(a fictional adventure that began in last Saturday’s posting…..make sure you read part one if you want to make any sense of this silliness).
Fortunately, Molly was a good skier. Her balance and skill made up for the fact that her hands were lashed to the center of her ski poles, as she slid off the lift seat, right behind her new Ski Patrol-man “pal”.
Common sense told her to stop and ask some dumbfounded tourist to release her hands. Let Mike have his laugh at her expense with his other ski patrol buddies over a Sierra Nevada at some local watering hole once the lifts shut down for the night.
But…. he was moving faster down the trail. He sure could ski. Something about those graceful arching turns and the sway of his body over his skis was almost hypnotic. Molly could not help but follow, arms joined in front, like some silly beginning skier in lessons. She was mimicking his turns, falling into a rhythm with him that was ….
Damn, she thought to herself, this fucker has me skiing really hot, and hot and bothered to boot. Trouble. And he hasn’t even turned around to notice I am following, doing exactly what he said….asshole.
Within moments they were alone on a gently sloping trail, a part of the mountain that did not seem familiar to Molly. He slowed, sliding off onto a side trail into a glade of pine and aspen trees.
“Hey”, she called, wanting him to stop. Molly was never into this crazy tree skiing that Mick and the girls liked.
But he kept sliding and skidding deeper into the forest, the trail narrowing. Her heart beating faster. She was getting out of her comfort zone. She was now somewhere on the mountain from which it would not be easy to find her way back to the beaten path.
Suddenly he pulled up, where the trees opened to a small clearing. A tiny cabin / mountain hut with a single window, a picnic table standing next to it.
He clicked his boots out of his skis with a quick motion, but said to her, “Leave yours on for a moment, Molly.”
He strode toward her, closing the gap quickly. Molly was a bit out of breath from navigating the tight trail behind him, and as he approached her heart beat a little faster…the was very vulnerable, but her hardening nipples told her something else.
With one hand, he gripped her hands where they were lashed together, holding them down at her waist. He unclipped the chin strap of his helmet, tossing it onto the snow, near his skis. He slowly walked her back, sliding her against a thick aspen, her skis on either side of the trunk.
Leaning toward her pulled off her sun glasses, sliding them into her pocket.
“Wanted to see what those eyes would tell me, Molly”.
She wriggled her wrists a bit, half heatedly trying to pull away. His grip was strong.
She played it tough, trying to seem unmoved, aloof. It was hard.
“And what do they say?”
“You like it rough, right?”
Molly just blushed, shaking her head. Engaging in a little more futile tugging. How did he know?
He used his unencumbered hand to slowly unzip her black ski shell, down to her waist. It was a warm day. Underneath she wore just a thin, silky black turtlenek. He snickered as he saw the outlines of her hardened nipples, probing through the fabric of her bra and top.
His fingers grabbed one. Massaging at first. Then squeezing, hard. She gasped. It hurt, but …. well… why was her body arching against his, trying to find contact. She was gone.
As her mouth opened to curse him, demand that he stop, his lips pressed against hers. Taking her with a probing tongue. And she was returning the kiss with a scary desperation.
Abruptly, he pulled back, one hands still grasping her bound hands.
“I guessed you were a hot little slut…. You know how often the guys have talked about nailing you?”
Molly face was red. She needed him now. But he wasn’t quite ready to give her what she needed.
He pulled her by the wrists toward the picnic table. She struggled a bit, but he was strong. Relentless. So she relented.
He slid her face first against the picnic table, her skis trapped underneath. He pulled her arms forward over the table top, then grabbed a line of additional rope from his waist belt, attached one end to her wrists, and pulled her face down onto the table, securing her there. She struggled some more. But she knew she was stuck. And vulnerable.
He just laughed, and cooed at her in a patronizing way, his hands running down her back, to her bottom. Smug asshole.
He slowly walked around behind her.
His hand moved up the inside of her thigh, making her squirm. It lingered between her legs. She squirmed more. Shameless, now, she thrust her ass against his hand, longing for something firmer.
“You were a little tease on that chair, Molly.”
“No”, she said, moaning as his hand toyed with her.
“And you need a nice spanking to teach you the error of your ways.”
“Oh no”, louder. Molly was not into pain.
His hands reached around, finding the button and zipper of her black stretch pants, pulling them open. She struggled more intensely, but what could she do?
He yanked them down hard, pulling her slinky black tights down with them, just below her knees.
“No undies, Molly? Naughty.”
Her firm, strong ass felt the brisk mountain air. But it was not cold enough to damp the fire between her legs. Not when a finger frankly probed her, pulling away damp and sticky.
“You do like this, don’t you Molly.”
She shook her head, tears leaking from her eyes, all the while moaning as his fingers toyed with her. So fucking close.
“I’m thinking 20 hard swats, then we will see about your other needs, Molly.”
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