“A Disappearance at Bear Lake #2” [MFf, BDSM, NC]

 

Chapter Two: Off the Record

 

The following is a series of diary fragments, retrieved from the fireplace by Rick Summers, prior to his divorce. This is where the off the record story starts…

 

It’s evident from looking at the torn pages that some attempt was made by Mrs. Summers to dispose of her diary pages in the fireplace, but she was clearly unsuccessful. Accounts given by the cleaning lady suggest Mrs. Summers had began consuming multiple bottles of red wine a night at the time, which could explain her seeming incompetence.

 

No dates are present on any of the fragments, making it difficult to determine their chronological order. I’ve made the most educated guess I possibly could.

 

 

Diary Fragment, One of Eight:

 

—dreamt about him again last night. Always that fireplac During the day, I try my hardest to not remember what happened to us. in that cab But it’s an impossible task.

 

Rick has started asking questions. He dropped a plate last night and I screamed out loud. It was the sound that got me, like a whip being cracked. It was like I'd turn around and there he'd be, standing right behind me.

 

I don’t know what to do. I wish My daughter seems to be doing a better job of forgetting than I am. God bless her. I wish I knew how she did it.

 

Diary Fragment, Two of Eight:

 

—st results came back clean this morning. I’m assuming it is safe enough to extend those results to Rachel, too. Small merc—

 

Diary Fragment, Three of Eight:

 

I know I should tell Rick what really happened to us in the woods, sooner rather than later, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I just can't.

 

It doesn't bother me any longer, thinking that Rick might see me differently after I confess. He almost certainly will. But things between us have already changed irrevocably and there isn’t any going back. I knew that the day we were "rescued”. I'm not afraid of that any longer. But I still can't bare the idea of him seeing Rachel that wa—

 

Diary Fragment, Four of Eight:

 

—because he kept asking about the marks on my brea then I

 

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!?!?! fuck fuck fuck

 

I threw a vase at his head. The one Rick’s mother gave us on our wedding. He left and hasn’t called. It’s been twelve hours and I still haven’t found it in me to pick up the pho—

 

Diary Fragment, Five of Eight:

 

—was the same dream. It's always the exact same dream.

 

I'm on the rug, laying beside the fireplace, fighting the ropes cutting into my arms and legs. I’m naked, but I’m not shivering. Because I can feel the warmth from the fire on every inch of my exposed skin. In any other circumstance, it would be a wonderful feeling.

 

And I watching him climb on-top of Rachel, hopeless to save her. I try to look away, but all I can see is this mounted deer's head, right there above me. I don't remember there being any taxidermy or hunting trophies in the cabin, certainly none hanging there above the fireplace. But in my dream, I saw it.

 

The deer's black eyes just stared down at me, penetrating me; penetrating me the way he was about to penetrate Rachel. And the longer I stared back into those black, lifeless beads, while listening to Rachel's cries for help, the more it dawned on me. That is exactly what I wa we were to him. Trophies, hunted for sport and mounted for decorati—

 

Diary Fragment, Six of Eight:

 

—am I even doing? I’m a wreck.

 

I still haven't washed the panties I was wearing on the day I was rescued. I hid them in a jewelry box, next to the pearls I was given on my wedding nig. Now that Rick isn't home, I wear them to bed every other night. It wakes me wet, but I'm too scared to touch myself. I don't want him to win. But I'd be lying to myself if I said it wasn't comfor—

 

 

These are Rachel's most recent Tweets, as of the time of her and her mother's disappearance:

 

 

Feb.19, 6:43 AM

“HBD to me. i'm fucking freezing. this is bullshit.”

 

Feb.19, 6:54 AM

“nazi mother forcing me to wake up on my birthday and march. #beautifulbearlake #gayasfuck”

 

Feb.19, 7:38 AM

“oh wow.,. nature. cool… #beautifulbearlake #justshotme”

 

Feb.19, 9:09 AM

"s. s. mother "confiscated" my cigarettes. #beautifulbearake #suckadick"

 

Feb.19, 9:12 AM

“jeez, we turned a corner and look at that. more nature. #beautifulbearlake #ihatemtlife”

 

 

 

Diary Fragment, Seven of Eight:

 

—ound it online, but it wasn't easy. I ended up searching nearly every sex store that shipped to America. They're exactly like the ones he used on me. I found them on a store dedicated to historical replicas of Medieval torture-devices and other unsavoury things like that. Cleared my internet history about four times, but I'm still scared the FBI somehow flagged me. What am I even doin They were listed as "Thumb-Screw Clamps". I'm not sure what I'm going to do with them when they arri—

 

 

Transcribed from the audio-cassette labeled “Prep. Mrs. Summers #1 [Side B]”, provided by Jerry Crumb, who is a friend of the investigation:

 

 

 

Click.

 

Mrs. Summers: "—saw it first. A cabin, just up-hill a ways from where we stood. Looked like a small hunting-lodge. Mostly concealed behind pine trees, so I wasn't sure; but once I had seen it, then the dirt path leading upward also became visible. I nudged my daughter. 'There', I said, 'behind those trees.' Rachel couldn't see the cabin at first, but once I'd started scrambling up the path, she followed."

 

Interviewer: "And that's how you met him, right?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "Please, just let me finish…"

 

Interviewer: "Yes, ma'am — I mean, Mrs. Summers. Sorry."

 

Mrs. Summers: "Ergh — Anyway, I'd seen the chimney. That's what had started me running like some wild dog. There were wisps of smoke trailing from the chimney and I knew someone had to be inside. They just had to. And I thought they’d have a phone we could use, maybe, or they would know the direction to the nearest highway. Anything, we were so desperate. I honestly thought wed been rescued, for a few minutes there. Hope is a dangerous drug, it is, but what a high. I'd bet few people get to feel the kind of rush I felt in that moment. Sky-diving be damned, I reckon. My legs were shaking and I felt numb by the time Rachel and I made it to the top of the hill. She lost her shoe on the climb, but neither of us turned around to get it. Once we got to the cabin, we found the place empty. Knocked on the door, but nothing. No response, nothing. I tried to look through the windows, but they were all curtained. Eventually, it was Rachel who realized the front door had been left open."

 

Interviewer: "Did you let yourselves in?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "What would you have done? Wait on the welcome-matt? — At this point, I was honestly starting to think I'd hallucinated when I saw the smoke. I hadn't eaten anything resembling food in a number of days and it couldn't be ruled out. I might of even had food poisoning, can't be sure. My memories all feel muddied. The water we were drinking definitely wasn't the cleanest."

 

Interviewer: "That's okay, Mrs. Summers. I understand. You're doing the best you can."

 

The Interviewer is heard clearing his throat.

 

Interviewer: "Were you hallucinating when you saw the smoke, Mrs. Summers?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "No. Once we were inside, the first thing I saw was the fireplace. It was a giant fireplace, made of stone, with an open hearth that provided a lot of heat — just an immense amount of heat. There were a few logs left inside it, smouldering away. I knew someone must have been home, but they had left recently, presumably to go hunting. Considering it was still morning, hunting seemed the most likely option."

 

Interviewer: "Did you wait for them to return?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "Well, yes… Rachel started looking around for a phone or anything we cold use to get in contact with Rick. A way to get us both home, where we'd be safe. I joined in the search, after a brief hesitation. It just didn't feel right to rummage around a stranger's things, even if we were in a life-or-death situation. I suppose we'd already broken-in, after-all, so there wasn't much to lose at that point, right?"

 

Interviewer: "I guess not. Go on."

 

Mrs. Summers: "There was this old European bookcase, across from the fireplace. I've never seen anything like it. The first title that stuck-out to me was On Human Bondage. I later learnt that book isn't actually about bondage, but there were plenty of books on the shelf that were on that particular topic. There was also a cookbook that turned out to not be a cookbook at all. A number of huge volumes; one titled Pain Through the Ages, the other Medieval Instruments of Torture.

 

Interviewer: "Oh, Jesus…"

 

Mrs. Summers: "I tried to not pay it any attention, I just kept telling myself I had no right to judge a stranger by their belongings, especially considering I was technically trespassing at the time. But the hairs on my neck started standing on end, all the same. It was creepy as all Hell. I felt like I'd stumbled into some horror movie. One of those horror films were the naive teenagers get lost in the woods and stumble across a serial-killer, except I wasn't a naive teenager. I'm an adult, who knows how to take care of herself and her's. But in retrospect, I should have ran away, right then. I should have grabbed Rachel's wrist and ran like the Devil was on our trial."

 

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "There was a drawer, at the bottom of the bookcase. I don't know what I expected to find. One of those satellite-phones, maybe, or just a radio, something. I opened the drawer and it's full of, well—"

 

Interviewer: "—Yes?"

 

Mrs. Summers: "I'm not being a prude, I'm just thinking of the right words to describe it. Have you ever been to a sex store? You know that one aisle, with the leashes, collars, clamps. The BDSM section, I guess."

 

Interviewer: "Of course."

 

Mrs. Summers: "It was like that. Except none of these were toys, not at all. They were the real thing. Like something straight out of Medieval Instruments of Torture. A deep drawer, overflowing with the kind of sex toys that only have one person's pleasure in mind. I picked up these thumb-screw nipple-clamps, because I just wasn't sure what they even were. I guess, in that regard I am fairly naive — was, I mean. And that's when I heard Rachel screaming somewhere behind me. But when I turned around, he sn—

 

Click…

 

 

In Chapter Three, I intend to follow-up a lead I've received from a gas-station attendant near Bear Lake, who recalls a strange young man, who had "unusual purchasing habits". Well, as unusual as anything you can buy at a gas-station, I suppose…

 

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/3ymnx6/a_disappearance_at_bear_lake_2_mff_bdsm_nc

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