It was one of those things that 'just happens'. There is no way to plan for it, and- after you reach a certain point- there is no way you can avoid it. It just happens, for whatever reason. And it happens a lot more frequently than some of the more prudish elements in society would care to imagine- which, when you think about it carefully, is really wonderful. At least for those involved, and they are the only ones that matter, right? Of course I'm right. You wouldn't be reading this if I wasn't, would you now?
I could take a few paragraphs and set up the story, I suppose, but there really isn't a need, is there? The setting- time, place and all of that- is really quite simple. And perhaps a little cliche, really. A mountain range, some snow, and a nice little cabin with an equally nice little fireplace that was supposed to be the setting for a friendly weekend get away with friends but ended up being a singularly interesting adventure between my little old self and the only other person to show up. Just why no one else showed up at the cabin I don't know nor do I care. They didn't, but she did and things took their natural course as they sometimes do. So, fate or providence had a hand in bringing us together, alone, in that cabin- either one doesn't matter, but I am grateful.
Oh- did I mention the storm? There has to be a storm, of course. A storm strong enough to knock out the power and plunge my little cabin into darkness that is relieved only by the light coming from the fireplace. Cozy, isn't it? No- wait. I have to introduce our heroine yet. Can't be cozy without her now, can we? Nope. Without her, this would be a rather disgusting tale of self-love, and that's not very erotic. Unless you like that kind of thing. To each his or her own, I suppose.
Anyway...
Now, this is the part of the story where, in those letters sent to certain magazines, the young lady is introduced with a description that doesn't seem to vary that often from the 'norm'. She usually is blonde, with breasts somewhere in the DD range and an equally lush body elsewhere. Now, I ask you- just how many women do you see on a daily basis with breasts that big, huh? Is there a closet where they're kept and only allowed out to participate in situations that lead to letters in dirty little magazines decent people deny having ever seen, much less read? I don't think so, and when I read stories about big-breasted women I have to laugh- fantasies, surely. Big breasted women don't just hang out waiting for the chance to become fodder for a story or letter in a magazine. Sorry, it just doesn't happen as often as those magazines would have you believe.
Daniella was (is) not big breasted, or 'lush'. The word best used to describe her is 'petite'. Five feet tall, maybe a little taller, with slender hips and small breasts. Mid-night black hair long enough to reach her waist when loose, pale complexion with just a hint of a tan, and delicate, attractive features of face. 'Elfin' you would think if you saw her, seriously. At least that's how I think of her- and probably always will.
We met at the cabin one afternoon towards the end of a particularly wimpy winter. There was snow on the ground, barely, and the air was chill. There were also messages waiting for us on the answering machine once we got inside- joy of joys, no one else was coming up. A big disappointment, really. I had been looking forward to that weekend, looking forward to catching up with people I had not seen in a while. Instead, I was left with Daniella, who, while nice enough, was not exactly what I had been looking forward to that weekend. We were friends of a sort- as long as the others were there. We'd just never socialised outside of our little group before, and we were tempted to forgo the chance to do so then and just leave. For some reason, though, I offered to fix dinner for her before we left, and she agreed to stay long enough to eat.
Do you really want to know what we ate? Some people find the little details interesting and 'vital' to a story, erotic or otherwise, but I don't. Not really- details are nice, but they can clog up the narrative. Oh fine- hamburgers. With fried mushrooms and onions. Good enough for you detail-obsessed readers? Well, it will have to be. Anyway, once we'd finished eating, the storm hit. It wasn't too bad at first- a little wind, a little snow. But she wasn't too eager to drive back down the mountain in even a light snow, and neither was I. So, stuck for a while from what it looked like outside, I decided to build a fire. Central heating in the cabin, but that didn't seem right somehow with snow falling outside, so I kindled a fire and sat down in front of it with a magazine (no, not that kind of magazine) and started to read. Daniella sat down close to me, seeming to be a little scared now, and chose her own magazine to read, both of us ready to wait out the snowfall and then leave once it was over.
Silly us. California weather has a disgusting sense of humor, you see. A little rain or snow can become a lot real quick like, regardless of what the weathermen say on television. Before an hour had passed, the wind was blowing harder than I had ever seen it in the mountains and the snow was coming down rather thickly. Still not a problem- at least not until the lights went out. When that happened, Daniella squealed in fright and jumped into my lap.
"A blizzard!" she cried, clutching at me fearfully. Her eyes were wide, and her face was even more pale than usual.
"Not in California," I said, though I wasn't too sure, to be completely honest. I usually spend my winters near the coast, and have a limited experience with snowstorms. I couldn't tell you if a blizzard was starting to save my life. I wasn't about to admit that, though- or my own fear that was just beginning to quiver.
"We're going to die, Eric!"
"I doubt it," I told her. "Look, we have enough wood to last for a couple of days, and food too. We'll be warm enough, and fed. Besides, this'll blow over before long anyway. Then we just wait until they clear the roads, and then go home."
"Are you sure about that?"
I nodded. "Of course I'm sure," I said soothingly. "Even if it doesn't, I can think of worse ways to spend the evening."
She blinked at me then, and blushed as she noticed just where she was. She blushed very prettily, I noticed with a detached sort of calm. She was also very nice to hold- and just how and why my arms were around her I did not know. Or care. She was small, fit into my arms perfectly, and warm in a nice way. A very nice way.
"I hope you don't mind," she said, her voice soft. "But I'll feel safer if you hold me for a while. Childish, I know, but I don't like the sound of that wind."
"It's alright," I said, holding her a little more tightly. The male protective instincts were kicking in, you see. Young, frightened woman, big strong man- happens all the time. And I didn't expect it to go any further than that, seriously. I was just going to hold her, let her fear run its course, and then wait with her until the storm ended. Didn't happen that way, though- of course it didn't, or you wouldn't be reading about it, would you? Nope.
I don't remember exactly when things took a more interesting turn. We were sitting there, me holding her comfortably, listening to the storm and watching the fire one moment and then the next she was kissing me. It was a light, gentle kiss at first, but that changed quickly as we both leaned into it. Our mouths opened, and our tongues danced together for a while before we pulled back away from each other.
"What was that for?" I asked her, just a little taken aback by her forwardness. She wasn't the type to do something like that, at least not from what I'd seen of her over the last three years that we'd known each other. Not a prude, exactly, but she did seem somewhat mousy- shy, almost timid. Definitely not the type to just kiss you out of the blue.
She shrugged. "Staci is always telling me what a great kisser you are," she said. "I wanted to find out if she was telling the truth or lying to me."
