Axes & O’s

5. Nathan

Chapter 5

Nathan

I’m warm. No, not just warm—sweltering. Wasn’t I cold before? No. I was at the beach with Lindsey. Wait. No, I wasn’t. I was driving. Then I was cold. Really cold.

My eyes pop open, and I groan. Wherever I am, the lighting is dim, but that doesn’t stop the ache I feel in my temple. I attempt to bring my hand up to check the spot, but it’s trapped. Panic bubbles in my gut as the events leading up to this moment come back to me.

The chains on my tires broke.

I spun out.

I went to check on my car, and I passed out in the snow.

I was cold and thought I was dying.

But then there was an angel? No…

I press my eyes shut again and shift, fabric sticking to my overheated skin. Wait, fabric? I look down and see I’m cocooned in blankets, as if I’ve been swaddled, which explains why my hands are trapped. I shift again and wiggle my hands free, noticing that my body feels like I got hit by a truck. I didn’t get hit, but when I spun out, I might have gotten whiplash. Then there’s the fact I was freezing in a snowbank, and my head—

I lift my now free hand up and press it against my forehead. There’s a bandage over it, and not a very big one. Which means it must not be too terrible. There doesn’t seem to be a bump, either, but I won’t know for sure until I see it in a mirror. I drop my hand back down to the bed .

Wait, bed?

I sit up too fast for a man who was just unconscious, and I squeeze my eyes shut again for a moment before opening them.

Where the hell am I?

My gaze drifts around the room. The main overhead light is off, but there’s a small lamp on the rustic wooden bedside table with a red lampshade that emits a warm glow among the space as well as a fire blazing at the front of the room inside a brick fireplace. It must have been tended to recently, because the logs haven’t turned to ash and the heat it’s giving off explains why I started to sweat through the evergreen-colored sheets and blankets piled on top of me.

The room itself isn’t that large, but it’s nice and woodsy. The walls are dark-stained logs, and the ceiling is vaulted with exposed beams. Besides the lamp and bedside table, there’s only one piece of decor, and that’s a large painting of a fox hunting a lamb. It’s oddly beautiful yet a little strange and kind of frightening. My body naturally leans forward to take a closer look, and I think I see another figure or animal in the distance.

Snap!

I jolt in the bed, sheets dropping down to my waist as I bring a startled hand to my chest. Wait…am I? I look down at my body, pulling away the blankets to find no clothes covering me. Jesus. I’m naked. Not even the briefs I slipped on this morning are on my body.

I survey the room, looking for any sign of my clothes, but I don’t see them. I think about calling out, but I have no idea where I am or who picked me up. This place seems nice, but who the hell knows? I was literally in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forests. Who would’ve found me out there? And how the hell did they get me back here?

I run my tongue against the roof of my dry mouth and turn my head to the bedside table to find a cup of water along with a washcloth that still looks wet. I wonder for a second if the water could be drugged .

Wait, why am I assuming they’re murderers or crazed woods people? Especially if they took the time and effort to rescue me from the storm. I think I’ve listened to one too many true crime podcasts recently, which I can thank my sister for.

I pick up the glass and sip from it. It’s cool, the outside of it sweating from the heat of the space. Which again leads me to believe whoever brought me here was recently in this room, probably making sure I was okay.

I set the water back down once I’ve almost drained it then decide I should try to find some clothes. The pain in my head is still there but lessening with each moment I’m awake. The water helped, too. I’m taking the fact that I don’t want to go to sleep again and I’m not dizzy or nauseous as a good sign that maybe I don’t have a concussion. If my sister were here, she’d be able to tell me. She’s an ER nurse, and a damn good one.

Oh shit. Lindsey!

I push the blankets back and stand, not caring anymore that I’m as naked as the day I was born and that my body aches. I figure it’ll pass the more I move around, so I start searching the room for my pants or my jacket, hoping I put my phone inside a pocket or whoever brought me here thought to grab it. I need to call my family and let them know I’m fine.

Eventually, I find a folded pair of flannel red-and-green pajama pants with a drawstring and step into them, not caring that I’ll probably look like Buddy the Elf wearing them. They may not be mine, but at least they’re something. I quickly pull them up and tie the string, surprised to find they fit pretty well on my lithe form.

When I’m certain my phone or clothes aren’t in here, I decide to venture out of the room. I have no idea who I’m going to find, but if they were kind enough to rescue me in a snowstorm, they must be nice, right? Though I’m confused as to why I was completely stripped down. I get my clothes were probably wet from the snow, but my underwear, too? The thought of a complete stranger or strangers undressing me is weird, one I have to push to the back of my mind as I walk to the bedroom door.

It’s not completely closed. Whoever put me in here has left it ajar, and when I open it, I’m faced with a hallway. The lights are off, but enough ambient light filters in that when I turn my head to the left, I can see three more doors lining the logged corridor, one of them cracked open at the end. It’s not a very long hallway, and just like my room, it lacks decor. Though the stained wooden logs are expertly placed and look almost crafted.

I take a step forward and glance to the right. Light floods from an open space, and I notice then that shadows flicker on the walls from what I assume is another roaring fire coming from a living space. Though the door at the end of the hallway is cracked, I decide the safer option is venturing toward the living room. Hopefully, whoever got me here is there, and I won’t have to awkwardly figure out what to do next.

I stretch my neck from side to side and roll my shoulders, loosening up my muscles and taking a deep breath. My feet move from the plush cream carpet of the bedroom to the cool wood of the hallway. The change in temperature causes a shiver to run up my spine, and I wish I would’ve found a shirt alongside these pants.

Swallowing, I take another step, and then another, until I reach the main room only a few feet away. I glance around the large open living area with cathedral ceilings, more exposed beams, and unfortunately for me, not a soul in sight. Just a giant flatscreen TV and a large, plush red couch with a matching recliner and a loveseat.

The light of the fire dances across my skin as some of the wood pops and crackles from water trapped within. I study the brick fireplace, noticing the design is similar to the one in my room, but this one has an ornate wooden mantle with more foxes and lambs carved into it. I run my tongue along the back of my teeth as my eyes settle on the two green-and-red velvet stockings hanging from it. Had those not been there, I wouldn’t think whoever was here celebrated Christmas, as there are no lights, no tree…just the two stockings.

Two.

Did a couple find me?

I think back to the moment and remember hearing a woman’s voice, but I can’t remember if I heard two. I let out a soft sigh. It doesn’t matter who found me—I need to see if I can find my phone. Or any phone. And Jesus, my car! If someone finds it on the side of the road without me in it, my family will think the worst.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I circle the room. Eventually, I find my coat on a hook near the door, and my heart speeds up in my chest. I hurry over to it and search the pockets but come up empty save my car keys. Doesn’t help me, though—not what I was looking for. I spin around and keep walking.

The kitchen is nice and looks newly renovated with stainless steel appliances. It’s just a normal kitchen. But as I turn to head back toward the hallway, a picture on the fridge stops me. A magnet that says “I Pine For You” is holding a snapshot of a beautiful, voluptuous woman.

But that’s not what caught my eye. It’s the fact that said beautiful woman is completely nude and straddling a giant tree trunk. Her arm covers her large breasts, though the soft skin spills over—and I think I see the crest of her dark nipples. Her other hand is covering the V between her legs, and her smile is contagious. Light blonde hair streaked with black sections blows in the breeze behind her. The summer sun scatters beams of light on her skin, a lot of it decorated with tattoos of varying colors, shapes, and sizes.

Is this who rescued me? It has to be. I start to reach for the photo, feeling a little like a perv for even thinking of studying it closer, but I can’t stop myself.

Just as my fingers touch the outer edge of the print, a loud cry pierces the air. I turn toward the noise, the hair on my arms standing on end. While it did come from behind me, it didn’t come from this room. It came from down at the end of the hallway.

Another cry, followed by the sound of what I can only describe as a slap, reaches my ears. Before I can really comprehend what I’m doing, I’m walking back to the hallway.

The fire is still going strong in the living area, casting my shadow on the floor as I eat up the ground, getting closer to my room. In my gut, I know I should stop. I should go to sleep or wait for whoever is here to come find me, but instead, I step past the open door of the room I was in, then past the door across from mine, then past the other.

Another shout rings out again, the cries becoming louder and more frequent. The sound is most definitely feminine. I tell myself the only reason I’m seeking the noise out is because I’m concerned, but I’m smart enough to know that those cries and noises aren’t ones to necessarily be concerned about.

I lighten my steps as much as I can and ease my way to the door. The crack is wide enough that I can clearly see into the room yet keep my body hidden.

My eyes first find the massive fire that lights the room, flickering and sending warm light across the floor like the other two fires that have been lit and stoked throughout the cabin. On the ground in front of it lies a bearskin rug strewn with several articles of clothing, including a red lacy bra and what looks to be a matching thong. I blink rapidly at what I notice next, not quite understanding what I’m seeing.

Not only is there a ball gag on the floor that’s shining as if it was just used, but there’s something I can only describe as a stockade or a strange type of massage table. It has a place for someone’s legs, stomach, and arms, even their face. But that’s not the most bizarre part. At the back of it sits a low stand with a large silicone cock protruding from it. My eyes widen, and I forget that my head is still hurting and my body is aching. I forget everything entirely. My head shifts to the left as another loud cry resounds, my gaze now focused on the two people fucking on the large king bed.

If my eyes hadn’t popped out of my head from the contraption on the floor, I think they’re about to. The woman from the photograph is kneeling on the bed, her plush body facing toward me as what I can only describe as a beast of a man pounds into her from behind, making every part of her jiggle from the force.

The man is kneeling as well, his torso pressed to her back, one of his tattooed arms between her breasts so his hand can grasp her throat. His other inked arm is between her legs, long fingers circling her clit as she moans.

Like any man in this situation, or maybe something is just wrong with me, blood rushes south, and my dick begins to fill, throbbing inside my loose flannel pajamas. Disgust with myself itches at the back of my throat, telling me to walk away, telling me I should at least close the door and pretend I never saw them like this. But I keep watching, eyes glued to the debauched scene before me.

“Fox,” the woman says in a husky tone, another cry following her one uttered word.

The man I assume is called Fox squeezes her throat, and her swollen lips part as a silent gasp escapes her. “Do you need me to gag you again? You said you could be quiet.”

The woman bites her lip hard, her head falling back against the broad shoulder of her partner before I think she utters a quiet “no.” He says something I can’t hear in her ear, then he’s shoving her forward onto the bed and pressing her head into the end of the mattress. Her cheek is now flattened against the pine-colored comforter as the man lays on top of her, his hips slapping in a measured cadence against the curve of her plump ass, drawing out more feminine moans.

My hands turn into fists at my sides, a trickle of sweat caused from the fire and the rising heat of my own body dripping from my brow and dropping onto my foot where it’s curled against the wood floor.

“You’re such a needy whore tonight, little lamb.” Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. “I like it.”

My eyes draw from the woman being thoroughly used to the man doing the using. To the man who just said such vile words that I should be disgusted or step in to ask if she needs help.

The notion is silly, though, because it’s clear she’s very much enjoying it, enjoying the words he’s saying and wanting more, because she whines something I can’t understand. Whatever she says makes him chuckle, makes him drive into her harder and use her body like a toy for his pleasure, abusing it, owning it.

I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s raw, dirty, and so unhinged.

“Your cunt is squeezing me,” he nearly whispers. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like your dick is splitting me in two.”

He pulls off her body in a swift motion, his cock still inside her, and he moves one hand to the soft pouch of her generous stomach and the other to her outer hip. With the light of the fire now shining on him, I can clearly see the beast who’s been having his way with his beauty.

It’s not just his arms and hands that are covered in tattoos—it’s nearly every inch of him. Black and gray designs swirl and cut across his body’s canvas, from his ankles up his tree-trunk thighs to his soft yet muscled torso and painted up his thick neck and even under his chin. I’ve seen heavily tattooed men before, but never like this. And like the woman writhing under him, his hair is long and blond. Though his is a golden-blond color with no black.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this man is a living god, as if a tattooed version of Thor jumped from the pages of myth and legend. But he looks like the traditional Thor, thick and muscular yet soft and pliant, not like the ones in movies with an eight-pack of abs. Even more interesting than that, though he’s a massive man, he moves with an ease and grace you’d not expect someone built like him to have. He’s beau—

My cock swells and aches as I watch him, study him. Without thinking, I bring my hand to my crotch, palming the aching flesh to get some sort of relief. As soon as I squeeze, a zap of electricity sluices up my spine, and I realize what I’m doing. My stomach falls in on itself, and I feel strange.

Did I just get turned on by him? The warm air around me becomes stifling as I shake my head and pull my hand away from my dick as if it’s been burned. No. This is like watching porn. The act has me turned on, the way he’s thrusting into her with swift precision, his cock gliding in and out of her wet pussy, the way their bodies come together so violently yet so perfectly. It’s the moment, the depravity, the way she’s looking at me—

My thoughts stop. The way she’s looking at me .

I blink. Then blink again. Hazel eyes stare at me from beneath dark lashes that kiss pink cheeks, and she smiles. The man’s tattooed hand is now back on the side of her head, pushing her forcefully into the mattress as he pumps into her. The bed shakes from the force and squeaks as if it will collapse beneath them.

I blink again. She sees me. She knows I’m watching. The smile on her lips widens, and instead of acting like a person who has just been caught having sex by a stranger in their home—jumping up and trying to cover herself, maybe, or screaming at me to leave at the very least—she doesn’t do anything. Her eyes remain on me while the man behind her grunts and shatters. She squeezes her eyes shut as her orgasm is triggered by his brutal release, stifling her cry by planting her face into the mattress. She fists the sheets as the man, still thrusting, rides her through their mutual orgasms.

Embarrassed and flustered, I do the only thing I can think of: I turn and walk away, determined to get out of here before they can get their clothes on.