Big Sky Country Ch. 01

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An unexpected view while hunting in the Montana woods...
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If you're looking for a story where things get heavy fast, this might not be your cup of tea. I hope, however, that the rest of you will find the build-up worthwhile and enjoyable. This is the first of more chapters to come.

*

My name is Nate Wrenholm, and I lead a double life. It's not actually sinister at all, but it's mostly true, because it stems from two opposite interests in my life: graphic design and guns. The first is my profession, while the second is my hobby. Of course, these two things run in very different circles of society, but I enjoy straddling the line between them.

I'm thirty-three. I spent ten years of my life working my way up the corporate ladder, doing the usual design and marketing things. Started hourly, went up to team lead and then senior designer, and by the end of my run I had made it to the coveted Creative Director title. But I had the classic problem of designers, namely that titles and corporations get under our skins and make us feel controlled and fake. I wanted to room to do good art, my way, without the client dictating every little bit of the layout.

Long story short, I went completely freelance and started my own studio. I had built up a good client-base over the years that were more loyal to me than my company, and they followed me when I left. Along with the coveted creative freedom that offered, it allowed me to work from wherever I wanted. So I decided to move to where I loved vacationing anyway: Montana.

Remember how I like guns? So does Montana. I pulled a good chunk of my investments and savings and used them to buy and renovate a huge cabin-like house in the southwest corner of the state. It was rustic on the outside, but I made sure that it was comfortable and modern on the inside. If was going to work remotely, I couldn't have creepy crawly internet. I got new appliances, made sure the HVAC was top notch, and put in furniture that sat nicely between chic and homey.

It was a big investment, and I knew it meant I wouldn't be able to move anytime soon, but I was okay with that. If you've ever been out there and seen the mountains rising up over the fields and forests, I hope you know what I mean. There's a reason they call it big sky country. It feels refreshing and wholesome, and while I loved cities and chic designer culture too, my new place felt exactly like the home I'd always wanted to return to.

About four months after I moved in, September came and brought hunting season. And that was when I saw The Girl.

My property backed up against the side of a short mountain a few thousand feet tall, and most of it was designated hunting grounds. I had my Weatherby Mark V out on the trail with me, a solid hunter's bolt action rifle, and had found myself a good spot up on a ridge. I made myself comfortable behind a short blind and began scanning the trees through my scope.

The first thing I came across was not a deer. Trees slipped by the scope's reticle, finding nothing branches, underbrush, and a floor of autumn leaves, when I suddenly saw a pale white something for a moment. I paused and brought my scope back, and was very surprised to find myself staring at a girl. A girl that was squatting with her back to a tree, pissing in the forest.

She was obviously a hunter. If the camo and khaki she was (mostly) wearing hadn't given it away, the fact that she was holding a 1911 .45 caliber handgun would have. There were bears out here, and they were no joke. Obviously, even if she was caught with her literal pants down, she didn't want to be caught with her metaphorical pants down.

I knew I shouldn't really be spying on a girl relieving herself in the woods, but to be fair, she was on public property and knew very well other hunters might be out here. Feeling slightly pervy, I studied her anyway. Although I always found it hard to tell with women, she looked like she was probably just a bit younger than me, maybe late twenties or thirty at most. Wavy brunette hair was tied back in a pony tail that stuck out the back of a camo baseball cap. Her face looked a bit Slavic or European, and pretty, though it was difficult to discern details at—I glanced at my rangefinder—three hundred yards.

There was a rifle leaning against the tree beside her, and I found myself momentarily distracted. Was that...was that an Accuracy International? Holy shit. I couldn't be sure, but they made nice rifles. Movement drew my attention back to the girl as she stood up, showing me toned runner's legs and flash of her ass before she pulled her pants back up. I felt my stirring between my legs. That was a nice ass.

She holstered her 1911 and picked her rifle up, then, swinging it over her shoulder, walked off into the trees. I lost sight of her only a few seconds later, and felt a small stab of sadness that I had no idea who she was or where she lived. Cute ass aside, it would have been nice to meet a girl who was a serious hunter. I do not deny that it was a bonus that she was pretty.

It was all moot, though. Short of packing up all my stuff and running down the ridge in a yelling panic, I wasn't going to find her out her in the woods. And somehow I had the feeling that slipping and sliding down a ridge on my ass while waving a rifle was not a way to make a good first impression.

I sat out there for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, but no deer presented me with a good shot, and I certainly saw nothing else as nice as The Girl.

* * *

Weeks went by, and September slipped into the beginning of October. I kept hoping that I'd see The Girl again, and went back to the ridge more than once hoping to catch sight of her again. No luck. Eventually I stopped thinking about it, and my spirits were buoyed by the successful kills of two large bucks.

The first week of the new month I had to fly out to Chicago for work. Not everything could always be as simple as emailing PDFs. I had designed all the marketing and display material for a trade show, and part of my contract included coming out a few weeks prior to work with the printer and event coordinators to ensure everything looked the way it should.

Brooke met me at O'Hare, bouncing up to give me a hug as I reached baggage claim. We had been good friends and a bit more several years ago, but geography and careers had separated us for a long time. We had consistently stayed in touch, though, and it was great to see her.

I might have been in touch with trends in design, but Brooke was in touch with trendiness itself. She had a rainbow-colored pixie cut that retained one punk-ish forelock that fell down the side of her face. A white leather jacket with a zigzag cut and several zippers covered her nice B-cup boobs, and her legs were clad in tight dark jeans and brown knee-high boots.

"Aaaahhhhh Nate!" She collided with me happily, but I couldn't do anything about it with baggage in both hands.

"Brooke, I have no arms."

She squinted and gave me an exaggerated smile. "I know. I'm so disarming."

"Asshole," I said. "Either let go or take a bag, eh?"

Brooke did both, raising an eyebrow at me as she did so. "Eh? Has Montana made you go Canadian?"

"Absolutely," I told her. "I've recently filled my hot tub with maple syrup."

She laughed at me, and we started making our way out to her car. It wasn't a short walk, and we caught each other up on the most recent happenings. I told her about my house and Montana life, my design work and the trade show that was my reason for being in Chicago. I said a bit about hunting as well, although I left out the episode concerning a certain brunette, and Brooke wasn't very interested in any case.

For her part, Brooke was also in design, but worked more on the fashion end of things. She not only did marketing for clothing designers, she also worked with them directly to incorporate different designs or typography into the piece. The results were always both gorgeous and expensive, and it sounded as though she had been busy the past couple years. The fact that her apartment was on Lake Shore Drive might say something to you about the degree of her success.

I realized as we walked and talked that I had not just missed her; I had also missed having close friends. I knew only a handful of people out in Montana so far, and none of them were people I could relax and bullshit with like Brooke.

We finally got to her apartment as the sun was getting low in the sky (evening flight), and Brooke unlocked the door and swung it open and said, "Tada! Behold my fifteen hundred foot palace that is way awesomer than your big mountain house."

While I might have disputed that it was awesomer, I couldn't degree that there was at least a good degree of awesome. A big living room was spread out before us, with Swedish black furniture and a glass coffee table sitting on gleaming white carpet. Behind the couches was a table that looked like it was sitting on an entire tree truck (blackened, of course), with a black marble top. A small but well-appointed kitchenette was to our right, with a breakfast bar poking through the wall. A hallway ran off to our left, and Brooke pointed down it.

"Your room's the first on the right, and the next one is my office. My room is on the left, and the bathroom's at the end. Make yourself at home."

I grinned at her. "You sure about that? Really want a guy in boxers ruining the Scandinavian ambience in your living room."

Brooke returned the mischievous smile as she shut the door behind her. "Nothing I haven't seen before. Besides, not like I don't ruin that image myself pretty frequently." She began unzipping her white leather jacket and walked down the hall, and I stared as a creamy bare shoulder came into view a moment later. No straps. Then the other shoulder—no way.

"Brooke! Did you just pick me up from O'Hare in a leather jacket with nothing underneath?"

She looked over her shoulder and giggled. "Free the nipple!" she said, and then darted for her door as the jacket slipped down her arms. I saw her smooth back as it fell, and then just a glimpse of the side of her left breast as she went through her doorway, hard pink nipple crowning the tip.

The same way she'd seen me in boxers before, I'd seen her lovely tits before. Of course, that didn't mean I was any less turned on by the sight. She closed the door, and though I debated chasing her for a moment, I knew it might be unwise. I hadn't seen Brooke in a long time, and I didn't want her to think I had only missed her body.

So instead I took my luggage to the room she'd indicated and plopped it down. It was your average guest room: bed, nightstand, bookshelves, dresser, all of nice quality though. I plugged my phone in to charge and then stopped in at the restroom real quick.

Brooke's door had still been closed when I went in, but when I came out a minute later it was open. I remembered her saying something about either making food or ordering food, so I went down the hallway toward the kitchenette. I did in fact hear movement in the cabinets, but as I thought it might get crowded in there, I settled onto one of the black couches in the living room.

"Everything good?" her voice called.

"Oh yeah, fine," I answered. "Like I'm going to complain about staying on Lake Shore Drive for free."

"Oh, so you're just here for the apartment. I told you it was awesomer than your...um, chateau?"

I laughed. "Pretty sure you have to have stone walls or be a winery to deserve the term chateau."

"Whatever. You obviously don't care about me."

"And you are obviously fishing for compliments," I replied, still grinning. "But you won't get them. I refuse to be drawn into your little game of ohhhhh..."

Halfway through my sentence Brooke had stepped out of the kitchen and looked at me with one eyebrow raised. What had brought me up short was that she was still very topless, now only wearing her tight jeans. It had been years since I had gotten a good look at her tits, and suddenly talking became much less important than appreciating them. They really were nice: no one would call her flat-chested, but neither did they fill up my hands. She liked her nipples bitten, and a memory of doing just that flitted into my mind.

She smirked. "That's a good enough compliment."

"You weren't kidding about freeing the nipple, I see." My mouth felt dry.

A shrug. "My apartment, so I wear what I want." She stepped back behind the wall into the kitchenette, and resumed working on whatever it was.

"Fair enough," I said. "Need any help in there?"

"No thanks, just about to pop it in the oven."

I waited for a couple minutes, unable to resist going through memories of our old times together. Brooke and I had never been serious, but we had been open about that, and it had been lovely while it lasted. She had lived in a different, less extravagant apartment back then, with a different bed, and I was thinking about the times we had rolled around in it.

"Wow Nate, did you bring me a banana all the way from Montana? You left it in your pocket."

Brooke had stepped back into the living room and was looking at me in amusement. I looked down and realized that my cock had hardened and formed a very visible bulge in my jeans.

"Well," I said after a moment, "I guess that even if I won't give you compliments, he plays by different rules."

She chuckled, and then came and sat down on the couch opposite me, and took out her phone. "Food should take about a half hour to cook. I've got a couple things to catch up on, but it should only take a minute or two."

Quiet settled over the room, with just the muffled sounds of Chicago traffic drifting up from below. I had left my phone back in my room, so I found myself with nothing to do. I made a conscious effort to look around the room and study her decorations—some of which were very cool—but inevitably my gaze kept coming back to the pair of perky breasts resting across from me.

My hardon was not going away. I started looking around again.

Brooke looked up. "Holy shit. You are really horny, aren't you?"

I wasn't sure what to say, and just gave her a bit of a helpless grin.

"How long has it been since you got laid?"

"Um," I said, "A good while. Haven't met that many people out west yet."

For a moment she bit just a bit of her lip, and I could tell she was thinking about something. "Look, Nate," she said, "I don't think I want to start Us back up right now—it'd be super complicated—"

I started to nod. That was completely understandable, long distance sucked—

"But," she continued with a bit of a smile, "I also won't have a problem if you want to get it out and jack off. Looking is free."

I couldn't help but laugh. She knew I was that desperate right now, and knew how much she was turning me on, sitting there with her pretty titties out and taunting me. That alone made me want to hold out, and I said, "Thanks for the offer, Brooke, but—"

She shook her head at me. "Quit it, Nate. Have some fun. Let me see your cock."

Those were magic words, hardwired into men. The idea that a woman wanted to see your dick, was asking for it, played to our egos way too much. I knew what she was doing, but that didn't make me immune. And to make it worse, she brought her shoulders together and pushed her boobs out.

Giving up, I began unbuckling my belt while Brooke smiled triumphantly. In a couple seconds I had pushed my jeans and boxers to my knees, letting cock spring up proud and eager.

"Mmm," Brooke said, staring at it. "I did miss that, you know."

Looking straight into her blue eyes, I began stroking, and then purposefully let my gaze slide back down past her neck to her cute, round breasts. She shimmied a little and made them sway. Fuck.

As turned on as I was, though, I didn't want the show to be over too quick. It wasn't just to impress her; we'd had both very long and very short sessions in the past. It was mostly because I knew this was special, in a way. I didn't know when I'd see Brooke again after this trip, or if she'd want to do something like this, so I wanted to savor the experience.

So savor it I did. I varied my stroking speed, stopped occasionally to play with my balls, and watched Brooke watching me. As a few minutes went by her superior grin slowly faded. Her nipples had hardened, and she was getting flushed. Her eyes were locked on my cock, and I was very pleased to see that I had now reversed the situation and was turning her on.

I kept going for another minute, and then abruptly stopped and let go. Brooke's gaze stayed with my swaying penis, though, until I said, "Brooke?" She looked up. "Have some fun," I said, turning her words back on her.

She blushed, deeply, but then with a bit of a smile she stood up and unbuttoned her jeans. My cock twitched, and she licked her lips as she hooked her thumbs in her waistband and then pulled everything down in one smooth motion. Brooke straightened up, and then stood before me for a few seconds, naked and beautiful.

Her flat stomach melded into the muscled lines of her legs, a V that lead directly toward her shaven pussy. A thin landing strip of brown hair formed a line above her glistening lips; even standing with her legs just a bit apart I could see the moisture down there. I twirled a finger in the air, and with a sudden smile she turned for me, allowing me to see lovely ass. It wasn't huge, but it curved nicely with a crack that led invitingly to the dim space between her legs.

Then, to my surprise, instead of sitting back down Brooke bent over and set her legs apart, giving me a glorious view of her wet pussy. She looked between her legs at me, put one hand on the couch to steady herself, and then put the fingers of the other inside herself. She withdrew them to spread some of her wetness around her clit, and then began going to town.

At this point I recovered from my surprise and grabbed my cock, happy to continue masturbating with her sexy ass pointed toward me. At this point we were so worked up that it didn't take much longer. I fished a Kleenex out of my jeans pocket as Brooke kept playing with her clit, moving her hand around and occasionally fingering herself. One hand was apparently not enough, and she lowered her shoulder to the sofa so that her left hand could plunge in and out of her pussy while the first hand continued its circular assault on her clitoris.

It was too much.

I grunted as the first rope of cum burst from my cock, only barely caught on the Kleenex. Several more followed as let out a guttural oh fuck oh fuck, and barely as I finished I saw Brooke's knees quickly bend. She moaned loudly as she landed on the carpet, her legs snapping together and trapping her hands on her pussy, her shoulders and face buried in the couch as she shook with her orgasm.

A woman's orgasm is a wonderful thing, and I groaned again at the sight of her bare ass, still bent over and displaying its treasures to me. I milked the last of my sperm out as she turned her head to one side and looked at me with an exhausted but exultant smile. "That," she said, "was amazing."

"Yeah," I agreed. "It was."

* * *

The next few days flew by quickly. The trade show had a huge amount of marketing collateral to oversee, and between visits to the printer, the coordinator's offices, and the event space, I arrived back late to Brooke's apartment every night. I was occasionally treated to sights of her walking by in various states of undress, but the events of the first evening weren't repeated.

She told me, though, when she dropped me off at O'Hare, that she had enjoyed seeing me—and gave me a long knowing look to be sure I understood that statement included all of me. I, in turn, told her that she should come visit me in Montana sometime, and she promised to think about it.

My flight landed in Bozeman, the only place in the area with an airport, in mid-afternoon (assisted by the time change), and I walked out into a chilly fall afternoon. As much as I had enjoyed my time in Chicago, I admitted to myself as I took in the mountains and wide horizons that it was good to be back out West.

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