncing off the tin roof like ball bearings.
“I just gotta check one last thing,” she says as I put the ladder against the far wall. She crosses over to the monitoring panel affixed next to the window, wiping rainwater off her forehead. She bends over the panel, one hand on the wall beside it. Her shorts ride higher against the backs of her thighs as she leans in, tightening between them. I look away, then back.
“Barometer’s dropped,” she says. “And the temperature is plummeting… crazy storm this time of year.”
She flips a switch. A red light clicks on and buzzes for too long.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer at first; instead, she inspects a gauge with cloudy glass.
“Shit,” she mutters. “We need to go. Like right now.”
“I dunno,” I say lazily. “I think we should wait this out… it looks pretty gnarly out there.”
She shakes her head with the barest tolerance. “You don’t get it,” she says. “We’re gonna get stuck here if we don’t leave–”
A flash of light and a crack of thunder spook us both. That sounded close, like something nearby got hit.
“Jesus,” I say, looking up. The noise from the roof is louder than before. “What is that?”
She runs to the window, then to the door, which she throws open. We watch golf balls of ice pelt the path, the trees, and the weather mast.
“Hail,” she says. “It’s hail.”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, no way I’m walking back in this,” I say, trying my best not to seem too pleased.
Truth be told, I could think of worse things than being trapped for a while with Pam. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve fantasized about it over a thousand times.
Pam looks at me with contempt. “You don’t understand, you idiot,” she spits. “If we don’t get to the other side of the riverbed soon, we’re fucked.”
“Riverbed?”
“You remember that big dry riverbed we crossed to get here?”
I just stare at her. I don’t. She frog-marches me to the window and points.
“You see that?”
Through the trees, I see a brown strip of cracked mud and stones that looks like a wide horse trail.
“Is… that it?”
She sighs at me again.
“I almost think we should risk it,” she says, her eyes drifting upward while she thinks.
While she’s distracted, I take the chance to admire her. I am struck by how intensely pretty she is up close. Her eyes, her face, her neck, the smooth slope of her shoulders; strong arms, the healthy swell of her breasts, those supple, tan, athletic legs. A rare and natural beauty.
I’m transfixed. I think about making this the moment: kissing her, taking her in my arms, sliding my hands under her shirt, pulling it over her head, and–
She turns away abruptly, scanning the room again.
“Maybe… if there’s a plank of wood we could carry over our heads…”
I watch the hail fall even harder. Whether I was stuck here with Pam or not, there is no way I would go out in that. And with that riverbed thing slowly filling with water…
“Hey, Pam,” I say nonchalantly, still looking out the window. “Check it out.”
“Oh no,” I hear her say. “No, no, no.”
I notice that it’s not flooding; it’s flowing. In a matter of seconds, it becomes a raging river, filled with rapids and white peaks. For the first time, I feel a twinge of concern.
“That’s… bad, right?”
She puts her face in her hands. I hear her start to growl.
“Fucking Flintock!” she exclaims with rage. “Now we’re stuck out here past nightfall!”
We are? I think. This is awesome.
I need to play this cool.
“I told her this could wait until morning,” she rants on. “I told her. There was no reason — no fucking reason — to send two people out past the safety zone after four o’clock, regardless of conditions. I hate being right all the time.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say. “We’re inside at least.”
“Fine?” Pam turns on me. “We’re inside a condemned plywood box with no radio, no stove, no blankets, and we’re cut off from civilization for at least six hours. We’re wet, it’s getting dark, and it’s gonna get cold fast.”
“I-I mean,” I stammer. “I’m not worried. You’re the best ranger in the whole state.”
“That is not a plan… And you!” she says, pointing at me. “You’re half the reason this took as long as it did. I coulda done this by myself and been back by now. You hike like a snail!”
I’m a little hurt by this.
“It’s my first summer,” I say. “You’re way faster than me.”
She exhales.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, calmer now. “You didn’t send you off with me to slow me down. Fucking Flintock.”
I say nothing.
“And thank you. I… take a lot of pride in being Wilderness Corps Leader.”
She really does. I’m friendly with her younger brother, so I know her trajectory better than she knows I know it. The Pflugers come from old moonshiner stock. Her father looks like Yosemite Sam and runs guided backcountry trips; her mother sells rabbit meat and purses made from their fur.
She was the first girl to become an Appalachian Trail Ranger, and she was the youngest camp counselor allowed at Woody Gap at fourteen, the same age as some of the campers. She was even in the paper for finding two lost kids before the adults did. She’s been doing this every summer for the last five years.
Me? I’m originally from Hoboken. My dad works in the Research Triangle and moved us all to the boondocks for reasons I still don’t understand. I’m eighteen, one year younger than Pam, and I can barely tie a knot. Truthfully, I don’t even like the outdoors all that much.
So why am I here? Pam fucking Pfluger. What can I say? I’m in love with her. Pam could have been the stereotypical cheerleader on the arm of the captain of the football team. Still, she chose differently, opting instead to be some solitary creature of the woods, an expert on things no one cares about — a perfect weirdo, not unlike myself. But cool. So fucking cool.
Unfortunately, she barely knows I exist, and she doesn’t seem terribly impressed with what she does know.
I have six weeks to change that. I don’t believe she’ll ever leave these mountains, and I’m going off to college in the fall. This may be the last chance I’ll ever have to make this magnificent woman my wife.
“I mean it,” I assure her. “You’re the most prepared counselor at Woody Gap,”
“I guess that’s why I’m so upset,” Pam admits. “I left so… unprepared.”
“You didn’t know,” I say. I think about patting her shoulder, but I don’t.
“I should have,” she murmurs. Her tongue rests absent-mindedly between her lips, her eyes fixed on nothing, her brow creased most adorably.
“Should we,” I start, not knowing where I’m going with this. “Look for stuff? Stuff we need?”
She turns to me like I actually said something helpful, and my heart skips a beat.
“You mean like recon?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Recon.”
Her eyes sharpen with concentration. “There’s not much in here,” she says, mostly to herself. “But it’s not a bad idea.”
“Cool,” I say. “What should we look for?”
“Anything useful?” she responds immediately. “Lights, matches… A radio, if we get lucky. Blankets, batteries, dry clothes, emergency kit… Anything they forgot to throw out.”
She glances once toward the rain and hail hammering the windows.
“Because we are absolutely not crossing that river tonight.”
I turn around and smile to myself. This couldn’t have worked out any better.
*****
“God, there’s a lot of crap in here.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, opening a rusted cabinet drawer. “And nothing we need.”
“Gotta be something we can use.”
“I doubt it,” she shrugs. “Anything good would’ve been taken long ago.”
I see a few old brown glass gallon jugs, squat and heavy, with a little handle near the neck, sitting on a shelf.
“Oh yeah?” I say, grabbing one. “What about this? Maybe it’s rum.”
“Don’t fuck around,” she warns. “A lot of this shit is in here because it’s dangerous.”
“Only danger in this bottle is a rockin’ party.”
I was going to pretend to drink it. But when I try to pick it up, it doesn’t budge, caked to the shelf with dried sludge. I pull harder.
The bottom stays glued down; the rest explodes into a million pieces, the neck still clutched in my fist. A heavy wave of soapy liquid sloshes straight down the front of me — soaking my shirt and my shorts, splashing down both legs into my socks and shoes. Glass skitters everywhere.
“Shit!” I yell, jumping backward.
“I knew it,” she says flatly. “Great job, now we have to clean that up.”
“Uh,” I say, shaking my shirt to let any shards fall. “I don’t see a broom.”
“Well, you’d better look for one,” she says. “Or you’re picking it up with your hands.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I chuckle, shaking out my shirt and my shorts, then one leg at a time. They feel funny. “What the hell is this stuff anyway?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“It kinda itches.”
Pam walks over and checks out one of the other bottles on the shelf.
“Says wood cleaner.” Carefully, she turns it around. I lean over her shoulder and see in big red letters the word DANGER. My legs start to sting, and now my chest is itching too.
“Uh,” she starts.
“What?”
“It’s, um, sodium hydroxide. Lye-based.”
“Is that, like, bad?”
Her back stays turned as she reads the bottle. “We’re not going to panic.”
“What — what do you mean?”
She scans the room, her eyes darting from corner to corner. “The bottle has instructions for this. And I know what to do.”
“Instructions for what?” My legs are really burning now. “Fuck, what is this shit?”
Pam turns to me. Her face is grim, almost pale. “Don’t worry. I’m first-aid trained.” She nods firmly and takes me by the wrist—my heart races — from her touch, from the pain, from the fear. “But we need to flush it. Quickly.”
She pulls me to the corner, where an old maintenance shower has been bolted into the cabin: exposed pipes running down warped wooden walls, a rust-stained concrete drain, and a showerhead hanging crooked beneath a stiff pull-chain valve.
She yanks the chain. Water spurts out, then weakens to a drizzle. When she lets go, it shuts off.
“Okay,” she says, nodding to herself. “Okay, good.” Then she looks at me, and her expression changes.
“Mikey,” she says evenly.
I’m wincing from the growing pain in my shins, pulling my shirt away from my chest. There’s an itch that starts inside my waistband.
“Mikey!”
I look over at her.
“I’m gonna need you to listen to me very carefully.”
The seriousness in her voice sends a strange jolt through me. I nod quickly.
“You need to do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you to do it. If you follow my instructions, everything will be just fine. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” I say bravely. “Of course.”
“Okay,” she nods, taking a small breath. “Take off your shirt. And don’t touch the wet part.”
I blink at her, then do as she says.
“And your–” She stops. She looks at my feet. “Shoes and socks.”
I nod and kick off my shoes, then pull the socks off one foot at a time. I stare at her, not thinking, only waiting for her to tell me what to do.
“Also, your–” She stops again, pursing her lips, then softly exhales. “You — you gotta get your shorts off.”
I go momentarily deaf.
“What?!” I exclaim.
“I know,” she says glumly. “I’m sorry.”
This can’t be the answer. This can’t be.
“W-why can’t I just shower like this?”
She shakes her head. “This is really bad stuff, Mikey. It soaks into the fabric and traps it against your skin. And if you shower with them on, the lye could spread… like, everywhere.”
She makes a horrible face when she says that.
“O-okay,” I say at last. “Fine.”
I look up, loosen my drawstring, and with shaky hands, lower my gym shorts. I step out of them and under the showerhead.
I’m standing there in my tight white underwear, hands in front of me, unable to meet her eyes. I can’t believe this is happening.
“Okay,” I say meekly. “Let’s do it.”
“Mikey,” she says, and something in her voice fills me with dread.
I finally glance up.
She looks down, then back at my eyes.
Now I look down. The front of my underwear is damp, with a wide, dark band along the waist and a heavier patch spreading from the center where my shorts had pressed against it. One middle seam is wet too, a thin line where the liquid ran and gathered.
My stomach drops.
“No,” I say, my head shaking on its own.
“Mikey, I’m so sorry.” Her voice has gone soft, sympathetic but urgent too. She steps closer. “You have to.”
I know she’s right. I know. But my hands make it to my sides, and from there I can’t make them move. I can hear the rain and hail pounding the roof, barely over the sound of my own heartbeat, which gets louder and louder. The burn on my legs gets stronger. There’s a high, thin hum in my ears.
Pam Pfluger. Pam Pfluger. The name keeps running through my head like a record skipping. Seventh grade, the bus stop. I decided right there and then that I was going to marry her. Six years of imagining how it would go when we were alone together… and this is how. This is how.
“C’mon,” she says. “I won’t look… I’ll turn around.”
She turns, but it doesn’t help. I can already see it in my head: her glancing back, her face changing, a cruel and horrible laugh escaping before she can stop it.
“Please,” she speaks to the wall. “Hurry.”
My fingers find the elastic. Wood cleaner drips from the seam, down the inside of my thigh. I feel a mild burn now under the waistband, where the wet fabric is tight against me. I pull it off my stomach and stop there.
Just do it. Just do it, just do it, just do it.
“Mikey!” She’s looking back at me over her shoulder now, and her face is genuinely scared. “Please. I’m not gonna let you get hurt, but you have to help me.”
I knew she would look, that’s all I can think of.
“I… can’t.”
My own voice sounds pathetic to me. My face freezes in what I imagine is a kind of pleading.
She turns around fully. Whatever was scared in her face a second ago is gone, replaced by something flatter, frustrated.
“Do it!” she orders. “Now.”
I’m caught in total panic. I can’t move or think. This is a handcrafted nightmare, one I wouldn’t even have had the courage to invent.
“Would you just–” she starts, but doesn’t finish. I catch a glimpse of what looks unmistakably like disgust. It stings worse than the lye. I shut my eyes hard out of shame, shaking my head, blocking it out, wishing this all away.
“Oh my god!” she yells through her teeth.
Then I feel it: her fingers hook the elastic. A sharp tug, both sides at once, and my underwear is off me — down my thighs, past my knees, pooled at my ankles — before I understand what just happened.
My eyes spring open.
She gasps, as shocked by what she’s done as I am. Her eyes flicker down, then back up to mine, then down again. Her mouth tries to form a word.
She laughs.
It starts small — a single, nervous sound, like a wheezing cough. Then she looks at my face, and the laugh breaks open, her eyes startled but bright.
It feels even worse than I feared.
I make the mistake of looking down, too, and immediately wish I hadn’t. Nothing in front of me. Nothing. The cold and panic have shrunk me into something I barely recognize.
I cover myself with both hands. She covers her mouth.
This all takes about three seconds, but it feels like an eternal moment, reverberating through time, altering my future irrevocably.
“Sorry,” she says, still laughing, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I had to.”
“Turn on the fucking water!” I cry, kicking my underwear away. I want to wash away the tears welling in my eyes more than I want to wash away the lye.
“Turn around,” she says, hand still in front of her mouth. I turn my back to her without thinking, facing the wall, both hands in front of me, slowly realizing I’ve only traded one humiliation for another. I can feel her eyes on my butt, can hear the silence of suppressed laughter.
Six years of crushing on this girl, and this is how the dream dies.
I hear the pull of the chain. The cold hits my shoulders first, then runs down my back in thin lines.
“Fuck!” I cry out.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“It’s freezing,” I say through my teeth.
“Yeah,” she says. I hear the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.
The water is barely dribbling out. It goes from a stream to a trickle, then almost nothing. I look up.
My skin is on fire.
“No,” she mutters. “No, come on.”
I hear her shift behind me, sneakers scraping against the floor. The chain jerks hard, metal grinding somewhere inside the pipe. The showerhead coughs and spits, and suddenly the water comes down harder.
Pam yelps behind me. I glance back.
She’s maybe two and a half feet away, arms stretched up, hands wrapped around the chain. Her body angles toward me as she hangs on it with almost all her weight. The spray off my back is hitting her — drops fall from her bangs, down her face and throat, darkening the front of her white Camp Woody Gap shirt.
“That is cold,” she says, half-laughing.
I turn away again. That’s the last thing I need to see right now.
“How long do I have to do this?”
“The bottle says fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Maybe less,” she says uncertainly. “If it stops hurting. Is it still hurting?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice small.
“Turn around. Let me see.”
I stay still.
“Mikey.”
I exhale through my nose and turn until I’m almost facing her. I avoid her eyes and stare past her shoulder at the shelf, at the broken jug, wishing I had listened to her sooner.
“Oh man,” she says, examining my body with concern. “Your legs look really red.”
Great, I’m deformed for life.
“Especially there.” She points toward my left shin. “That spot’s bad. Make sure it gets wetter.”
I lift my leg deeper beneath the shower stream. Cold water splashes against my shinbone and runs downward.
“Higher.”
I lift it higher. I feel ridiculous.
“Use your hands,” she says. “Spread it around.”
She’s gotta be kidding me.
I let go of myself with one hand and reach down to my leg.
“Don’t scrub it. Be gentle.”
I do what she says, balancing on one foot, rubbing water over my shin while trying and failing to cover myself with the other hand.
“Good,” she says, nodding approvingly. “Now, straighten up. Lean back a little — it needs to run down the front of you.”
This is excruciating.
I close my eyes and lean back. My teeth start to chatter.
The spray again loses pressure. She grunts and yanks the chain harder—a surge of ice-cold water blasts my chest.
“God damn it!” Pam squeals as she catches the splashback.
*****
Time goes strange after that. There’s only the chain creaking, the cold water, Pam’s voice barking orders. I lose track of how long. My skin goes from red to blue, my jaw so cold my teeth stop chattering.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. Her voice sounds far away.
“Numb.”
Suddenly, the water stops. I feel even colder without it. The temperature seems to have dropped at least twenty degrees.
I open my eyes. Pam has let go of the chain and is standing in front of me. The front of her hair is dripping wet. Her face, neck, and arms glisten, and her wet shirt sticks tight to her torso. I can see the outline of her waist and her bra beneath the cotton, her toned legs shining with water.
I have to force my eyes away. “Has it been fifteen minutes?”
“Close enough… You’re shaking too much,” she says. “If we keep you under there much longer, we’re gonna trade one problem for another.”
She steps closer.
“Maybe we can stop now if you’re not too badly burned.”
I nod.
She takes a breath. “Lemme check you.”
She leans in, hands on her thighs. “Your chest looks okay. Your stomach, too.” She bends her knees to a squat, crouching to inspect my legs.
I look down, keenly aware of everything at once: her soaked shirt, her legs, her hand on my shin; my own body bare, dripping, shivering, holding onto my genitals for dear life. Her knees are slightly spread for balance, green shorts bunching high up on the thighs, while she studies me with frightening concentration.
I can feel myself swelling inside my hands. I focus all my attention on the cold and the searing pain.
“You got your legs really good,” she says, “but I don’t see any blistering.”
She looks up at me, and something about the eye contact almost kills me. “Where else,” she starts, then clears her throat. “Where else did it get you?”
Her voice sounds different now. Quieter.
“Where my waistband was,” I murmur.
Her head bounces in a nod.
“Okay,” she says. “I need to check there, too.”
“Where?” I say dumbly.
Her eyes move down to my hands, then back up to my face.
“There.”
I don’t move. My hands stay locked where they are.
“You can see the burn, right there,” I reply quickly. “Above my hands.”
“I can see part of it.”
I still don’t move. My cock is now pressing uncomfortably against my palm.
“Look, I know this sucks,” she says, touching my leg. “But it’s not worth getting chemical burns over.”
I say nothing.
“I mean,” she says with a half-shrug and a weak smile. “I already…”
I look away, my face flushed deeper with bitterness.
She sighs.
“I’m… sorry that I laughed before,” she says, trying hard to be serious. “It won’t happen again.”
She gazes up at me with friendly eyes as her fingertips touch the backs of my hands.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to.”
I exhale. “Please don’t laugh,” I finally say.
She gives me a condescending look that makes me want to vomit. “Promise.”
Slowly, I nod. My hands shake more from fear than cold as I move them to my sides.
I feel dizzy, my heart pounding. I don’t understand why I’m doing this. But it’s easier than before, because this is the nicest she’s ever been to me.
And despite that cold, the caustic sears, despite everything, I feel myself lifting upward.
Neither of us says anything. We both stare downward for a few awful seconds. It’s hovering, parallel to the floor, floating in space.
Absolutely mortifying. But preferable to shrunken, I suppose.
She looks up at me, inscrutably. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but she’s not laughing.
Her eyes drop again, carefully reaching up with her right hand and touching the blotchy skin near my pelvis.
“How does that feel?” she asks quietly.
“Hurts some,” I whisper. “But it’s okay.”
“Anywhere else?”
“My thigh,” I admit, barely audible.
“Which one?”
“The left one.”
“Okay.” She hesitates. “Where?”
“It’s on the inside,” I whisper.
“Can you…” She pauses, lifts her eyebrows gently. Her parted lips shimmer in the faint light. “Show me?”
I step to the side with my right foot and open my stance. The motion feels obscene.
“Here,” I point.
She touches the red patch above my knee with two careful fingers.
“Does this hurt?”
“A little.”
Her touch moves higher, following the line of irritation. There’s a pause as her fingers linger near the most sensitive part of my leg, a hair’s breadth from my nutsack, so close I think I can feel her.
“What about here?”
“No,” I choke.
I’m breathing heavily now. There’s too much stimulation, arousing me terribly. I continue to rise.
“Oh,” she says softly.
She’s now looking directly at my now fully engorged erection, inspecting it like a foreign object, fingers close but held back, reluctant to touch it.
I freeze up again: partly from embarrassment, but there’s something else underneath. For reasons I can’t explain, I find this intensely, profoundly, and unspeakably erotic.
“Did…” she begins, then stops. She studies it a moment longer, her hand resting on the crease of my thigh. “Did any get on your…?”
I fold my hands in front of myself again.
“It’s fine,” I mutter.
“Okay,” she says, looking away. “I… just wanted to make sure.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat.
That pulls her eyes back to mine. The corner of her mouth moves.
“Guess you got lucky.”
“Can I get dressed now?” I ask.
Pam smiles sheepishly.
“Yeah,” she says. “About that…”
It hits me then: I can’t put my clothes back on. I can’t put anything on. There aren’t any clothes. There aren’t any towels. There’s a roll of duct tape and a coffee can full of nails.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” I say, teeth clicking so hard it hurts.
Her smile vanishes. She stands up and takes my chin in one hand, turning me toward the gray light from the window.
“Hey, look at me a sec,” she says.
Her thumbs pull down on the skin under my eyes. She moves to my shoulder, palm flat against the side of my neck.
I’m enjoying the physical familiarity, but feel like I should be concerned.
“Open your mouth,” she says.
“What?”
“Open it.”
I do. She hooks a thumb under my lower lip and pulls it down, peering at my gums like she’s checking a horse.
“Your lips are blue,” she says. “Your gums, too.”
“They are?”
“And you’re not shaking right.”
“What does that mean?”
She doesn’t answer. She takes me by the elbow and steers me out of the shower corner, away from the rusted drain and the draft sneaking through the crack in the wall.
“Pam,” I say, firmly for once. “What’s wrong?”
“I think,” she says, her voice catching, “you’re getting hypothermic.”
I don’t really know what that means, but I know it’s bad. I feel something heavier than humiliation.
“What do we do?”
“We just gotta get you dry,” she says. “You’ll never warm up this way.”
“Then give me my clothes back. I’ll risk it.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Can’t you just make a fire?”
She shakes her head. “Even if I could, there are too many chemicals. No chimney, no safe way to vent smoke.”
I look out the window. The rain is coming down in sheets.
“I don’t understand how this could happen,” I protest. “It’s summer.”
She chuckles mirthlessly.
“We’re in the mountains,” she says, her lips now shaking. “It gets cold. And you’re wet.”
Pam seems to have a thought, and her expression changes.
“Shit,” she says.
She drops and starts to untie her shoelaces with quick, angry fingers; she stands and kicks them off one at a time. She peels away her socks, tossing them aside. They land with a wet smack.
She inspects her feet. Her toes are pale, pruned.
“Stupid,” she mutters. “Stupid.”
“You too?” I ask.
“Not as bad.” She rubs one foot, then the other. “Not yet.”
She wipes her hands on her shorts and stands there, her eyes rapidly shifting around the shack, calculating all the assets and variables, until something settles over her, and her eyes come back to me.
Then she puts her whole face in her hands.
“I know what needs to happen,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the only solution, really.” She grimaces, hard, as if in denial. “And I really wish it wasn’t.”
She points a finger at me.
“But you better — you better not say anything to anybody,” she says. “Let’s not forget this is all your fucking fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not one word, Mikey.” Her voice sharpens. “To anybody.”
She gives one quick, aggravated breath, closes her eyes, and yanks her T-shirt over her head.
I feel my mouth open.
She squeezes water out of the front of the shirt. “Towel off with this,” she says, handing it to me. “The back’s mostly dry.”
I take it, I think. My hand is numb, and my brain too. I haven’t caught up to what I just saw when she bends down and drops her shorts in one motion, stepping out of them.
Pam Pfluger stands before me, in nothing but a white bra and light blue panties.
The bra is plain with thick straps and no lace, the neckline falling into a V, the cups shaped snugly against the soft, heavy curves of her breasts. The powder blue cotton of her panties sits high and smooth against her hips, edged by thin bands of elastic at the waist and thighs. Her knees lock together, one leg crossing slightly in front of the other, in a show of modesty as she looks away.
But there is no hiding her body. It’s built exactly the right way — from making things, climbing things, doing things: strong shoulders, narrow waist, flat stomach, flared hips, solid thighs—nothing fragile; soft and pretty all the same.
My eyes quickly pass over her. Tiny goosebumps are raised along her chest and arms, the little hairs sticking up. There is a faint, round vaccine mark on her right shoulder, a crescent-shaped scar on her knee, a small brown mole below her collarbone, another near her ribs, and another on her upper thigh.
There is too much to look at, too much skin to take in all at once.
She leaves the shorts on the floor and crosses her arms in front of herself, jaw clenched hard. “Use those too if you can,” she says, her voice tight. “And try not to gawk so much.”
Her face, radiating with fury, has never been more beautiful.
I start to dry off my arms with the shirt, then my chest and stomach. I do it badly, awkwardly covering my erection with one hand. I try to do my legs, but my knees don’t seem to bend enough to get my calves.
“Give me that,” Pam commands with a sigh, snatching the shirt back from me. “And turn around.”
Pam’s red-faced, still standing there in her underwear, trying very hard to be the person in charge. I follow her order without question and turn toward the wall.
She starts between my shoulder blades, as she swipes with quick, practical strokes, from the back of my neck to my waist. She goes up my neck and ruffles my hair like you would a dog.
I should mind being handled like this more than I do.
“Arms out.”
My ears prick up. It’s not a soft ask as before, but almost angry.
I let go of myself and lift my arms as told. None of this feels real anymore. My worst fears and strongest desires have somehow gotten mixed up and come true.
She scrubs my triceps and armpits roughly, going down my sides with the shirt wrapped around her hand. The shirt returns to my lower back and hips, then lower still, with none of the hesitation from before.
I can feel the palm of her hand through the shirt as she goes over my right buttock. I gasp a little.
If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. She moves to the other side just as matter-of-factly, then drops into a squat behind me.
“Hold still,” she barks. I thought I was. I must be woozy.
She drags the shirt slowly down the backs of my thighs, one leg, then the other. She goes back up the inside part of my left leg, the shirt grazing my testicles.
I reflexively stand on my toes. She pauses there for half a second, avoiding the burn, and goes back down the right leg.
“Okay,” she says, taking my wrist and turning me firmly around. “Now the front.”
I spin like a rag doll, my arms limp, too cold and tired to resist. I stand there obediently while Pam Pfluger dries my naked body with the shirt she was wearing.
She starts at my shins, dabbing at them cautiously, then moves up my right thigh. She gives my leg one last hard pass with the shirt, then moves to the other.
I stare down at her because I don’t know where else to look.
She bends toward me, elbows braced on her knees, wet hair darkened almost black and falling over one side of her face as she works. The white bra stands stark against her sun-browned skin, the straps pressing against her shoulders. The upper curves are visible above the neckline, with a deep cleavage between them, as the damp cotton clings to her, distinctly outlining her nipples pressing through.
Her eyes flick up at me for half a second, then return to my legs. They flick up again and lock with mine. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or something else.
“You’re not,” she starts, eyes dropping again, “covering up.”
My god, she’s right.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and immediately hold myself.
She stares up at me again, jaw set in frustration.
“I’m not drying there.”
“Sorry,” I repeat. I feel like total shit.
With an exasperated huff, she dries around my hips with rough, almost angry strokes, eyes locked on the task before her with a clinical focus.
She hands me the shirt, looking away. “You can do the rest.”
I hold it in front of myself and start scrubbing my pubic hair. She picks up the shorts off the floor, tries to wring them out, and comes back at me with them, harder this time. Hair first, then the back of my neck, my shoulders, down each arm, my legs, and my chest.
She stops and stands in front of me, breathing irregularly, looking at me again with worry in her eyes.
“What now?” I ask.
“You’re still not warming up.”
She tosses the shorts aside and starts hunting the room again as if a magical amulet will suddenly appear. I watch her move throughout the room, hopping around in her bra and panties, breasts bouncing, hips swaying, thighs flexing.
She bends over to rifle through old piles of junk for anything warm, showing me a good view of her butt and between her legs. When she straightens up, the blue underwear rides up, leaving a charming wedgie.
Any other time, I would be enjoying this a lot more. But I feel lightheaded. And knowing she was doing all of this because of me makes me feel chastened and grateful.
Behind the paint cans, she finds a folded sheet of clear painter’s plastic. It crackles as she works it free, stiff along the folds. She shakes it open hard.
Pam’s face relaxes some.
“I think this’ll work.”
She spreads it over the floor, then starts building around it like a bird making a nest: strips of cardboard, a few magazines, a small swath of canvas.
“Sit on these,” she says, pointing to the cardboard and magazines, “And pull your knees up.”
I obey, or I try to. My legs don’t quite do what I tell them.
She drapes the plastic over my shoulders like a poncho and tucks it around me. Then she places the canvas under my feet and then sits on my feet with her almost bare ass. I can finally feel some warmth there.
She reaches between my legs, takes my hands, and rubs them between hers. At first, I don’t feel much. Then the blood starts trying to return to my fingers, creating a pins-and-needles effect.
“You’re like an ice cube,” she mutters.
The curve of her waist softens beneath her navel as she settles. Between her legs, the blue of her panties folds in the middle. She rests her hands on my knees.
My teeth knock once, hard, then settle. Pam notices.
“Wow, okay,” she says to herself. “Okay, okay, okay…”
I watch her rub both hands hard up and down her arms. Only now do I notice how badly she’s shaking.
“You’re cold, too,” I say.
“I know,” she says, rubbing faster. “You think I don’t know?”
“What can we do?” I ask her.
She stands up and laughs to herself in disbelief.
“I know exactly what I need to do.”
“Okay,” I say. “What’s that?”
“I’m just not… ready.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“God,” she says, both hands over her face again. “This is such a fucking disaster.”
I don’t know what to say.
She stands there another few seconds, her goosepimpled arms clutching tightly around herself, her bare legs crossed at the knees. Another shiver runs through her, and she looks back at me.
“Don’t move.”
She quickly goes behind me; I stare straight ahead at the wall. I hear the soft sound of wet cotton shifting against skin, a faint snap, and a small, frustrated exhale.
I feel the plastic lift, and cold air spills in.
She wriggles in behind, bare skin cold against me, her legs folding around mine. She wraps the plastic around both of us, squeezing my chest tighter and tighter, shivering right into me.
*****
Silence.
Pam’s face is pressed against my neck, her lips and breath too. Her hands slide under my armpits and lock there, her cold fingers tucked into the warmest place she can find.
“Body heat,” she finally says, teeth chattering, answering my unspoken question. “Skin-to-skin works best… clothes trap cold air.”
I nod. I understand, dimly, why she’s doing it. Even I know that much. It’s basic survival.
I also understand that Pam Pfluger is wrapped around me under a sheet of painter’s plastic, extremely naked — hard nipples pressing into my back, smooth thighs around mine, and a gentle warmth rising from her groin. No amount of survival logic is enough to make that normal.
Neither of us says anything. There’s only the sound of our breathing under the plastic and her jaw clicking into my shoulder.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“I… don’t know,” she responds. That scares me more than anything yet has.
Her hands shift restlessly against my chest, my arms, my stomach, my legs. They settle behind my knees.
“At least you feel a li’l better,” she murmurs.
She seems worse than I am now. And I’m only better because of her.
“Pam, you probably saved my life.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“If there’s anything I can do to help you, tell me.”
“Yeah,” she nods. “Okay. I need… more warmth.”
“Sure,” I say. “What do I do?”
“You gonna do what I say this time?” she says.
“Of course,” I say. “Tell me.”
She exhales in staccato. “Turn around.”
I don’t say anything.
“I need you to hold me,” she says. “Get on top of me, wrap your arms around me.”
“You want me to hold you?” I repeat, making sure it was real. It’s exactly what I always thought I wanted to hear.
She nods, her chin rocking into me. “Chest-to-chest,” she says into my ear, voice slight. “As much skin touching as possible. Then wrap the plastic around us, and don’t let the air in.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Then she nudges my leg with her knee.
“C’mon, Mikey,” she says. “I can’t do it alone.”
She needs me.
I try to turn without letting the plastic open, which is impossible. It pulls and sticks as I roll beneath it. Our knees knock together as the magazines shift under us. My elbow catches against her hip, causing her to grunt.
“Sorry,” I mumble automatically.
“It’s okay.”
I try to straighten out the sheet, but end up making it worse. Rotating between her legs, I place my hands on either side of her.
I finally manage to turn onto my side. We end up curled awkwardly together on the floor, knees bent, bodies tangled from lack of space. One of my arms is trapped under her neck; the other rests uncertainly between my legs. The plastic slips half over our heads, tented loosely around us.
Lying on her side, Pam takes me by the shoulders. There’s now nothing between her and my eyes.
I know I shouldn’t look, but I do anyway. Six years of distant admiration and private fantasies have made not looking impossible.
Her body runs in one long curve from shoulder to hip to knee, pale from the cold but marked by deep tan lines I have no business seeing. The lower part of her breasts, where her bra usually covers her, seems to glow. Larger and fuller than they ever seemed beneath her shirt, they somehow defy gravity, her skin soft and tight, her nipples stiff and small. A shallow crease crosses her lower abdomen beneath her navel, and below that, a shadowy patch of hair that disappears between her hike-hardened thighs.
“Mikey,” she says softly.
I look up self-consciously. We stare at each other from inches away.
Pam’s hair is damp against her cheeks. Her lips have lost color, but her eyes, glassy with exhaustion, are alert, searching my face for something, like help. It’s unnerving. But underneath is stubborn defiance.
My chest aches. Even in this vulnerable state, she seems fierce and untouchable, wearing her nudity like an unbroken mare. I feel foolish beside her, ordinary and unworthy of lying next to this barefoot huntress, this moon goddess, this smoking hot badass of the Appalachian Trail.
“Put your arms around me,” she rasps. “And hug me, tight.”
I tuck my arm under her lower back, the other still behind her head. She nuzzles her face in the crook of my neck.
“Is this okay?” I say. I feel her nod, her hair brushing my face.
We intertwine our legs, shifting them instinctively until they fit together better. Her shin scrapes against a raw spot on mine, but the cold has gone so deep that the burn feels far away.
I’m breathing harder. My mind cannot stop chronicling it all: Pam’s hands are on my back, Pam’s face is in my neck, Pam’s breasts are in my ribs. And as cold as I am, my cock presses harder into Pam’s creamy thigh.
I try to shift away, but her hands hold me where I am.
“Don’t move,” she says. “This is good like this.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“I said, don’t move.”
I don’t know what to do.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Just stay still,” she says. “Please.”
I feel her hand slide down between us. She takes my cock with her finger and thumb, adjusts it upward, and rests it in the pocket between her legs.
I stiffen. The contact shocks me.
“There,” she says, calmly. “Better.”
“Oh my god,” I blurt.
She chuckles. “It’s okay.”
“Jesus, I’m really sorry.”
“Just shut up about it.”
“Sorry,” I say again, unable to stop.
She hisses with a little laugh she can’t suppress. “I don’t even know how that’s possible right now.”
“You’re just… really close, I guess.”
She picks her head up to look at me.
“Is this, like, your first time?”
“Uh,” I stall. “First time for what?”
“Being really close,” she smirks a little. “To a girl.”
“Uh,” I say again. I don’t know the right answer, so I’ll say the truth.
“Yeah.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Really?” she asks. “Like, ever?”
“I said, yeah.”
“Aw,” she says, stroking my back. “Mikey…”
The familiar sensation of humiliation blooms, but the effects feel duller than before. Maybe I’m just worn down.
“So, I guess you’re not a virgin, huh?” I ask.
“Whoa.” She recoils. “That’s not what I asked you.”
For the first time, she seems taken aback. I immediately feel like I messed up.
“I-I mean,” I stammer. “It kinda is.”
“No, it isn’t,” she insists. “That? That’s private.”
“Sorry, I just–”
“I had a boyfriend, you know,” she interrupts. “Rob Janovich. You know him?”
Of course, I know him. I hate that guy.
“We dated for two years,” she says, shivering slightly.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I get it.”
“But, in all that time,” she continues, her tone changing. “We… we still never–”
She trails off, then shrugs with a crooked little grin.
“For real?” I ask, my day brightened by this information. Why is she telling me this? “How come?”
“I mean, I thought we wanted to. I thought he wanted to, but,” She stops. “He was one of those… Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Fucking idiot,” I say, realizing it was out loud.
Pam laughs, then sighs again in frustration.
“You really ruined my fucking day, you know that?” she says, shaking her head incredulously.
“Sorry.”
“Jesus, would you stop apologizing?”
“Okay.”
“God,” she says, burying her face in my shoulder, thumping on me with her little fists. “You’re infuriating.”
I almost apologize again, but stop myself in time.
“You’re not holding me tight enough,” she says.
“Oh. Right.”
I wrap my arms more firmly around her. I’m not sure where to put my hands. She exhales against my neck.
“Now say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s more like it,” she says, giggling like a teenager, which I guess she is.
I laugh anxiously. “I think I ramble when I’m nervous.”
She snuggles up, resting her head on me.
“You must be nervous a lot.”
One of her hands drifts absent-mindedly across my side, fingertips dragging lightly.
“Yeah,” I say, getting shorter of breath. “I guess I am around you.”
She lifts her head again and opens her mouth like she wants to yell at me, but only sighs yet again, her shoulders dropping.
“You just admit stuff.”
I shrug. She searches my face with a bemused little look.
“You… always do what I say,” Pam says to me with fascination. “Don’t you?”
I’m a little rattled. “Should I not?”
“It’s just… weird,” she says. Her legs shift, closing around mine. I can feel her bush on my thigh.
“You’re, like, my boss,” I say, “And you seem like you have your shit together.”
She snorts. “I wish.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You’re the most responsible, one of the smartest… you’re like the coolest person I know.”
She laughs again, but softly this time.
“You don’t really know me,” she says, tightening her arms around my waist.
“I… kinda know you.”
Pam sniffs. “Hanging out with my brother so you could spy on me doesn’t count.”
I don’t know how to respond.
“I-I never did that.”
“Mikey,” Pam says, laughing, “you’ve been doing it since the eighth grade.”
“You, uh,” I say guiltily. “You noticed me?”
She laughs harder, pressing her thighs together.
“I knew it,” she says. Her knee slides higher against my leg. “You’ve got the hots for me.”
I feel myself flushing again.
“Admit it,” she says, with a pinch on my arm. “You know you gotta.”
I look at her eyes. They seem different, almost crazy. She’s staring at me with half a smile, waiting for an answer.
“Maybe.”
She giggles again. “This all kinda worked out for you then, didn’t it?”
“Hey,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean for any of this.”
“Oh, I know that,” she says, caressing my arm. “No way you could have pulled this off on purpose.”
What the hell is going on?
“I bet you only signed up for this job because of me.”
I say nothing.
“I thought so,” she chuckles dreamily, stroking the back of my neck. “That’s why I didn’t want you to come with me today. I didn’t plan to hire you. Fuckin’ Flintock again.”
“Wow,” I say. “Thanks.”
I don’t know how I feel. These mixed signals are driving me mad.
She moves in close to my ear, her nose brushing my cheek. “You’re a city boy,” she whispers, her Southern drawl thicker. “You don’t belong here.”
Her breathing deepens. I can feel her chest rise and fall.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “In the fall.”
“Yeah?” she whispers again.
I nod. “Boston.”
“Good for you.”
Something seems off.
“Hey, Pam?” I ask. “You okay?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s wrong?”
She gives a sad little laugh.
“What’s wrong? We’re literally freezing to death,” she says, choking up. “See that thermometer up there?”
I look at the wall above the monitoring panel. The needle sits at forty-six.
“It was sixty-two an hour ago,” she says. “It’s not even past sundown.”
“There’s gotta be something we can do.”
“Mikey, we’re trapped.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean all night, like this.” She looks at the plastic wrapped around us and laughs pitifully. “Naked, rolled up like a joint, with your big boner between us.”
Did she just call it big?
Her lips graze the fuzz on my ear.
“So there’s only one thing to do, I can think of.”
I go still. She can’t mean it.
“What’s that?” I say hoarsely.
“C’mon, Mikey,” she says, pulling back, rolling her eyes. “You’re not that dumb.”
“S-sex?” I stutter out like a moron.
She nods, looking at me queerly. “I don’t know if it’s an old wives’ tale or hillbilly wisdom. It’s just something I’ve always heard, as a last resort.”
It hits me all at once. She’s known for a while, maybe since she handed me her shirt. Maybe since the shower.
She lets out a breath and looks away. “I always thought my first time would be because I… loved somebody. Or at least because it meant something. Not because I had to.”
She looks up at me desperately.
“But we have to.”
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” I ask, wondering why the hell I’m trying to talk her out of it. “With me?”
She squints at me disapprovingly.
“Mikey Forster,” she says with a twang. “D’you think if there were any other option, I wouldn’t be doin’ that right now?”
“Okay.”
“Giant pain in the ass you are. A walking catastrophe.”
“Okay then,” I say, a little wounded. “I get it.”
She sighs at me for the millionth time.
“I know you mean well,” she says, “and you’re kinda sweet.”
I’m so confused.
“And, uh,” she speaks lower. “Can I tell you something?”
I nod.
“Something,” she hesitates. “Kinda messed up?”
Intrigued, I nod again.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” she says, exhaling. “Earlier, when I…”
She inhales. “When I told you to strip?”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I could tell you really didn’t want to,” she says, “but I told you to do it, and you did.”
“Uh-huh.”
A nervous grin pulls at her mouth. “And when I told you that wasn’t enough…”
I swallow.
“The look on your face,” she says.
She stops there with a nervous laugh.
“You looked so scared and helpless. You were petrified.”
She pauses and meets my eyes. Chills start to creep up the back of my head.
“It kinda turned me on.”
I open my mouth to speak, but don’t.
“And then, I pulled off your underwear…”
She stops again, her breath catching in a way that drives me insane.
“God, Mikey.”
“What?” I ask, hushed.
“I did the right thing, I know I did,” she goes on. “But the truth is, I wanted to see it.”
My mouth goes dry.
“You know what’s even more fucked up?” she says. “I wanted it more because I knew how badly you didn’t want me to.”
My throat closes.
“And, oh, you were so embarrassed. And so mad at me, like you hated me for doing it, for looking.”
Her grin slowly reappears.
“But there was nothing you could do about it.”
My chest tightens.
“That’s why I laughed. I didn’t know what else to do,” she says. “It wasn’t about your… size.”
She gives a small, guilty laugh.
“Well. Maybe a little.”
I stop breathing.
“And when I was washing you, drying you, seeing you,” she pauses, looking down at my hard-on, her grin twisting. “react to me.”
My insides go cold.
“You just stood there, and you let me.”
“I was freezing,” I squeak out.
“I know,” she says quickly, her smile faltering. “I know. It felt so wrong. I’m supposed to be saving you. You were shaking so hard. You looked so out of it. I was scared too, but…”
She licks her lips.
“It was hot as fuck.”
My freezing ears burn from the inside.
“I got so flustered,” she admits. “I wanted to touch it so bad… I almost did, just to see your reaction.”
If I wasn’t fully hard before, I am practically splitting the skin down the middle right now.
“I keep thinking about it,” she says, breathing harder. “About how you let me move you around. How would you do whatever I said? How I could’ve done anything I wanted to you.”
There’s no way she can’t feel how fast my heart is beating.
“And I think,” she whispers, “maybe, that’s what I want.”
Her smile devastates me.
“And I think you want that, too.”
My mind turns to jelly. I don’t think I’m comprehending anything. Is she saying we’re going to die? Did she just confess to being a femdom? Did being completely pathetic somehow work in my favor?
She lifts her eyebrows. “Do you?”
I nod quickly. “Yeah, I do.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
I feel her cold little hand wrap around my aching cock, her face breaking into a pleasantly surprised smile.
“Ooo,” she coos. “It’s so warm.”
“Holy shit,” I say out loud.
She laughs dryly. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Pam,” is all I can say.
How can this be any weirder?
She holds on to me tightly, then slowly eases her hand up the length of my cock and back down. I let out a small sound, unable to contain myself.
She is quiet for a second, the teasing leaves her face.
“Hey,” she says, her forehead leaning into mine.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad. That it’s our first time, together.”
I completely melt. She can do what she wishes to me. I guess she always could.
Her fingers delicately curl around the tip, roll downward, then up, and gently squeeze. She pulls it toward her, taking the rest of me with it. She rolls me onto my back, clinging to me like a tree frog.
She works herself down, gradually, and I can sense the opening of her tickling the tip of my penis. Suddenly, she stops.
“Kiss me first,” she says, “I don’t want to do it without kissing.”
She lowers her head. Her lips touch mine, then our tongues, and the soft wetness of her mouth causes my cock to twitch. Her hand finds the back of my neck; mine traces down to her thigh. The kiss changes before I understand how. I either forget how cracked and hard our lips are, or they’re beginning to moisten and thaw.
As we make out, I feel her continue down my hips. She reaches back with her right hand, holding me in place as she pushes me through the folds and into her.
The little noise she makes goes straight through me. I moan from the feeling and from the heat.
“Put your hands on my ass,” she tells me. I do.
“Squeeze me,” she says between heavy breaths. She’s rubbing her tits against me as hard as she can, trying to create as much friction as possible. Even in the throes of passion, she’s thinking practically. I have to do my part.
I roll her on her back, pulling the plastic tighter around us, and I squeeze her between my legs, forcing my hands back under her ass, wedging my cock between her closed legs. I grind into her, leaving no space between us.
“Yes,” she says.
I move only my hips, pushing my way through her plump thighs into her vagina, the slickness making it easier with each thrust. I’m grunting, hooking her neck with my chin. The plastic sticks to my back. I think I feel the tiniest beads of sweat on her chest.
“Yes,” she moans.
I start groaning into her ear as I push my way deeper. I lick her ear, then fill my mouth with it, falling in love with it—this perfect little cold ear.
“Oh my god,” she lets out, startled. “Oh, shit… that feels really good.”
I’m fucking Pam Pfluger. I keep repeating this in my head. And each time I hear myself think it, I go at her with increased vigor. This is what I’ve been waiting for all this time. I pound away years of sexual frustration, of unrequited love. Gripping her tight ass, I bounce her pussy off my ballsack as hard as I can.
“Uhhh!” she cries. “What the fuck?”
She clutches me under my armpits by the shoulders, nails digging into my skin. I try to pull her closer, but there is nowhere left for either of us to go—the wrap seals around us, fogged white from our breath. I hear my own breathing, deadened by the plastic, low and steady and hungry.
“Oh my god,” she strains. “Oh, Mikey, oh oh oh oh oh.”
My left hand moves between her ass crack, my middle finger landing on her tight little hole, slick from sweat and runoff. As I thrust, pulling her to me, the tip slides effortlessly inside. I let it deepen.
There’s a loud gasp in my ear, her hands locking behind my neck. There’s the uncanny sensation of touching my own cock through the delicate membrane of her asshole.
Her hips are grinding furiously, in short little bursts, yipping like a poodle with each movement. I fondle her half-white, half-golden breast with my right hand, the nipple tickling my palm.
“Oh fuck, Mikey,” she says from the back of her throat. “Please don’t stop… please don’t slow down… I think I’m… coming.”
I think I am, too, but I’m not done yet. I may die tonight.
I go as fast as possible, my hips slapping her ass with force, punching her insides with my swollen dick in a rapid-fire rhythm like a heavy metal drum solo. She’s making undulating sounds that are driving me wild, squeezing my neck till it hurts. I keep going, practically wheezing, afraid of slowing down.
“Ohhhhh,” she sobs. “Uhhhhh.”
The sounds coming out of her are too much for me. My cock starts to stir and ache, the tip of it tingling, a sweet unease. My face constricts, my eyes squeeze shut, and a surge of sensation flows from my feet to my head as my cock spasms and releases a jet of hot cum inside of her.
I scream, feral and raw, into her shoulder.
“Oh my fucking god!” she yells through her teeth, as my cock twitches and lets go another blast of spunk. She’s trembling in my arms, but not from hypothermia. I feel her pussy lips contract, holding me in place, pulsating at intervals. Her hands frantically pass over my back, searching for something to seize onto, until they find my head, latching onto my hair.
I slump onto her with all my weight, panting, muffling my sounds into the flesh beneath her collarbone — my mouth slack, damp with spit. She’s running her hands through my hair, over my neck, and back into my hair again like she can’t stop touching me, her lips giving me grateful baby kisses all over the side of my face.
“How did you…?” she gushes, laughing once, breathless. “How did you know… how to do all that?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have one. I’m lying on top of Pam Pfluger, emptied and alive.
I feel her tremble again, clamping onto me from the inside.
“Ooooo,” she oozes. “What the fuuuuck.”
I’m spent, but I manage a smile.
She lifts my head, close enough that our noses almost touch. I almost don’t recognize her. Her eyes are wet and bright, her mouth half open in this strange, stunned smile, all her sharp edges gone fuzzy and soft. She looks like I’ve never seen her: happy, like something in her has come loose, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You,” she starts, “feel warmer.”
I laugh.
“So do you.”
We stare at each other forever. The rain batters the roof and the windows.
“I think we’re gonna make it to the morning,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, grinning. “We just need to do that a couple of hundred more times.”
That sounds like a dream, but it’s not. It’s real. It’s what’s going to happen. For the first time, maybe ever, my future seems bright. I may marry her yet.
I lean down and kiss her. She kisses me back.
*****
BANG!
The door flies open. Pam screams.
A light hits us — white, hard, straight in my eyes. I think we just got struck by lightning.
“Jesus Christ!” another voice calls out, shrill and stunned.
A hunching silhouette lurks in the doorway, holding a flashlight, as rain blows in. The beam jerks away, then comes back, zigzagging across the length of our bodies wrapped in see-through polyethylene.
“Oh my God,” the voice says. “What is this? What the hell is going on here?”
I know that voice.
It’s fucking Flintock.
The End.
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