I was sitting atop Lookout Rock when I saw the trail of dust indicating a vehicle coming up the road. As it approached I could make out the boxy design of a minivan. So far, so good. It turned from the road onto the private drive that led to our property. My heart beat faster and my mouth went dry. Yes, that was the one I'd been anticipating. I waited as the vehicle wound its way along the curvy drive and pulled into the main yard between the cabins. Doors were flung open and people spilled out. They seemed tiny figures from my distant vantage point and I could only just make out general features: sex, hair color and length, height, weight. From the driver's side emerged a middle-aged man, average height, dark hair but balding, somewhat heavyset but not fat. That would be uncle Dave. From the passenger side a middle-aged woman, short blond hair, fairly trim but perhaps thickening around the middle. That's aunt Emily. From the rear doors a young woman-dark hair, trim. That was Naomi. I waited. Let there be another, oh please let there be another! There! Finally! A slender blond emerged from the rear seat of the van, long hair in a pony tail, clearly fit physique, even from this distance. Damn! I should have brought the binocs from the main cabin. Oh well, time enough for observation later. I knew enough for the time being. It was Stella.
I hopped up and trotted back along the uneven granite surface until I found the crevice that led down to the forest floor. As I walked the half mile or so down the hill to the cabins I tried to plan what I would say, how I would act. I had been looking forward to this for weeks; well, for years, in a way. I last saw Stella and the rest of the Thompson family four years ago, the last time our summer holiday visits to the family cabins overlapped.
This land had been in the family for nearly a century. Two brothers, my great great grandfather and my great great great uncle (I think I've got the 'greats' right), bought 30 acres in the mountains looking for a nice out-of-the-way place to bring their families for the summer. It must have been quite an adventure back then. Roads were rough, cars were unreliable, and the area was relatively unpopulated. But they successfully built a large comfortable log cabin with adjoining kitchen and a family tradition was born. The land has remained in the family ever since, although that family is quite extended after a hundred years. Every summer there is a constant coming and going of the various descendants who have rights to the property. Normally, two family groups can comfortably stay on the property, although if you open up the bunkhouse, clear out the barn and pitch a few extra tents, you can house quite a gathering, which in fact happens every ten years or so.
But this was just a normal summer and my family-me, my parents, and my two younger brothers-had been up here for the first couple of days of our 2-week stay. Earlier in the day we had bid farewell to my aunt and uncle and cousins, and now the next group was arriving. The Thompsons were relatively distant relations, being descended from my great great great uncle's side, so I was restrained by no taboos in my passionate adoration of my cousin Stella. I really can't figure out what kind of cousin she is-2nd cousin, 3rd cousin, 4th-cousin-who knows? All I know is that once you get to 2nd cousin you're safe.
When I had last seen Stella that time four years ago, I had just turned 14-I remember because Stella's sister Naomi, who is my age, has a birthday within days of mine and the two families celebrated our birthdays together that summer. Stella is about 2 years older than I and to my fourteen-year-old eyes she was a goddess: shining blond hair, long shapely legs, ample breasts, round firm butt. I can't describe how I pined for her. I must have been insufferable, always moping around when she was gone, acting out in the most juvenile of ways to get her attention when she was around. Looking back on it, I feel quite ashamed, although I guess it was really nothing more than typical adolescent hormone overload. She was quite patient and tolerant of me, as I recall, for all the good that did me. I never really had a full conversation with her, just pass the beans, or do you want to go fishing (no), or do you want to go for a hike (not now), or how about some horseshoes (maybe later). That was the extent of our interactions. Otherwise it was all in my head, saving her from rampaging bears, rescuing her from drowning, or some other such heroics that would pull the veil from her eyes and allow her to see my true worth.
Well, some things had changed in the last 4 years. For one thing, I was no longer the awkward, skinny kid I had been back then. I had become quite the track star and wasn't a bad swimmer either, and I had filled out in a way that I think most women would find quite attractive. I was quite popular at school, too, so I no longer felt so intimidated by women. Not that I had actually ever done it, you know. My girlfriend for the previous 2 years, a cheerleader, was a knockout, but quite conservative. She had wanted us to "save it" for when we got married. Well, I saved and saved until about March of my senior year when Sandy decided that maybe the quarterback from the high school football team would pay bigger dividends. Once she was with him, she didn't give me a second thought.
After the breakup with Sandy, my thoughts began to return to Stella. My family had this vacation planned for nearly 6 months, and I knew that the Thompsons would be sharing our space. Practically every night for the previous months I had gone to bed dreaming of Stella, trying to imagine how she might have changed, hoping that now she would take notice of me. I would often wake in the middle of the night with a raging hardon that I would have to take care of, picturing what it would be like to have Stella straddling me, sliding up and down my shaft, tits bouncing.
As I trotted up to the cabins, the Thompsons were hauling their luggage into their cabin. My parents were there helping and chatting away with them. Stella was nowhere to be seen, but uncle Dave and aunt Emily greeted me and gave me a hug. I stood by the open cabin door as my parents chatted nearby with Dave and Emily. I heard a toilet flush inside, a door open and footsteps approach. My heart skipped a beat. But I was crestfallen when instead of the head of shining blond hair I had been eagerly anticipating, appeared the dark-haired younger sister, Naomi. My disappointment was quickly replaced by astonishment as I began to register what I saw. Four years ago, Naomi was a skinny, short-haired tomboy. I regarded her then as I would a somewhat younger brother: someone to pal around with, occasionally tease, sometimes be annoyed by. When Stella wasn't available for my adoration, Naomi was the one who would play horseshoes with me or go on a hike. I never had even the slightest inkling of her as a sexual being. She was just a kid. But now. . . Her figure had filled out, her shimmering raven-black hair had grown long and flowing. We stood awkwardly regarding each other for a few seconds when my mom said, in an exasperated tone, "Michael, give your cousin a hug."
We did so, briefly and gingerly. After disengaging, Naomi said shyly, eyes averted, "Nice to see you Mike." Then she ran off to the minivan, grabbed a bag of groceries, and headed off in the opposite direction toward the kitchen.
I had barely recovered from the shock of seeing the transformed Naomi when once again I heard footsteps approaching the door from within the cabin. I turned to see the object of my fantasies standing before me, and the reality was no less arresting than my imaginings. Stella, wearing a blue UCLA t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, hair pulled back into a ponytail, was every inch the beauty I had dreamed of. She smiled at me and my knees shook. I almost fell over.
"Hey there, Mikey!" she exclaimed cheerily. "Boy, you've sure grown up!" She leaned over to give me a hug. I breathed in her scent like an asthmatic gulping oxygen.
"Hi Stella," was all I could manage.
She released me and my mom said, "OK, well you all must be hungry! Why don't we throw some lunch together and Stella, you can tell us all about your wedding plans. You must be so excited Emily," she went on, addressing my aunt. "The first marriage in your family!"
I was stunned. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Wedding? How could that be? She was only 20, wasn't that too young? Then I saw it. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand. The sun glinted through it and pierced my heart like a dagger.
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Later that afternoon I found myself wandering among the granite boulder formations up the hill behind our property. I had hardly been able to manage a word earlier at lunch. My aunt Emily and Stella were going on and on about the wedding plans and about Stella's fiance, Bruce, who, of course, was the most wonderful guy in the world. My two boisterous younger brothers had shown up, and between their antics and babbling and all the wedding talk, my moroseness had apparently gone unnoticed.
After lunch the Thompsons had all lain down for a nap to recover from their early start and long drive. My parents had gone into town to shop for groceries for dinner and my brothers were god knew where. So I was free to wallow in my misery alone. As I walked among the tall pines and jumbled rock formations on the slope overlooking the valley, I wondered if I would ever find a woman who would actually find me attractive and desire me. I thought I was a relatively good looking guy and I seemed to be pretty popular at school. But Sandy never seemed to have any trouble "saving it" when she was with me. And after I was dumped, none of the girls whom I had thought seemed so friendly with me showed the least interest. As a matter of fact, it occurred to me that they actually were snubbing me. Reflecting on the situation, once their cheerleader friend left me, I guess they figured I wasn't worth bothering with.
These dark thoughts occupied my mind as I wandered up the hill, not paying particular attention to where I was going. Not that I was in danger of getting lost. I had spent enough summers here to know the terrain for miles around. I could name most every rock formation within sight: pyramid rock, frog rock, flat rock--the largest rock formation on this section of the hill, allowing a clear view of our property below and most of the valley beyond. Many of the formations had nooks and crannies within them that I had explored and played in as a child. Some formed actual caves, though not the kind with stalactites or stalagmites in them. Just sheltered openings within the jumbles of large boulders scattered along the hillside.
Actually, as I looked up from my reveries, I thought I might have to take advantage of one of those caves soon, for the wind had picked up, a large black cloud had appeared overhead and it was looking very much like rain, which could come seemingly from nowhere in these mountains in the summer.
I looked around to get my bearings. The best shelter would be the cave we called Mummy's Cave, about 50 yards up the hillside. I began to jog up towards the rock formation that held the cave even as I felt the first drops of rain. I came upon the rock formation from below and rounded it to my left, as the cave entrance was on the uphill side. I found the crevice that formed the cave entrance, about 10 feet up the formation. I scrambled up and looked around before I lowered myself down into the cave. As I did so, I thought I noticed some movement up the hillside, but the view was hindered by trees and rocks and after a few more seconds of looking around I didn't notice anything else. The rain started falling harder, so I lowered myself into the cave, crawling down cracks along the inside wall. It was only about 6 feet to the floor of the cave. The entrance would get wet, but the water drained away from the main floor of the cave which was well sheltered. I would be safe and dry in here until the storm passed. Even as I crawled down, the rain began pelting me. I made it just in time. The skies opened as I retreated to the back of the cave.
