continued from Temptation at Lillooet - pt. 1 . . .
For Christ's sake, I thought to myself impatiently, what the devil have I got myself into? What to do now? Why had this waif appeared? Why now, on the eve of the damn storm? What the fuck am I going to do?
My mind and my heart both raced . . . I took a deep breath. I had nothing, no recollection of this girl.
So I bluffed.
Doing my best to exude calm and project reassurance and authority with my voice, I spoke.
"Well Grettja . . . " I said flashing my best reassuring smile, all the while still trying to rack my memory for some recollection of the young blonde waif who'd delivered herself to my doorstep.
"I do have a recollection . . . but it doesn't seem proper to impose my faulty memory on such a beautiful and proper young lady . . . perhaps you can tell what you remember of me?" I asked, hoping for some cues to jog my brain.
"I'm not THAT proper you know," Grettja blurted a little insolently.
I think I scowled a bit in return.
She took a little breath and quickly corrected herself.
"I mean, respectfully Sir," Grettja said, "My being here itself isn't very proper, now is it?"
My this little one has some pluck, I remember thinking, but her response didn't give me anything for frame of reference. For the life of me, I could not understand how this pert little blonde knew anything about me.
"It's starting to get dark in here," I countered, "Excuse me while I light a lamp or two. Then I'll need to feed the fire, before I come back to carry on our conversation." It really was starting to get dark, and I thought that with a few more moments my memory might become productive.
My cabin looks rustic, the style is deliberate, I'm comfortable with the look of the dark rough wood, but it offers all the modern amenities I might care to enjoy. The one significant thing I lacked was a regular and reliable source of electricity, not a critical lack at all, at least not for someone like myself who honestly prefers the flicker of a hurricane lamp when the sun has gone down.
As I nonchalantly puttered around the cabin, feeding fires and lighting lamps, I tried to surreptitiously eye Grettja. At the same time, I was also covertly covering some of the more incriminating hardware lurking in the shadows of my cabin.
Oh my, oh dear, I am sorry my dear reader, I may have accidentally sent your mind reeling. About now you must be asking yourself whatever I might mean by the phrase "incriminating hardware?"
Am I some kind of criminal mastermind? Perhaps I'm hiding my lock picks and other sinister tools? For all you know I could even be some kind a murderer or serial killer who's just hit the jackpot? Maybe you are thinking I'm one of those crazy Canadian pot farmers, holed up in his cabin with hordes of clones, jars full of buds, and the like?
Oh yes, I must certainly explain a bit about myself before continuing with the Grettja's story. No sense in leaving my readers hanging about on such a critical detail. I am not a criminal, and I break no laws, but at first glance, not knowing any better, some items in my humble abode might give the wrong impression.
You see, I am a sadomasochist. I am a very serious aficionado of the fine arts of bondage, domination, and discipline. My greatest pleasure is to enslave a willing captive, to torment and control them. To a pair of innocent eyes like I assumed Grettja's to be, parts of my cabin might resemble a torture chamber worthy of Torquemada's Inquisition.
I certainly wasn't accustomed to unexpected visits from the uninitiated. As a strong and trustworthy dominant I'd never lacked for play partners, a fact for which I was rather proud of myself, so I generally left my accouterments in plain site, and made no attempts to hide restraint points and suspension rings I'd built into my cabin's interior.
I'm not ashamed of my perverted predilections, but I just felt it was not appropriate to expose an innocent girl to such things. I certainly wanted no quarrel with anyone over accusations that I'd corrupted some innocent, that kind of thing could ruin anyone.
Additionally, I knew the Amish community and their deep conservatism. I certainly differed with them in terms of faith, but as a man who styled himself to be along the lines of an "old world craftsman" in terms of trade and profession, I respected their attachment to the old ways.
As I returned to sit across from Gretja, I saw that she'd finished warming herself, had discarded the blanket I'd given her, as well as removed her wet socks and shoes. I found her reclining on my sofa, with bare feet, and what I can only describe as an artfully affected smile of seduction.
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