Logger's Jogger
by Peter Loaf

Part 1: Jogger

I'm a jogger. I like to run the hiking and mountain bike trails in the parks and forests of my native Oregon. I think nothing of running twelve, fifteen miles of mountain grades in a day. I usually run with someone, just for the safety factor. But today I'm going up mount Wilson and none of my friends would come, saying the trails are too steep.

I like steep. Steep makes my endorphins rush. Endorphins are the carrot that powers my urge to run. That and the pleasure I get from the wildlife and scenery.

I'm not unarmed you know, I've got my trusty can of pepper spray and I know how to defend myself, I have a black belt in karate.

I reach a steep stretch and begin the climb, doing my level best to reach the top in as little time as possible.

The trail goes to switchbacks as the grade goes steeper and I begin to feel the first rush of my drug of choice, endorphin soup. The hypnotic jingle-jingle-jingle of the little silver bear bells tied to my shoe laces puts me into a semi-trance and I drift on a cloud of endorphins, enjoying life to last drop.

I top the grade and look down into a valley of stumps where last summer there was a stand of virgin forest. Over the winter this entire valley has been clear-cut. Where there had been a national treasure there is now nothing but an eroding stump field. No birds, no wildlife, no life at all. Just a giant scar on the earth, showing where man's greed has shown itself, again.

I stumble to a stop, bumming at what has been done to my mountain. My day is ruined, my rush submerged in helpless rage.

Then my eyes focus on the five remaining trees in the valley and I remember the old log cabin beside a lake deep in the woods up here. Some old guy bought an acre of this valley before it was made into a national park. His only heir still lives there, a hermit complete with belt length beard and worn out volume of Walden.

I look down on what the loggers have left that poor old man and want to cry. What had been his perfect world has become a hell of mud and stumps for as far as the eye can see.

Then I hear the truck. Right out where there are supposed to be no roads, a logging truck is hauling another load down the valley. To save his brakes on these steep grades he is using his Jake-brake, rending the silence with its thumping roar.

It's too far to see any markings but I know who they are.

I have my camera phone, so I whip it out and take several pictures, then, finding that my ridgeline position gives me enough signal strength, I send them to the Sierra club's hotline along with my location.

The woman on the line asks me if I can get close enough to get license plates.

I say, "I'll try to work my way around so as to get them coming out."

She says, "Be careful. Do not get caught."

I say, "I can handle it." and take off running.

It takes a couple of hours but I finally reach the place where the logging road re-enters the cover of the forest. The light is perfect right now but soon it will fail. I find myself a great hiding place, close to the road where I can get good shots of their license plates. Thanking my lucky stars that my jogging suit is tan colored, I find a natural depression, lie down and cover myself in a blanket of needles.

I've been running up and down this mountain all day. I'm glad I can lie down for a while. Endorphins will only get you so far. Sure that the Jake-brake thumping will give me plenty of time to get ready, I relax and wait for the next truck to come out.

When I wake up I have a canvas bag tied down under my chin. I try to fight them but blind is blind and strength is strength and before long I am bound, hands and feet and completely helpless. They carry me back to the road and lift me up to the cab of their truck. In the process I am left no secrets, no places untouched, my helpless body thoroughly molested.

I wonder if I'm going to die. I wonder if I'd be better off dead. I tremble and say, "You know, I've already called this in. Killing me won't get you anything but more trouble."

"No trouble for us sweet thing." says the man on who's lap I'm sitting. "You are the one under arrest. You were trespassing on private property and we have the pictures in your camera phone to prove it."

"That is protected National Park old growth! It is not private property and never has been!"

He pinches my nipple and says, "Yer half right sweetie, it never has been private, until now. We won the election, things are different now."

The drive to the sawmill takes a couple of hours. On the way I get fucked by both of them in turns. The second one even gives me a small orgasm. By the time we get there it is well after dark and I am exhausted.

The truck stops, going silent as it is switched off. I am handed down and sat on the truck's running board.

It is so dark that I have no chance to see either of their faces as they remove the hoodwink and replace it with a wad and tape gag.

As soon as screaming is impossible they use my own pepper spray on my wide open, unsuspecting eyes, blinding me and giving me something to think about as they strip me naked and stake me out over a section of log.

My daddy always said, "Never take anything into a fight you don't want stuffed up your ass."

Pepper spray and perverts, Oh Shit!

Part 2: Logger

It is morning and our little jogger looks all tuckered out. Poor dear! The little slut was trying to shut us down. There is 50 million bucks worth of timber up that valley, still standing, and she thinks a few pictures are going to stop us?

I go to her and kneel beside her trembling body. I lean down and whisper into her ear. "Didn't you think we would set up some way to guard against snoopers?"

She shakes her head no, but I don't know if she's responding to my words or to my two longest fingers, sliding in and out of her pepper spray burned and well used pussy. It doesn't matter, I'm not that interested in what she might say, at this point.

She is bear bait. Her opinions do not matter.

When someone has no more usefulness they get recycled. Like these remaining stands of old growth. What use is a spotted owl to me? I make my living logging, feed my family, make payments on my toys and ski chalets, you know, living.

I trap her clit with my thumb and say, "The best part is that we can do what we want with you, then cover the crime by feeding your body to the bears. The cops will identify you by the little bells they find in a pile of bear-shit."

I don't think she understands. Pity, I would like to have seen her react.

I reach over and loosen the strap that holds her neck, then release her ankles and wrists, aware that she needs no bondage for the present. She starts to get up but screams and collapses to the ground in agony as her back cramps. I sit on the log and watch her, my poor overused pecker stirring in my Dockers. I think, She is a prize, too bad she can't be a trophy. Then I shake it off. Too dangerous. The searchers might eventually look here.

Though I do not believe in evolution, I agree with Darwin when it comes to the stupid not surviving. This nature-loving bitch should die, if only to improve the species.

When she can get her hands to work she begins clawing at the tape on her face, clearly intending to remove her gag. I don't blame her, it's a big gag and she's worn it for more than eight hours. But I can't let her get away with it either. I take out a pair of handcuffs and fix her wrists together behind her back. "Slave sluts don't touch their gags without permission."

I wonder why I said that. Am I intending to train her? No, that is silly. By tonight she needs to be in a bear, not a bed. But look at her! What a waste!

I should do it now and get it over but I decide to take another snort of nose candy and see if it will help.

As I wait for the drug to act I remember how yesterday I was sitting in my office, up on the mountain, watching the sky cranes bringing in logs from the places the trucks can't go. Sitting across from me, having a cup of coffee, was Bubba, my head truck driver.

Suddenly my cell scanner picked up a call. Some jogger had come in and seen the clear cut. She was calling the Sierra Club. I listened as she described what she called the devastation, (We like to think of it as re-forestation, phase one) then noted with glee when she said she was going to try and get in close enough to get a picture of one of our trucks' license plates.

Knowing where to look, made finding her easy. It was just luck that we found her asleep. Bringing her to the abandoned sawmill was the price I had to pay to get Bubba to agree to keeping her a secret. He wanted a share of her before going home to his wife.

The sawmill stands where it was abandoned thirty years ago, now surrounded by two hundred square miles of second growth pulpwood. It is one of the few places around that a fully loaded log truck can get to without someone knowing about it. It belongs to the corporation but I store some of my boats, snowmobiles, Jeeps, guns and bikes in it. Bubba lives in the old foreman's quarters about two miles away with his wife and six kids.

Once we had her in a place private enough, we had us a high old time, but it got even better after Bubba left us alone. I fucked her all night, using both her ass and cunt. I was merciless and potent. I was her Master. I was her God. I punished her, teased her and forced her through more orgasms than I could be bothered to count.

Now as I watch her regain her strength, I decide how I will take her this one last time. "Get up and stand before me, legs spread and head down, as befits a sex slave." I say, feeling my organ begin to swell once again.

Struggling against the lingering pain in her back, she gets to her feet and stands facing me, head down in defeat.

I get up and start to drop a noose around her neck when suddenly she spins and lashes out with a vicious kick. My knee explodes in agony and I go down, only to have my nose meet her knee coming up. Stunned, I feel a final kick to my jaw and the world explodes into fireworks that fade to blackness.

By the time I wake up she is long gone. I sit up and take stock. My broken nose has stopped bleeding and I imagine my eyes are both black. But the real damage is to my knee. I can still walk, but only slowly and with a lot of pain.

I grab my cell and call Bubba. He's jogger and an Indian and might have a chance of running her down before she finds her way out of here.

"Hello." Says bubba's voice on the phone.

"Bubba, dis is Fred," I say, aware that Bubba's wife can probably hear me. "Can you come to the mill, I need some help with that project."

"What's wrong with your voice?" Asks Bubba.

"Just my allergies again." I say, touching my tender freshly broken nose.


"Nothing that can't be fixed in a hurry. Can you come right away?"

"Sure thing boss, be there in twenty minutes.

I check my pocket and see that I still have my handcuff key, thinking, OK my little bunny rabbit, you ran off into the woods naked and handcuffed, that should make Bubba's day. I hobble into the mill and get into a Jeep. The way she's left me I will not be in any shape to chase her on foot but I can patrol the road and make sure she doesn't get out that way.

Bubba will be on her trail in less than twenty minutes and between the two of us and those handcuffs, she hasn't a chance.

I plan to wait until Bubba has gotten away from his wife to tell him about our jogger's unexpected talent in the martial arts.

I reach over and pop open the glove box, feeling for my Tazer. If I am going to deal with this Kung Fu bimbo I want to have more of an edge.

I feel something hard against the back of my head. I start to turn around but the bimbo's grunt tells me to hold very still. She has not run off like a naked bunny rabbit after all. She has broken into the mill, armed herself and waited for me, like a snake in the tall grass.

As I slowly get out of the Jeep I see my former sex slave, now dressed in my own sweats and armed with that sawed off ten-gage goose gun I keep in the office. I think about the guns she could have picked and realize she has picked this one for its power. We both know it will cut a man in half.

"Call Bubba, tell him to forget it." She says, aiming at my groin, "Or else say goodbye to the wedding tackle, Fred." She says, her voice flat and deadly.

I dial and wait. "Bubba, Fred here," I say, as soon as he answers.

"Ya boss, what is it?" Comes back. I can hear the rattling of his pickup in the background.

"You can forget coming to the mill, the problem is solved and everything is under control."

"You sure? I'll be there in five minutes." Comes back.

"No, everything is ok here, I'm still not quite done if you get my meaning."

"OK, you're the boss."

After I hang up, the jogger says, "Put those on your ankles." Nodding to some leather hobbles lying on the mill floor. I think about running away or attacking her but then I think about the 00 buckshot in that gun and do as I'm told.

When I'm sitting on the mill floor, my ankles trapped in tightly buckled and closely linked leather, she tosses me my own handcuffs, saying, "Put these on behind your back."

I try to leave them as loose as possible but when I am done she kneels behind me and tightens them both. "You thought I was an easy mark, didn't you? Thought I was somebody you could kidnap, rape and feed to the bears. Well now de top rail's on de bottom, ain't it massa?"

She stuffs my mouth with rags and wraps tape around my face sealing in my screams and then blindfolding me. I hear her fiddling with something and suddenly feel something poking into my nostrils and pinching, piercing my septum and hog ringing me. I squeal and pull away, only to run out of leash. My poor, bleeding, freshly broken honker has been hog-ringed and my former sex slave has me on a nose cord. I am forced by my nose ring to bend forward. I feel cords lashing my big toes together and suddenly I am folded, my freshly broken nose linked to my toes.

Her final act is just mean. I mean driving that broken off hoe handle into a knothole, pulling down my Dockers and sitting me on it was really mean. The Bitch.

After she drove off in my Jeep I sit there, bouncing, in love for the first time in my life.

Part 3: Truck Driver.

It's crazy. The boss doesn't have allergies. He snorts diesel fumes, dust and mountain air every day of his life.

I decide to park my truck, arm myself and sneak up on them. If everything is kosher I'll go home and they will never know I was here.

Trotting through the woods, I get there just as the boss's new Jeep comes out of the mill, driven by that little minx of a jogger. "Under control my ass!" I whisper, stepping behind a tree as she drives away.

As soon as she is out of sight I sprint for the barn, figuring I need something faster than my old truck to catch that Jeep.

I see Fred and chuckle. His big red cock is straining, aching to cum, needing only some one to stroke him. He looks self involved, happy. I grab his fastest dirt bike, kick it over, and roar off, leaving the asshole right where he is. After all, it is more important to catch the jogger than save his bacon right now.

Within two miles I've caught up with her. I fire a warning shot, my 44mag numbing my ears with its blast.

She stops the Jeep, sliding it sideways so that by the time I am ready to shoot a second time she has her sawed off centered on my forehead.

Some days it isn't such a good idea to get out of bed.

I think about Fred, sitting there on that hoe handle, bouncing up and down, nearly bringing himself off.

I just hope she doesn't have any more pepper spray.