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Finally, the bus came over the top of a familiar hill and I saw Bear Creek waiting for me. I saw the town, what there is of the town. I saw the trees where I was headed and I knew that nestled among those trees, were the creek and my parents’ log cabin in the woods.

I sweet-talked the driver into dropping me off about a mile from my home. It was still afternoon and I didn’t have anything to carry, so I had no problem walking the rest of the way.

I got to the dirt road leading to the cabin and I swear I recognized every tree alongside the road. I felt like they were hugging me as I walked deeper into the forest and closer to the cabin that would be my home again. I have never felt as safe, as loved, as happy as I did growing up in this cabin. I wanted those feelings back.

A mess of weeds had popped up on the road because no one had driven on it in years, but there were not enough weeds to stop me from getting home.

From the outside, the cabin looked just like I remembered it. The vegetable garden had gone back to nature, but the Ford 150 was still in the garage, right where we had left it. I was pumped.

My house key worked and I peeked in the door, excited to be home. But then I thought, “What if someone moved in while we were gone?” What if a homeless mountain guy or a bunch of runaway teenagers found our empty cabin and made it their home? They might fight like heck to protect what they had.

I didn’t see any signs of intruders. No shoes inside the door, no dishes in the sink, no papers on the table, no junk on the floor.

I walked through the rooms, and there were no signs anyone was living here. In fact, it was pretty stuffy from being shut up for years. I opened all the windows to let the place air out.

I turned on the lights and water. Everything worked fine. There was some dust, but nothing seemed to missing or out of place or new.

I hooked our gas generator to the Ford and got the battery going again. I drove it up and down the road awhile, mashing down the weeds and making sure the battery was fully recovered.

I parked the F-150 in front and went back inside the house, feeling pretty satisfied and ready to start the next part of my life.

I threw my clothes on the floor and took a nice hot shower, rubbing off the dirt and sweat from the long drive and squeezing my boysenberry nipples to celebrate being home.

After I dried off, I went to my bedroom and took care of business for old time’s sake.

I closed my eyes and twisted and pulled each plump nipple until my pussy was dripping. God, I love to feel my nipples getting big and tingly. Except for Lenny back in California, I’m the only one who knows exactly how hard to twist, how far to pull, when to pause and when to start again.

All sorts of nonsense was going through my mind. I saw Jim Morrison, the shy and chubby child who ended up being the one who had his pick of the girls begging to spend the night with him. I saw the broken-hearted trucker who worked his tail off and had nothing left to love but sad songs.

I kept one hand working on a swollen nipple while my other hand rubbed my pussy until my clenched legs lifted off the bed. I shook and screamed.

It was good to be home.

I was about to doze off, when I heard a knock on the door. Fuck!

**********

**********

I threw on a shirt and a skirt and stumbled over to the front door to see what the hell was going on. I sure wasn’t expecting any UPS deliveries.

There’s this guy standing there grinning like a cat that just caught a mouse. He was about 50. Dark hair. Big nose. Maybe Italian. He said his name was Angel and he lived in the house a quarter mile north of ours. That’s the big house owned by the San Francisco guy I’ve never seen. The mystery guy who supposedly bought the house for a vacation home and then was so busy making money that he never had time for a vacation.

So, Angel is the mystery guy, and here he is in Bear Creek at last. God knows why he’s here, but I would find out soon enough.

I invited him in and we sat in chairs, maybe five feet apart, facing each other. He had on a tight shirt that showed off his big chest and hairy, muscled arms. He looked like a Mafia enforcer, one of those guys with a nickname like the Bull, who liked to clobber people with iron pipes and baseball bats.

I was real curious why Angel bought a home and never lived in it. And why he left San Francisco to live in Bear Creek. He didn’t say he was taking a vacation. He said he was living here.

Just to check, I said, “You living in Bear Creek now?”

“Yeah,” He said, “San Francisco didn’t work out.”

“How long you been here?”

“About a year,” he said.

Hmm. That’s a mystery I was determined to solve. Maybe he was running away from trouble in San Francisco and hiding out Bear Creek. Maybe this house wasn’t a vacation home; maybe it was a getaway. Or maybe I was being a little melodramatic. One way or another, I was gonna figure it out.

Then I started wondering, what’s Escort bayan he doing at my house, knocking on my door? I don’t think he came to borrow sugar.

I asked him straight up, “Why’d you come over to my place?”

He said that he was walking in the woods and saw the F-150 in front of the house. He came over to investigate since he thought the house was empty. Then he heard some sounds coming out of my bedroom window and got worried.

Well, I knew what the sounds were. But, wait a minute, how did he know that window was my bedroom window, unless he was watching me through the window?

Aha! That’s why he knocked on the door right after I was done taking care of business. He was waiting for me to finish.

Either he was very considerate or he enjoyed the show and wanted to watch the big climax, so to speak.

About the same time that I figured out that he had been peeking in my window, staring at me naked and playing with myself, he figured out that I knew he had been peeping. He didn’t care. He was even a little proud, judging by the smug grin on his face. He wanted me to know that he had been watching me. He wanted me to know that he knew what I looked like naked.

He also wanted me to know that he knew how horny I was. The real reason he was knocking on my door was probably that he hoping to take care of my problem—being here in the woods without a man. I didn’t know for sure yet, but I guessed he was probably alone in his house without a woman and just as horny as I was.

Unless he’s one of those San Francisco guys who doesn’t like women. But, judging from the way he was checking me out through the window and now in my living room, I was pretty sure he not only liked women, but was hoping to get some booty real soon.

I looked at him looking at me and I caught him staring at the space between my knees. Then I realized that I wasn’t wearing panties. Shit!

I looked down at my shirt and my boysenberries were advertising my boobs. Double shit!

He must have been totally convinced that I was an easy lay.

Well, not today, big boy. I crossed my legs real quick—sending him a closed-for-business message—and then I tried to get him thinking about something else. Something other than being alone in a house in the woods with a horny young woman.

I said, “So, why, exactly, did you leave San Francisco?”

He looked at me real serious and said, “I killed a motherfucker.”

At first, I thought he was joking. But I kept staring at him and he didn’t smile at all. He was real serious. Either he had a damn good poker face or he was telling the truth.

I said, “Why are you telling me this?”

He didn’t answer, but I was pretty sure that he really had killed someone and that he wanted me to know that.

Maybe he was trying to impress me. Or scare me.

Or maybe he had this weird idea that here we were, two people alone in the middle of nowhere, and we needed to trust each other so that we could both survive. He figured that if he told me his deepest secret, I would tell him mine, and we would be bonded like blood brothers.

He said, “So, why did you come back to Bear Creek?”

I was right, he wanted to share secrets, sort of like a grownup version of that Truth or Dare game people play. Tell me something humiliating about yourself or you have to kiss the ugly guy. I hated that game.

I didn’t have anything to tell that was as big as killing someone. And, even if I had, I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to know about it.

But, maybe if I didn’t tell him something, he would decide that he had to kill me because I knew that he killed someone and he had nothing on me. Or maybe I was being melodramatic again. After all, if I went to the police, he could always say he was joking. And I had no idea who he killed, or where or why. I would look like an idiot.

I didn’t say anything. I just kept staring at him while I tried to figure things out.

Angel stared back. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Finally, I said, “I need to sleep.”

He said, “I’ll bet,” and got up and left.

I was relieved that he didn’t try to jump my bones.

The whole thing was pretty creepy. He was a scary guy, and if he really had murdered someone in San Francisco, who’s to say that he wouldn’t murder me here in the forest with no one around?

I made sure the doors were locked and the windows and curtains closed. Then I put on my pajamas, climbed under my quilt, and fell asleep.

**********

**********

When I woke up, it was the middle of the night. It took me a moment to realize where I was, what with everything being so quiet and dark.

Have you ever walked out of a movie theatre, after sitting in the dark for a few hours, and you had to take a moment to remember what town you were in? That’s how it was my first night in Bear Creek.

I lay there, trying to switch on my brain so that I could remember what bed I was in and what house the bed was in.

Then I remembered I was back home in Bayan Escort Bear Creek. And I remembered that weird visit from Angel, the mystery man who said he killed someone in San Francisco. The mystery man who I think is hiding out in Bear Creek.

My curiosity got the better of me. I figured, if Angel can spy on me, I can spy on him. I took off my pajamas and put on a shirt, pants, and sneakers and headed over to Angel’s.

I saw some lights through the trees, so I knew he was still awake.

I walked on the balls of my feet, like an Indian, real slowly to avoid making any sounds.

I was about 50 feet from his house when I was blinded by floodlights. It was like being at a Friday night high school football game, except that the lights were right in my face instead of high above the stands.

I covered my eyes with my hands and peeked through my fingers, trying to see what was going on. Angel was standing on the front porch holding a hunting rifle and smirking.

He said, “Looking for my bedroom window?”

I lied, “No. I came over to say hi.”

He said, “Hi.”

I said, “Could you please cut the lights?

“Oh, I didn’t know they were bothering you.”

I said, “Ha, ha. What the fuck do you have so many lights for?”

Did he think a bear was going to break into his house looking for Oreo cookies? Seriously. I knew he wasn’t worried about bears scrounging for snacks. He was worried about bad guys with guns. Or maybe he was the bad guy and he was worried about good guys with guns.

He invited me inside and I followed him in. I figured that if he wanted to rape me or kill me, he would have done it that afternoon—when he was peeping through my window, or after the show was over.

Inside, it was a great house. Not as big as the trophy house I shared with three guys in California, but still special for Bear Creek. Wood floors, wood walls, wood ceiling, a huge fireplace. Nice rugs on the floor and a nice leather couch and chairs, like the stuff you see in catalogues but can’t afford.

One thing that was unusual for houses around here was that there were only two windows, and they were both covered with shutters. Bear Creek people like big windows with no curtains so they can look out at the magnificent trees and mountains.

I figured it wasn’t that Angel didn’t like looking out; he didn’t want people looking in. I was pretty sure now that he was hiding out. What do they say, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean that someone isn’t out to get you.” So body was out to get him and I was determined to find out who and why.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Angel was watching me closely.

He said, “Pretty nice, huh?”

He could have been talking about me, but I think he was talking about his house.

He seemed to have a lot more on his mind than us getting to be fuck buddies.

Finally, he said, “Do you want a drink?”

I said, “Nah, but thanks anyway. Do you want to talk?”

“Yeah.”

We sat down in two comfy leather chairs with big arms and Angel starts talking to me like he’s doing confessional.

He was raised Orthodox Catholic in Bulgaria, so maybe this was a pretend confessional for him.

When he was a kid, his job was to carry around backpacks full of cash for the Bulgarian Mafia. He kept a gun inside his jacket, but he never had to use it. He had such a baby face that no one suspected that he was a money runner.

As he got older, he got involved in the protection business. The way it worked, he would sell fire insurance to small businesses. If they didn’t buy, Angel burned down their store. They soon figured out that the fire insurance Angel was selling was just a cost of doing business.

And if there ever happened to be a real fire, well fuck it. That’s their problem.

The Mafia even had an escape plan for Angel. They got him two passports, one for Angel Nesterov, his real name, and one for Tony Rossi, some imaginary Italian. When the time came and Angel had to get the hell out of Bulgaria, he went to San Francisco and started living under the name Tony Rossi. He got two Social Security numbers, one for Angel and one for Tony. He also had two bank accounts and credit cards in both names. Just in case.

Not that he was going back to Bulgaria. Bear Creek was his escape plan, just like I figured.

He got a job in San Francisco as a stock broker, using his Tony name. He quickly figured out that the only way to beat the stock market was to have an inside scoop, like knowing that a company has developed a cure for cancer or knowing that its cure for cancer hadn’t get approved by the feds. If you know something before Wall Street does, you can make real money.

So, Angel started supplying girls and boys to CEOs in the San Francisco area. He would reserve adjoining rooms in a fancy hotel, one for the CEO to frolic in and another for Angel to hide and watch the action. The day before the CEO’s romp, Angel would set up hidden cameras all over the room the CEO was going Escort to be in. He would bring in clock radios, smoke alarms, and even televisions with built-in cameras. The televisions were the most work, but usually gave the best pictures. In most hotels, the television sits on a clothes drawer right in front of the bed so that the guests can lie on the bed and watch TV. Angel would take out the hotel television and bring in his own TV with a hidden camera inside, so that it was positioned perfectly to get a clear recording of whatever happens on the bed. Instead of the guests watching TV, the TV was watching them.

After the CEO had his fun, Angel would pop into the room with his big surprise.

“I’ve just recorded everything. Give me something fucking useful, or I’ll send a video to your wife, your husband, your mom, or some sleazebag newspaper that will put pictures of you being naughty on the front page.”

Angel said I would never believe what CEOs get off on. Getting handcuffed by women dressed up like police. Getting whipped by ladies in black leather. Nipple chains. Hot wax. Cucumbers shoved up their asses (or pussies, in the case of female CEOs).

There was this one guy who wanted a naked wrestling match with another guy, with the winner fucking the loser in the ass afterward. Angel would be the referee, to make sure things went as planned.

Angel set it all up. He rented a big hotel suite and moved most of the furniture into the kitchen so that the guys would have plenty of room to rumble. He even bought some kind of referee costume. He replaced the hotel television and smoke detector with his own special equipment.

Angel found this good looking gay guy named Scott with a ponytail and tattoos. For a thousand bucks, Scott was willing to come to the hotel room, pretend wrestle with the CEO, lose the match, and get butt-fucked.

The only problem turned out to be that Scott decided to take the wrestling seriously. Either he wanted to make it realistic or he decided that he wanted to give the CEO an ass fucking.

They got their clothes off and the CEO is a middle-aged guy with a flabby tummy who was starting to get a hard-on thinking about the match and the prize. He outweighed Scott by at least 50 pounds, but Scott was a lot younger and ripped. Even at rest, his cock was bigger than the CEO’s semi hard-on.

The CEO was staring at Scott’s cock while he waited for the match to start. Scott didn’t wait. He charged the CEO and flipped him on his stomach. Scott lay on the CEO’s back, holding his arms down, while his cock rubbed against the CEO’s butt cheeks.

Scott was starting to get hard now and the CEO was worried. And pissed. You know how a mother whose child is trapped under a car can find superhuman strength to lift the car off her child? Well, this CEO found superhuman strength to flip Scott off his back.

Then they really went at it. Circling, charging, grabbing, punching, kicking. Scott had the youth and muscles, but the CEO had the weight and he was scared to death that he was going to end up with Scott’s cock stuffed up his ass.

Neither one would back down and the match went on a lot longer than it was supposed to. Angel didn’t want to butt in, so to speak, because he was enjoying the show and he was real curious who the winner would be.

At the end, both guys were so sweaty that it was hard to get a good grip on the other guy. They were also real tired. Then, when they were standing there giving each other hard stares, the CEO bull rushed Scott and knocked him flying, the way a big football lineman might knock a small running back on his ass. With Scott lying on his back and the CEO sitting on his chest. The CEO punched Scott in the face as hard as he could. Then he grabbed Scott’s hard cock and threatened to break it in half. Scott gave up.

The CEO rolled off Scott, exhausted. But not too exhausted to claim his prize.

Angel made Scott get down on his hands and knees and then he put a ball gag in Scott’s mouth and tightened the straps to hold it there. The CEO positioned himself behind Scott, grabbed his pony tail, and gave him the butt fuck he worked so hard for.

It was all good for Angel. The weirder the sex, the more the CEO was willing to pay to destroy the evidence. Or get his hands on it. When the wrestling CEO found out that his match had been filmed, he paid $10,000 for a copy so that he could watch it whenever he wanted a pick-me-up, so to speak.

Angel normally preferred stock tips to cash. Stock tips were harder to trace and it was easier for him to make a million bucks trading stocks than to hide a million-dollar payoff. But if the guy didn’t have anything useful, Angel would take the cash. No checks or credit cards, please.

Angel put most of the money in the bank account with the name Angel on it—in case he need to disappear. He also filed two tax returns every year, so he wouldn’t get in trouble with the IRS.

Everything was going great until Angel made the mistake of messing with the wrong CEO. He was at some charity event, which is where he usually hooked up with people with more money than brains, and he met this guy Vince who owned a couple of fancy restaurants in San Francisco. Vince’s company wasn’t on the stock market, but he seemed rich enough to blackmail.

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