No, this story is not about groupie plaster casters at a glam rock concert getting the cock and balls in plaster of a rock star they fucked. Nor is it about going backstage at a theatrical performance of a highly sexual play, although elements of such drama are in this story.
It was a simple sign in the woods, “Backstage Pass”. I had cycled to the end of a woodland trail, an old rail bed, and found a gate blocking the trail, presumably erected there by a property owner jealous of his privacy. The gate was flanked by barbed wire fencing that stretched away into the mixed hardwood bush on both sides as far as the eye could see.
However, off to the right of the gate, nailed to a sapling, was the sign: “Backstage Pass”. Intriguing. Mysterious. Beside the sapling was a trail: narrow, overgrown, and covered with autumn leaves, but a discernible trail. Was this another way into the private property of the gate owner, a privileged opening into a special world buried deep in the rolling hardwood vales? Was the “pass” like a mountain pass, a gap in the ridges of land covered with forest that ran away from the bike trail on both sides, a pass that led to something magical?
It was too much for my curious nature. I mounted my bike and set off on the trail through the woods. For a way, it ran parallel to the barbed wire fence along the valley. But the land began to rise, and I was forced off the bike and into a steep walk up the winding path, slipping on the wet leaves, around trees and through gaps and over rocks covered with moss.
A tortuous descent to the valley floor led me back to the fence again, and there on the other side was a clutch of little buildings. Two cabins of rough planks, one larger than the other, faced each other at angles across a flat open space. Behind the buildings were two outhouses, also of rough planks. Set in the hill behind the buildings were broad wooden planks that served as seats. It was a little theatre in the woods.
Intrigued, I leaned my bike against a tree and took photos of the buildings beyond the fence with my cell phone. Then I heard the voices.
I froze, listening. Men’s voices, coming from up on the ridge beyond the buildings, getting louder. If I retreated up the ridge behind me, they would surely spot me. I grabbed the bike and wheeled it into a cedar thicket near the fence, laying it flat in the silent needles on the ground. Crouching behind an old oak at the edge of the cedar copse, I could see the little buildings clearly.
Into the clearing came two men carrying between them a canvas litter like the ones used for wilderness rescue when someone has broken a leg and needs to be carried out to safety. Strapped to the litter was a girl of about eighteen with long brown wavy hair and dressed in a navy blue track suit. She was asleep, or unconscious, hard to say which. She certainly was not moving, eyes closed, but I heard the occasional moan so I knew she was alive.
“Let’s get her inside and stripped,” one said. “I want to do her at least twice before the sun goes down and we have to take her back and dump her.”
“Yeah, good plan,” agreed the other one. “We won’t even wait for Bill to get back.” He guffawed and started to unlace the straps that held the girl to the litter.
I had just started to process the fact that there was another man out there, Bill, when a twig snapped behind me. I whirled around to find the muzzle of an automatic pistol pointed at my face. Behind the gun was the grizzled face of a man about my age, sixtyish, tall, well built and well dressed in outdoor clothing, but serious in demeanour.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he said calmly but loudly enough that the others heard. They set down the litter and walked toward the fence.
“Who’s there, Bill?” the one asked who wasn’t going to wait for Bill.
“A snoop,” said Bill shortly and waved the gun barrel at me, indicating I was to get up and go toward the fence where the others waited.
When I got there, I found the other two also had weapons pointed at me. “Okay,” said Bill. “Start talking. Who are you and why are you here?”.
I was scared and could see no point in trying to make up a story to bluff my way out. “I’m a cyclist, out for some exercise, that’s all,” I said, making eye contact with Bill so he could see how sincere I was. “I saw that sign, “Backstage Pass”, and took the trail just to see where it led. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just scared when I heard you coming so I took cover.”
“Why didn’t you just keep riding when you heard us?” one asked roughly.
It was a good question, and again I felt that honesty was the only way I was going to get out of this. I dug deep into my psyche, took a breath, and said, “Out here in the woods, away from prying eyes, I get turned on. My libido goes into overdrive. I have all these depraved and orgiastic sex fantasies about what I would do to a woman in a little cabin like that.” I nodded to the cabin across the fence.
Bill stared at me for a long moment, then lowered his weapon as he raised his eyebrows. “Really?”, he said. “And what, exactly, would you do to her?”
I knew then that I was on the right track, so I kept on being honest. “Oh, anything I wanted, I guess. I’d tie her up and fuck her, then whip her tits and pussy, then fuck her again. I’d take lots of video so I could have lots of good wanks when I got home.”
“Why don’t you do that, then?” he asked.
“Practical problem,” I answered. “I don’t know anyone who would help me abduct her and I don’t know what I would do with her afterward. I wouldn’t want to kill her to shut her up. It would be nice if she liked it and wanted to keep doing it, a kind of Mother Nature fuck bunny, but women aren’t built like that these days. Feminism and all that crap.”
The man who was going to wait for Bill guffawed at that and tucked his weapon into his pocket. He was of medium stature, sixty-five I’d guess, and somewhat overweight. His bespectacled face below a bald pate was jowly and his paunch hung over his belt a bit. I learned later his name was Harold. “A Mother Nature fuck bunny,” he repeated. “I like that, Bill. I think this guy is OK.”
The other man, slight of build and also balding with a grey trimmed beard, picked up on this. “I don’t know, Harold. Can we trust this guy? What do you think, Bill?”
Bill looked at me carefully again. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“It’s Phillip,” I said. “I live over in Lyndhurst, and I’m a retired college professor. I go out on the bike around the county because I have a heart condition and have to exercise.” I scuffed in the leaves a bit. “Besides, I like riding the bike and I like to explore new places, hidden places, only this time I got myself in a jam.” I looked up at Bill. “What are you going to do with me?”
Bill looked over at the other two. Harold nodded, a leer on his face. The other one with the beard frowned and shook his head slightly. “Can we trust him?” he asked.
Bill looked at me and back to Slim. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but he sounds like he could be one of us. But there’s an easy way to find out. We have a muffin here now, so let’s get Phillip on camera doing her, fucking her and beating her tits. Then he can’t go the cops without implicating himself, can he?”
I found later they liked calling the girls they abducted “muffins”. The muffin on the litter started to moan and roll her eyes under the lids. “She’s coming out of the anesthetic. We have to hurry,” said Slim, whose name I found later was Alastair.
Bill turned to me. “Are you in?” he asked shortly with a direct stare.
“And if I don’t do this?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“We’ll have to deal with you, won’t we?” said Bill.
Harold on the other side of the fence scuffed the ground with his toe and said, “We’ve had to do it before, but it’s no fun.” Looking at me, he said, “If you really want to do dirty stuff in the woods, show us. Now.”
I nodded. I had all the answers and all the motive I needed.
