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Chris finally gets her wish to whip Leena.

Reg3 hadn't mentioned one, though.

I found myself ruminating on what such a caretaker might be like. Would he be old or a young, fit man? I tried not to think that it might be a woman.

Then I thought back onto the previous evening. I'd slouched in a sofa, facing the fireplace, the lights dim, although there had been light, watching gay male porn DVDs, and jacking off-several times because I was highly sexed-in front of a nearly full-wall expanse of glass and no drapes.

I rose from the kitchen table and padded out to the living room. I was barefoot and only wearing sleeping pants. I told myself, as I carried my coffee cup with me, that I was only going to take in the view across the bowl of the mountain and down the valley, through the widely spaced tree trunks in the front yard, but when I got to the window, I looked down at the floor of the deck that ran across the width of the cabin. The footprints in the snow came across the deck and stopped in front of the window.
When had they been made? This morning, while I was asleep in the loft, or last night when I was masturbating on the sofa? How many times had I stroked off and shot off. Three? Four? I shivered and headed for the stairs to the loft. When I was fully dressed I came down the stairs and went back into the kitchen. I was putting the coffee cup and the plate from the bagel in the kitchen sink when I looked out of the window above the sink and into the screened porch at the back of the house. There were snowy footprints, not melted, because it was below freezing outside, on the floor of the porch-coming to this window and also to the door out onto the porch.

I went to the door and opened it, noticing that the lock seemed to be broken, that the door couldn't be locked. Sure enough, the snowy footprints had come to the backdoor, shuffled around and retreated. They'd also gone to the sliding glass doors-no curtains-to the master bedroom off to the right.

But I hadn't slept in that bedroom last night. I shuddered to think that someone might have been standing there, in the dark, watching me in that bed-if I'd been in that bed. I, of course, had masturbated again in another bed the previous night before going to sleep. I was highly sexed, even when I had to take satisfaction in my own hands.

I didn't know what I could do. I felt violated, but I had to laugh at that. I'd never felt violated by a stream of younger, hunky men doing far more than watching me nearly naked or masturbating before. It was mostly the strangeness and mystery of it that put me on edge, I guessed-and being out here all alone. And all I had to do was wear more clothes and keep my personal sex to the loft overhead. No one could see me in the bed up there. And there was a TV with a DVD player up there-and even a fireplace. I could spend the weekend up there.

I went back down to the dining room and looked down the length of the driveway that rose to the carport under where I stood, and contemplated the footprints in the snow again.

That's when I saw him-bundled up in a dark green hunting jacket and leaning on a snow shovel-at the base of the driveway. He started moving when he saw me standing at the window. I watched him trudge up the driveway, slowly, carefully, because the snow was several inches deep and who knew what ice there was lying in wait underneath? His footsteps followed, but didn't obliterate, the footsteps in the snow that had preceded his.

I went to the front door. I'd already ascertained that he was a hunk. A Hispanic maybe, or Mediterranean in origin. Built big and sold; thick, curly black hair pushing out from underneath the hood of his jacket.

His smile was tentative when I opened the door to him.

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