Fontana Dam

It was late in the summer, and I’d been working construction along the LeHigh River, not far from Fontana Dam. A former teacher, I had become used to the cycle of nine months of inside work and three outdoors. This year, my marriage was suffering a bit more than usual as I’d taken a job that separated me from my wife and family but brought in the income needed to support them. I lived on the per diem, stayed in company housing, and sent my salary home. My needs were few – cigarettes, a few beers on the weekend, some good reading material and, just once in a while, renting a raft for a trip down the river.

This was an especially bright day, the water higher than usual from the recent rains. We were awaiting new materials and had just been told that it would be at least a day before they’d deliver the steel supports we needed. While I could have spent the day at the job site and drawn my pay while chatting and doing odd jobs, I felt better about taking the rest of the day off and seeing if I couldn’t get out on the river before the weekend tourists crowded it again.

I went down to the rental shop, picked out a raft, paid my fee and went out to the launch. The owner expressed concern that I was rafting alone, but it was such a slow day he was happy to have the business. I grabbed a sandwich and a six-pack, tossed them in the raft, put on my life jacket and headed out. I’d stay toward the middle of the river, I thought, and just drift a bit, enjoying the sunshine, the water, the lush greenery and the spectacular hills that rose above me. About four miles down the river I’d put in at the landing, where the raft and I would be taken by van back to the starting point. It had all the potential of a great, relaxing day and would energize me for the work tomorrow. Little did I know.

The first sign of trouble was, as it usually is, something innocuous. I hadn’t realized how high the river really was, but as I paddled out toward midstream, I felt the raft moving a bit faster than usual. The good part was that the rocks which churn the water into a froth were submerged – the bad was that the trees, which usually stood a bit back from the bank, now fringed the river with their branches. This would be a bit more treacherous than I had imagined, but as an experienced rafter, I wasn’t too concerned.

I became a bit more worried as the raft picked up speed, more quickly and sooner than it usually did. I was headed toward the Nantahala Gorge, still a ways down river, but the power and fury of the river seemed to grow steadily as I slid downstream. I was paddling hard now, trying to keep to the middle of the river as it seemed to constantly push me toward the bank.

My speed increased further as the river snaked to the left and then the right, and my muscles began to ache as I fought to keep control. I knew I couldn’t keep up this level of effort for long, and began to look for a sandbank or natural landing to take a breather. Not panicking, but growing ever more concerned, I saw that the usual landings were well underwater, with only overhanging branches on either side to trap and perhaps sink the careless rafter.

Coming around a sharp curve I knew I was in trouble as the river literally frothed beneath me and pushed me into the air, raft and all, directly toward a wide, thick branch and tangled debris collected beyond it. Dropping my paddle into the raft, I hooked my feet beneath the seat in front of me and grabbed at the branch, which hit me squarely and painfully in the chest, bringing every muscle in my body to bear to stop the raft from crashing into the tangled mess ahead.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The raft did indeed stop, but I was now hanging tightly to the branch, my body caught between the relentless and growing pressure of the river upon the raft, and as I tried to maneuver the raft with my feet, the raft suddenly broke free and shot down the river, hitting the logjam ahead and overturning. Within moments it was out of sight.

I cursed myself for ignoring the most important of safety rules: Never raft alone. Now, I was hanging from a tree limb and faced a few dilemmas. I could drop down into the water but seeing the speed of current and dangerous tangles at every junction, I figured I’d do as well as my sandwich and six-pack, which I’d seen shoot over the side when the raft overturned. So I pulled myself up onto the branch and made my way to the steep shore, then climbed up to the road which ran along the river. I’d have to walk downstream and hope that I could recover the raft.

As I reached the road, an older woman called out to me “Are you alright? I saw what happened!” She was walking toward me with a look of obvious concern.

“Fine, just chagrined at my stupidity. The river is unforgiving today!” I said, embarrassed.

“Chagrined, eh?” she said. “You must be a schoolteacher or something. Folks around here would just say ‘dog-ass stupid’ to be rafting the river alone.” She laughed.

“Yeah, I know how stupid it was, but I don’t get out much. You know what they say, ‘book-learning and common sense don’t always go together’. I am a teacher, by the way. Just not a very smart one” I said, good-naturedly.

“Well, I know how it is,” she said. “I teach too.”

We laughed, and I marveled at the hospitality and easy manner of these folks in North Carolina. Always, if one was honest and friendly, they made one feel at home. It was something sometimes seen back North, but rare. Here, it was commonplace.

“That HAS to hurt” she said, pointing at my chest. In the rush of adrenaline I’d taken little notice of my injuries, but as I looked down I saw where the branches had torn through my shirt and scratched my chest and shoulders deeply.

“Not as much as having to pay for that raft if I don’t find it,” I said, though her notice of my injuries seemed to have awakened the pain of them. “Where’s the nearest bend in the river? Maybe it will have washed up there?” I asked, hopefully.

“C’mon, I’ll drive you down there, and then let’s see if we can’t put something on those cuts” she said. She motioned me to an old ’69 Ford Country Squire station wagon, parked a bit off the road and near the edge of the gorge. “I was just out here enjoying the scenery myself when I saw you having some trouble down there.”

I piled into her car and we raced down the road, stopping now and then so I could get out and look for the raft. Finally, about a mile down, I saw it, overturned, caught in a jumble of branches on our side of the river.

“You wouldn’t have a rope, would you?” I asked.

“Of course, honey. I was a Girl Scout, you know, and I am ALWAYS prepared,” she laughed. Sure enough, she took me around to the back of the station wagon, and after rummaging through a few things, produced a coil of thick rope.

I scrambled down the embankment, my chest and shoulders burning now in pain, managed to grab and tie the raft, and began my ascent. I suffered not a few more scratches as I worked my way up, but the raft and I made it to the top safely. I inspected the old rubber raft – despite some evident scratches along its black sides, there were no real holes or leaks. “Whew, that is a relief. It seems to be okay. I guess losing my beer and my lunch isn’t too big a price to pay.”

“Well, you get that raft tied to the top of the wagon, darling, and let’s see if we can’t get your appetite taken care of before I bring you back.” She smiled warmly at me. She really was a nice looking woman, and her generosity and warmth made her more so. I thought briefly about my other appetites that needed attention and blushed, then busied myself, lifting the raft to the roof of the wagon and tying it securely. It wouldn’t last long on a highway but we’d less than a few miles to go.

Getting back into the car, I held out my hand as she slipped behind the wheel. “I’m Tony, ma’am, and I would heartily like to thank you for being my rescuer in time of need.”

“I’m Marlene” she said, taking my hand and shaking it formally. “I don’t usually make a point of picking up strange men, but in your case, I have made an exception. You have very nice manners for a city boy, I might add.” Again, I thought about the play on words, “picking up” having a couple of meanings, and as I felt a stirring in my crotch, blushed again and sat up straighter in the seat. She just smiled, closed her door, and started the engine.

“Let’s get some lunch and let me take a look at those scratches. I live just a ways back there. Nothing fancy but I call it home.” She ignored my protests about bothering her, and despite my usually respectful nature, I kept sneaking sidelong glances at her as we bounced along the rutted road.

She really was attractive in a comfortable sort of way. She was, I guessed, about ten years my senior, but the years had treated her well. Her tanned, lightly freckled skin looked smooth and, well, awfully kissable. Her dark hair was streaked with silver and her cutoff jeans revealed smooth legs. Her light denim shirt was opened a few buttons down and it my timing was right, as we’d hit a bump and I’d look over, I could see her breasts bounce within it. From what I could see, she’d no bra on, and that realization caused a surge of blood rushing into my already hardening cock.

I waited until the next bump to inconspicuously (I thought) readjust myself. I HAD to stop thinking like this or I would never be able to get out of the car without embarrassment.

“So, what do you teach?” I asked, my voice coming out a little huskier than I had intended. I really needed to focus on something besides the nagging ache that was growing more insistent in my crotch. Luckily, the scratches on my chest and shoulders were becoming more painful and I trusted that might keep my ardor in line. I’d always had a strong sex drive, and we’d worked out almost twenty years of marriage by my making love to the wife weekly while I’d secretly masturbated almost every day to relieve the relentless pressure and desire.

The relative lack of privacy in the company housing had left me with less relief of late, but luckily there weren’t any women on the job site so it wasn’t too bad. But as I sat across from Marlene on the wide bench seat I could feel my internal juices churning and building. I knew, when I got back to housing, I’d need some release and quickly.

Worse, I could feel myself blushing, my heart was starting to pound, and I had to control my breathing. This wonderful woman had probably saved, if not my life, at least a couple hundred dollars of my hard-earned pay. I wasn’t about to try to come on to her – but I also couldn’t help watching her breasts bounce inside her shirt, and notice the outline of her nipple against the fabric.

“Latin” she said, matter-of-factly. “I teach at the local high school, and I just love the kids. I have lived alone for a while and I love the excitement of youth. Every day is a challenge, you never know what to expect, and for me, teaching a ‘dead language’ is what keeps me alive and feeling young.” Her voice was smooth and deep, with just a trace of the local accent. “What do you like to eat?” she said, “I just went shopping and I’m sure I can find something you’d like at my place, if you don’t mind.”

I stifled my impulse to tell her “pussy” – the thought of which caused another surge below – and instead said “Whatever you have is fine, please don’t fuss.” Now my palms were sweating. If we didn’t get out of this car soon, I was sure I would say or do something I’d regret.

We chatted a bit about teaching, students, shared a few stories, and then pulled up a long driveway to an old home with a wide porch. She parked the car on the driveway, got out and led me up the stairs. I held the screen door as she pushed the unlocked door open. “One of the pleasures of country living!” she said as she walked towards the back of the house. I could see the sitting room to my left, with its old upholstered formal furniture and tables, old frames and older pictures on the wall.

I watched her also as she walked, and must have imagined the little swing in her hips. A nice round bottom I’d love to get my hands on – damn I had to stop thinking like that. I followed her past the dining room table, with a silver case and old wood sideboard. The things in the house spoke of ancient refinement, and as she slid the pocket door open to the kitchen, I again admired the soft curve of her ass. I just couldn’t help myself.

“C’mon in here and set down” she said, that faint accent again, as she opened the icebox and took out a glass bottle of what must have been fresh, whole milk. The cream was visible at the top, and she scooped it off into a cup as she poured two glasses. “This is another nice thing about being out here,” she said. “The dairy and produce are fresh, and this ham,” she said, pulling a platter out and putting it on the table, “is about the finest smoked meat I’ve ever had.” Again, I resisted the urge to ask her to smoke my meat, but the though was enough to cause me to arch in my shorts again.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“No, you might want to take off that shirt, though. Just go out that door to your right and you can wash up. I’ll see what I can do to mend that.” I slipped it easily off and put it on the chair while she cut the fresh bread and made our sandwiches.

I found the washroom, clearly a former closet that was converted with the advent of indoor plumbing.

Standing in the mirror, I drew the hot scalding water and mixed it with the cold, the unexpected pressure splashing up from the low sink and splashing my shorts. “What the hell,” I thought, “I am already wet from the river, and maybe it’ll hide the precum I can feel oozing from my tip.”

I looked at my chest and shoulders, the dense muscles a bit padded perhaps with age and comfort, but flexed and strong nonetheless. The scratches were superficial for the most part, but a couple were pretty deep and began bleeding again as I scrubbed them clean with soap. I didn’t want to stain her thick white towels, so I dabbed as much as I could with tissue until the bleeding slowed. Disinfect, debride, and direct pressure. My years as a medic in the Army came in handy so often.

I was startled by a light knock as the door opened. “Oh, sorry, I thought you might want some help,” she said, as the half-opened door swung wider. Maybe it was my imagination but she seemed to gaze at my torso with more than just neighborly concern. “Come on back to the kitchen, I have something to put on that” she said, and I followed her again. My aching member and damp pants made walking a bit uncomfortable.

“Here” she said, opening a cabinet and pulling out a blue jar filled with clear liquid. “I keep this for mostly medicinal purposes,” she laughed. She filled two crystal glasses about halfway, then poured a bit more into a bowl, then put the jar away. “I guess you Northerners would call this moonshine,” she said, “But it’s good medicine both for the insides AND outside.” “To health!” she said, and we raised and touched glasses. I thought I caught a glint in her eye as, following her example, I tossed back the clear liquid.

My mouth, throat, and stomach were on fire immediately. That stuff had to be pure alcohol! I tried not to sputter or choke and was fairly successful, though she laughed aloud at my reaction. “A bit strong for a city boy?” she asked, teasingly.

Wow, what an understatement. My whole body seemed to warm and flush with heat as the burning subsided. “No, it was good!” I lied, trying to maintain my composure.

She poured us another, we toasted again, and thankfully, she just sipped this time. I did the same. My mouth was already a bit numb and I think that helped, but the stuff sure burned when it went down.

“Now, let’s see about your wounds” she said. “Stand over here and lift your arms.” I went over to her, next to the kitchen sink, and stood with my hands locked behind my head. “Ooohh, that looks nasty,” she said, dipping a cloth into the bowl and touching it to the worst of my scratches. It hurt like hell, but I wasn’t about to wimp out in front of her twice, and I gritted my teeth while she stroked me with the cloth.

Maybe it was the drink, but I was getting more and more aroused as she inspected and applied her “medicinal” touch. I could feel my cock swelling and arching in my pants, and knew it was straining against the fabric in unmistakable arousal. I was fighting with embarrassment and arousal and pain – and I was, honestly, feeling a bit lightheaded. It had been a long rough day already, I’d not yet eaten, and here I was drinking white lightning on an empty stomach.

She touched the cloth to my nipple, which sprang taut immediately, and seemed to swab it repeatedly, though I hadn’t remembered it being scratched. She then moved to the other, which was now hard, and again swabbed, her face close to my chest, her breath warm on my skin. My hard-on ached, strained, arched in its fabric prison. I could feel the pressure building, my desire intensifying, my manners and resolve to be a gentleman teetering. Her touch felt so good. Suddenly she brushed against my encased member and I jumped, startled out of my reverie. “Oh, didn’t mean to scare you, city boy!” she laughed. “It seems you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

I looked into her eyes and saw deep pools of passion. Shaking slightly I reached for her, bringing her face to mine, and met her mouth with a tentative kiss. Her mouth opened eagerly to mine and we stood for what seemed an eternity, mouths locked, hands searching, caressing arms and backs and hips. Cautiously, I brushed her breast with the backs of my fingers, and she gasped, pulling back, then pressing her breast into my hand.

My kisses left her mouth and covered her cheeks, her jaw, and as she lifted her throat to me I buried my mouth in the soft skin, kissing, licking, sucking. Hands fumbling I unbuttoned her shirt and knelt before her, lifting her soft full breast to my lips, circling the nipple with the tip of my tongue, kissing and sucking lightly as she hardened and tightened in my mouth. I turned to the other, repeating my attentions, while I rubbed her other saliva-slicked nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

She was gasping now and moaning, her hands bracing herself between the sink and table.

“Dare I?” I thought, and cupping her breasts in each hand, my thumb caressing the tight nipples, I began to kiss down her tummy to her navel. Circling it, I flicked my tongue against the top, then the bottom, then slid my tongue hard inside it.

Her moans intensified, urging me on, and I slid her shorts down to the ground. She put her hands on my head and stepped out of them, then pulled me closer to her body. She pressed her rounded mons hard against my face and my tongue swirled in her thick hair, seeking the source of the heat and woman scent.

I could feel her legs starting to shake as she ground herself against my face, and I lay back on the cool black and white checkered linoleum, guiding her hips as she straddled my face. My tongue found her swollen slit and I was drenched in her juices, flicking my tongue back and forth on her clit while she bucked harder against me. She was sliding across my mouth and nose and my sucking and licking and kissing intensified to meet her.

She was starting to groan and gasp more loudly now, faster, harder, until suddenly she screamed “YES” and then again “OH” and then stopped, shuddering and lifting herself off me. “Soooo s-s-sensitive” she stuttered, “Gawd that was…” She never finished. Slowly getting to her feet, she took my hand and helped me up. Wordlessly, she offered me my glass and we drank again, then kissed.