The Sintown Chronicles Book 1 - Behind Closed Doors

An eBook By David O Dyer Sr.

Leaving one hand on the steering wheel of the '66 Ford Mustang convertible, Tim tightly clutched his crotch in an effort to stem the urgency of his desperate need to urinate. For miles, he searched in vain for a service station or rest stop but the twisting narrow road offered no safe shoulder for parking a vehicle. He tensed every muscle of his lower extremities and muttered, "I haven't wet my pants since…"

The thought trailed off as finally the road straightened and he saw on his right an area that looked as if other motorists used it for similar purposes. Bringing the Mustang to a screeching stop on the graveled shoulder, he bolted from the door too quickly and felt a bit of moisture dampen his cotton jockey shorts. Slowing down and walking with a stiff legged, movie monster gait, he made it to the opposite side of the shiny red car, unzipped, and enjoyed the relief of nature finally taking its inevitable course.

"You can shake it, and shake it, and shake it and never get the last damned drop off," he mumbled as a pickup truck passed, occupants staring. Shooting the disappearing truck a bird, he zipped up, pain free at last. As he started towards the passenger side of his beloved red convertible, he paused, trying to identify a faint sound that did not seem consistent with his surroundings. He shrugged his shoulders, but before taking another step he definitely heard the sound again – a faint wail, almost like a muffled human cry, coming from the densely wooded area behind him.

Tim cautiously made his way along a footpath that led into the dense foliage, intently listening. As the road disappeared from sight, he heard the sound again, louder this time. Quickening his pace, he suddenly emerged into a room sized clearing. The scene before him elicited an audible gasp. For what seemed like minutes he stood transfixed, confused, trying to assimilate the sight into awareness and action.

A completely nude, gagged and badly beaten woman, tied securely with her back against a large pine tree, locked her eyes on his. Her arms and legs, stretched and tied around the trunk of the tree, held her captive. No part of her anatomy touched the ground. She made no further sound, but her wide eyes and arched, unplucked eyebrows pleaded with Tim for help.

Embarrassed, both by his delayed action and the growing bulge between his legs, Tim rushed to the tree, fumbled in his pocket for his penknife and futilely tried to saw through the leg rope with the dull blade. Dropping the useless knife he tore at the knot at her left ankle and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the rope loosen.

The muscles of her legs seemed frozen with the abuse they had received. Tim carefully helped her unwind from the tree trunk and get her feet on the ground. The effort evoked no cry of pain, but tears gushed from the woman's blue eyes. Tenderly Tim removed the gag from her mouth and pulled out what must have been her panties. As he successfully untied the knot securing her right wrist, she worked her mouth soundlessly, trying to lubricate her tongue.

She fell against him and Tim wrapped her in his arms to keep her upright. He felt her heart pounding and her small breasts punched into his chest as if they were made of iron. He knew she could feel his erection. For a moment longer than necessary, he held her, stroking her shoulder length, honey colored hair. It was sticky with perspiration.

In a voice that was hoarse and barely audible she said, "I need to sit down."

Tim glanced around the clearing. There was nothing for her to sit on but the pine needle covered dirt. He gently lowered her to the ground and she eased her bark-grated back against the tree. He pulled his shirt out of his pants and began undoing the buttons.

Startled, she pleaded, "Please don't."

Tim froze until comprehension wedged its way into his addled brain. "I'm going to give you my shirt to wear," he explained. "I know I have an erection. I'm sorry. I've never engaged in sexual activity with a woman who didn't want to have sex with me and I'm not going to start now." Too late he realized how stupid that must have sounded.

"Look. I'm rattled. I don't know what to do. I'm certainly not going to harm you. I need to get you to a hospital. Do you think you can walk?"

"No hospital. I'll be okay. Let me rest a little. Do you have anything to drink?"

"Yeah. I've got some diet colas in the trunk of my car."

What the hell am I supposed to do? Tim thought as he jerked open the trunk lid. He tore into a suitcase, yanked out a sweat suit and pair of sneakers and grabbed a very cold can of diet soda from the cooler.

Jogging back to the battered woman, he popped the top on the drink can, dropped to his knees and held it to her lips. Having somewhat recovered the painful use of her arms she took the cola and greedily gulped half of it.

Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead as he gazed at the imprint her nipples poked into the shirt.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding towards the clothing he held in his arms.

Thinking she was referring to the unwanted bulge in his pants, he held out the sweat suit and said, "I, uh, want my shirt back."

"No you don't," she said. "You want another look at my flat chest."

Maybe she noticed the physical evidence of his arousal. The twinkle he saw in her eyes was difficult to believe. Could this woman, obviously suffering from horrible torment, be joking with him?

"Why do women think all men are turned on only by knee-knockers?" Tim tried to joke back. "Your breasts are absolutely beautiful."

"Are you trying to come on to me when I have obviously been brutally tortured and raped?" she shot back.

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