This is a true story. No shi'te.
So there's this chick, maybe mid-, late 30s. OK, she's 40. Looks younger. Blonde in that special way that only natural blondes can look.
She grew up out West, trophy-wife caliber so she earned her MRs degree at USC, went East, raised trophy kids. She claims husband got tired of her, they divorced, she moved back to the family estate (Dad had grown wealthy on Air Force contracts).
But Las Vegas turned out to be a very crowded city compared to the times she grew up there, and she was desperate for peace and quiet so Dad packed her off to the old family ranch in northern Nevada. He owned 100 acres but leased thousands from the BLM for the grazing rights so it was possible to stand on the low rise upon which the ranch house stood and look around to the horizon and see nothing but their own land: no people, no houses, not even a dog, only a washboard road.
One night, well after dark, she was watching TV, something mindless on the Oxygen channel, or Lifetime. Since it was a summer night and she was alone, she only wore shorts and a t-shirt because she still enjoyed the feel of the nighttime desert breeze on her skin.
Then she heard something in the room behind the wall. Voices. This froze her blood, and sent her looking around the TV room for the .380 automatic she kept handy. Unlike every movie trope, it was there in sight, but she didn't reach for it.
Because she recognized the voices. It was her own voice, and the voice of a boyfriend, but from 20 or so years back. They're teenagers, and they're blathering on about some high school drama. Probably not a threat, she thinks, and to ignore them, she used the TV remote to raise the volume to drown them out. They'll be gone soon.
But no, the voices got louder. And when the TV volume went up, so did the voices. She knew that this is some kind of preternatural red queen-style war that she's not going to win, so she turned off the TV and the voices remained, not quite so loud but as clear as a bell.
She didn't remember the scene from 20 years ago, but she was certain that she's turned into an aural voyeur on herself and whoever the guy was and that she's going to have sex with him on a wolfskin rug with her ass propped up with an expensive oriental pillow that Dad brought back from Asia on one of his business junkets.
Or actually having sex, because she could her her own high pitched squeals and a steady thumping that meant he was already going at her with his short-stroke piston and that her head was taking a just as steady beating from the hardwood floor.
She knew that there was an even chance that if she got up and walked around the corner and into the next room that they'd notice her, and, after the surprise wore off, invite her to join them.
So there's this chick, maybe mid-, late 30s. OK, she's 40. Looks younger. Blonde in that special way that only natural blondes can look.
She grew up out West, trophy-wife caliber so she earned her MRs degree at USC, went East, raised trophy kids. She claims husband got tired of her, they divorced, she moved back to the family estate (Dad had grown wealthy on Air Force contracts).
But Las Vegas turned out to be a very crowded city compared to the times she grew up there, and she was desperate for peace and quiet so Dad packed her off to the old family ranch in northern Nevada. He owned 100 acres but leased thousands from the BLM for the grazing rights so it was possible to stand on the low rise upon which the ranch house stood and look around to the horizon and see nothing but their own land: no people, no houses, not even a dog, only a washboard road.
One night, well after dark, she was watching TV, something mindless on the Oxygen channel, or Lifetime. Since it was a summer night and she was alone, she only wore shorts and a t-shirt because she still enjoyed the feel of the nighttime desert breeze on her skin.
Then she heard something in the room behind the wall. Voices. This froze her blood, and sent her looking around the TV room for the .380 automatic she kept handy. Unlike every movie trope, it was there in sight, but she didn't reach for it.
Because she recognized the voices. It was her own voice, and the voice of a boyfriend, but from 20 or so years back. They're teenagers, and they're blathering on about some high school drama. Probably not a threat, she thinks, and to ignore them, she used the TV remote to raise the volume to drown them out. They'll be gone soon.
But no, the voices got louder. And when the TV volume went up, so did the voices. She knew that this is some kind of preternatural red queen-style war that she's not going to win, so she turned off the TV and the voices remained, not quite so loud but as clear as a bell.
She didn't remember the scene from 20 years ago, but she was certain that she's turned into an aural voyeur on herself and whoever the guy was and that she's going to have sex with him on a wolfskin rug with her ass propped up with an expensive oriental pillow that Dad brought back from Asia on one of his business junkets.
Or actually having sex, because she could her her own high pitched squeals and a steady thumping that meant he was already going at her with his short-stroke piston and that her head was taking a just as steady beating from the hardwood floor.
She knew that there was an even chance that if she got up and walked around the corner and into the next room that they'd notice her, and, after the surprise wore off, invite her to join them.
