Slammed Between Strangers

It was a blistering afternoon in mid-August, the kind where the air shimmers and your skin feels like it’s melting. My husband, Ethan, and I were on a rare getaway in Asheville, North Carolina, holed up in a rustic cabin tucked into the Blue Ridge Mountains. The place overlooked a winding river, close enough to hear its lazy rush. We’d settled into the predictable rhythm of a couple with no kids and no pressing obligations: waking up late—maybe nine or ten—sipping coffee on the porch swing, then showering and wandering into town for the day.

Most afternoons, we’d grab lunch at a local brewery, splitting a flight of craft beers and a plate of smoked brisket. Afterward, we’d hike a trail or poke around the art galleries until the sun dipped low. Back at the cabin, we’d rinse off the day’s dust, collapse into bed for a nap — and, more often than not, tangle ourselves up in each other before dozing off. By seven, we’d be cleaned up and out again, chasing live music at a bar or splitting a bottle of wine over dinner, home by midnight to crash.

But that day threw us off script. After lunch, Ethan started rubbing his temples, complaining of a headache that wouldn’t quit. We scrapped our plan to hike and retreated to the cabin instead. He popped a couple of aspirin and sprawled out on the couch, leaving me restless. It wasn’t serious—just dehydration or too much sun—so I decided to kill time by driving into town. I showered quick, threw on a tank top and denim cutoffs over a swimsuit (just in case), and grabbed the keys to our rental Jeep.

Heading down the mountain road, I left the dense woods behind and hit the open stretch toward Asheville. That’s when I saw them: two guys, probably college age, standing on the shoulder with their thumbs out. They were scruffy but not menacing—sunburned noses, flip-flops, gym shorts, the works. The heat was merciless, and I figured they’d fry out there, so I pulled over. One climbed into the back, stretching out across the seat, while the other settled into the passenger side beside me.

They were headed to a swimming hole a few miles upriver.

We got to chatting — light stuff, like where they were from (some college town in Tennessee) and how they’d ended up stranded (a buddy ditched them after a fishing trip). The guy in the back — Jake, he said — started ribbing me about picking up randos. “You’re brave, lady. We could be axe murderers for all you know.” I laughed it off, saying they looked too young to be dangerous and too hot to be left out there. “Plus,” I added, “you don’t exactly scream ‘serial killer.’” That got a snort from the front-seat guy, Miles, but something about my own words made my stomach twist — just a little.

Miles leaned back, one arm dangling out the open window, and asked what I was doing driving around solo on a day like this. I told them about Ethan’s headache and my half-baked plan to browse some antique shops in town. “Vacation life,” I said, “except when your husband taps out at forty-two.” Jake piped up from the back, “Forty-two? No way — you’re holding up better than he is.” I grinned, flattered despite myself.

We were nearing the turnoff to their swimming hole when Miles shifted in his seat and let his hand brush my knee. It lingered there, casual at first, then slid higher, his fingers grazing the hem of my shorts. I froze — hands on the wheel, eyes on the road—but before I could process it, he’d nudged under the fabric, teasing the edge of my swimsuit. My breath hitched, but I kept driving, too stunned to react. Jake, catching on, leaned forward and slipped his hands under my tank top, tracing the curve of my ribs until he found skin.

I should’ve pulled over right then, laid down the law, but my body betrayed me. A rush of heat flooded through me, drowning out the rational part of my brain. We hit the gravel road to the swimming hole, and I veered into a shaded clearing, cutting the engine. Miles didn’t hesitate—he turned, grabbed my face, and kissed me, all hunger and no preamble. Jake tugged my tank top up and off, his hands roaming freely now, rough against my sunburned skin.

It escalated fast. I reached for Miles, fumbling with his shorts until I had him in my hand — hard and insistent. Jake yanked my seat back, flattening me out, and Miles climbed over the console, shoving my shorts down and pressing himself against me. He pushed in, deep and unrelenting, while Jake knelt on the back seat, guiding my head toward him. I took him in my mouth, caught up in the chaos of it, the Jeep rocking slightly with every move.

The first wave hit me out of nowhere — a shuddering, electric jolt that left me gasping. Jake groaned and finished hard, flooding my senses with salt and heat; I swallowed, dazed, as it kept coming. Then Miles tensed, spilling into me, the mess of it slicking down my thighs and onto the leather seat. They didn’t stop there—trading places, they worked me over with hands and mouths until I lost count of the times I unraveled, each one sharper than the last. At some point, they flipped me between them — one in front, one behind — and I let go completely, drunk on the overload.