The early mountain sun broke over the trees with sharp clarity—no haze, no softness—just crisp beams of light cutting through the glass of the cabin like truth. Jack stood at the sink in his kitchen, steaming mug of black coffee in one hand, the other resting on the worn edge of the counter, bare-chested and unreadable as he looked out at the forest.
Behind him, Tessa and Charlene were still curled in the tangled sheets of his loft bed, limbs entwined like a sensual sculpture. But the scent of sweat and sex no longer held heat for Jack. Not this morning. Not now.
He’d given them a night—his night.
Now, it was over.
Jack wasn’t cruel about it. He never was. But there was something different in his eyes when he climbed the stairs—controlled, firm, distant. It wasn’t anger. It was finality.
He sat on the edge of the bed, nudging Tessa gently awake first. She blinked up at him with sleepy affection, her fingers seeking his, her mouth still swollen from kisses.
“Morning,” she murmured.
Jack didn’t smile. “Morning, sweetheart. Time to get up.”
Tessa stretched, yawning. “Mmm… okay…”
Charlene stirred beside her, lazily draping an arm across Tessa’s waist. “What’s the rush, cowboy?”
Jack’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t waver. But it cut through the room like an axe through pine.
“This ain’t a bed-and-breakfast,” he said, rising to his feet. “You had your night. It’s time to move on.”
Charlene sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal her full breasts, unapologetic. She arched a brow. “Is that right?”
Jack didn’t flinch. “Damn right it is.”
Tessa’s breath caught. “But I thought—”
“You got what you came for,” Jack interrupted, looking at her with a quiet kindness that still left no room for negotiation. “You needed to know what it was like. Now you know.”
Charlene narrowed her eyes, standing slowly. She moved toward Jack, her naked body a display of confidence honed over decades. She stopped inches from him, lips parted as if she might say something biting.
But he was already looking past her. Past both of them.
Not with disdain. But with certainty.
“This is my house. My rules. You don’t stay past sunrise unless I say so.”
Charlene’s lips curved—not in seduction, but in understanding. It turned her on, that steel in his spine. But she also knew better than to challenge it.
“Well,” she murmured, brushing a hand through her tousled hair. “You were worth the drive.”
Jack nodded once. “Appreciate the visit.”
Tessa swallowed hard. “Will we ever—”
“No,” he said gently. “We won’t.”
Half an Hour Later
Charlene’s SUV pulled out of the gravel drive first, the engine purring as it wound back down the forest road toward the main highway. Tessa followed in the black coupe, her eyes lingering on the rearview mirror until the trees swallowed the cabin behind her.
Jack stood barefoot on the porch, coffee in hand, watching until the dust cleared and the woods fell silent again.
Peace.
Dominion.
His.
He breathed it in like oxygen.
Midday – Town Grocery Store
Jack rolled into town a few hours later in his old F-150, the kind of truck that looked like it could wrestle a bear and win. He didn’t go into town often, but when he did, heads turned. The townsfolk were used to him—used to the way his muscles filled out a shirt, used to the confident, easy swagger of a man who knew how to swing an axe and make a woman forget herself.
He picked up only what he needed: coffee, eggs, bacon, some fresh herbs for the stew he planned to make that night. He took his time in the store, chatting briefly with the cashier, nodding to old friends, letting the quiet rhythm of the place settle around him like an old flannel shirt.
And then the air shifted.
He heard it first—the purr of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. Then the slow click of heels against pavement. Every head near the windows turned in unison.
Jack followed their gaze.
A sleek, pearl-white Range Rover rolled to a stop, polished to a mirror shine. From it stepped a woman who didn’t look like she belonged in this dusty town—but somehow owned it the moment her heels touched the ground.
She was tall. Voluptuous. A full, gravity-defying bust pressed tightly into a cream-colored silk blouse, her waist cinched in a high-waisted pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin. Expensive sunglasses perched on her nose, and her dark brown hair tumbled in thick, luxurious waves down her back.
Her presence was electric. Controlled. Regal.
Jack tilted his head, watching her through the glass.
“Who the hell is that?” muttered the butcher.
“She’s not from here,” said the woman at the bakery counter, smirking. “But she’s about to find out who is.”
Jack set down his basket, tugged his worn denim jacket over his white tee, and walked out onto the front steps of the store just as the woman approached.
She stopped when she saw him.
Jack gave her his most charming smile—slow, easy, practiced but never forced.
“Mornin’, ma’am.”
She pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose just enough to see him with full, smoky eyes. They ran over him slowly—his broad shoulders, his rough hands, the curve of his jaw.
“Well, hello,” she said, her voice velvet with a hint of playful bite. “You don’t look like you work here.”
“I don’t,” Jack said, stepping closer. “But I’m always happy to help a lady in need.”
She smiled, slowly. “Is that so?”
He extended a hand. “Name’s Jack Johnson.”
She looked at his hand, then shook it—firm, deliberate. “Vivienne DeLaney.”
The name rang faint bells—probably someone with money. A vacationer. A buyer from out of state. Maybe scoping land. But none of that mattered right now.
Because Jack only saw her curves. Her composure. Her heat.
“Well, Vivienne,” he drawled, “you lost? Or are you just exploring?”
She cocked her head. “A little of both.”
He took a slow step closer. “Town like this can be dangerous for a woman like you.”
She smirked. “Dangerous how?”
Jack leaned in, voice dropping. “You might not want to leave.”
Vivienne studied him, her pupils dilating just slightly. “I take it that’s a warning.”
“It’s an invitation,” Jack murmured.
Twenty Minutes Later
They left together.
Not in a rush. Not in a scandal. Just… understood.
She left her groceries behind. Slid back into the passenger seat of his truck like she’d been there before. Jack nodded to the cashier on his way out, who just gave him a knowing smile.
Vivienne didn’t look back. Neither did Jack.
The whole town watched them drive off, and no one said a word.
Because they all knew what was coming.
They knew Jack Johnson’s cabin wasn’t just a place. It was a legend.
And Vivienne DeLaney—rich, busty, beautiful Vivienne—had just stepped into the lion’s den.
The sun dipped lower behind the hills as Jack Johnson’s truck rumbled up the winding mountain road, the trees thickening on either side like a green tunnel leading nowhere. The sound of gravel crunching beneath thick tires echoed through the quiet, and in the cab, there was only the soft hum of the radio and the subtle shift of leather as Vivienne DeLaney adjusted her legs, crossing one over the other slowly.
She hadn’t said much since they left town. She didn’t need to. Her silence wasn’t nerves—it was curiosity. Calculation. She kept glancing sideways at Jack, like she was studying him.
And Jack? Jack didn’t bother with small talk. He liked silence. Especially when it stretched taut with tension like this one did.
“Nice spot you’ve got out here,” she finally murmured, glancing at the endless stretch of pines out the passenger window.
Jack kept his eyes on the road. “You haven’t seen it yet.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And what do people usually see when they get there?”
Jack smiled to himself. “Depends on what they’re ready for.”
That shut her up for a while.
Arrival
The truck crested the final bend in the drive and the cabin came into view, standing tall and proud between the trees like a monument to masculinity. Two stories of dark timber, broad wraparound porch, stacked firewood along the wall, and his workshop tucked to the side like an extension of his body.
Vivienne leaned forward, one manicured hand resting on the dashboard.
“Well,” she whispered. “This is… rugged.”
Jack killed the engine. Stepped out without a word. And when he opened her door and offered his hand, she took it—though her eyes said she didn’t take orders from anyone.
Still, she let him lead her up the stairs, the wood creaking under their steps, the cool mountain air brushing against the fine silk of her blouse. The scent of cedar, ash, and pine wrapped around her like a spell.
Inside, the cabin was dim and warm. Everything was crafted wood, stone, leather—no frills, just function and power. The fireplace dominated the room, dark now, but waiting. His tools were neatly arranged on the bench in the workshop corner. A bottle of bourbon stood half-empty on the counter.
Vivienne took a slow walk around, heels clicking softly on the old planks. She ran her hand across the back of a massive oak chair. Stopped to admire a bench carved from a single slab of dark walnut. She turned to face him.
“You built all this?”
Jack nodded once. “Every nail. Every cut.”
She raised a brow. “Impressive.”
Jack took a slow step toward her, his voice low. “You know what they say about this place, Vivienne?”
She tilted her head, amused. “I imagine I’ll find out.”
The Cabin’s Reputation
In town, they didn’t speak openly about it—but they all knew.
Jack Johnson’s cabin wasn’t just a home. It was a rite of passage. A secret too well-known to be gossip but too intimate to be printed in the paper.
Women talked—sometimes in whispers, sometimes in flushed, drunken confessions. They described the way Jack stripped them bare without rushing. The way he read their bodies like blueprints and took his time building them back up again—shaky, gasping, wrecked.
Men talked too. Not as loudly. But the bold ones—the curious ones—carried stories in their stares. Stories they never admitted out loud.
Everyone had heard the rumors. Some said he kept a list. Others said he took only the ones who needed it most. A few swore they heard screaming from the woods at night—pleasure or pain, they couldn’t tell.
Vivienne DeLaney didn’t know all that yet.
But she would.
The Unraveling
She stood in the center of the living room, framed by golden light pouring through the tall windows. Jack stepped in close, just behind her, his breath warm against her neck.
“You wear control like perfume,” he murmured. “But I bet it washes off.”
Vivienne didn’t flinch. “And you think you’re the man to wash it off?”
He took her chin between his fingers and tilted her head back. Not rough. But firm.
“I know I am.”
She stared at him—fire to fire—and for the first time, her breath caught.
Jack didn’t ask for permission. He kissed her like a man claiming territory—mouth open, tongue demanding, his hands cupping her full breasts through the silk, thumbs rolling over her already hard nipples.
Vivienne gasped, then groaned—deep and guttural—arching against him.
He didn’t waste time.
He turned her around, bent her over the massive oak dining table, the same table Charlene had once begged him to break her on. He yanked her skirt up, revealing black lace panties stretched tight over a full, perfect ass. His hand came down hard. Once. Twice.
The smack echoed in the silence.
She gasped, clutching the edge of the table.
“I told you,” Jack growled, dragging her panties down. “This is my house. My rules.”
Her breath hitched.
He knelt, spreading her legs, his tongue diving in without warning. Vivienne screamed, her hips jerking forward as his mouth worked her clit with practiced skill—sucking, licking, biting just enough.
“You taste like money and bad decisions,” he muttered, voice muffled.
Vivienne was trembling by the time he stood, his cock hard and thick against her thigh. He flipped her over onto her back, yanked her blouse open—buttons flying—and pulled her bra down to expose her enormous, heaving breasts.
Jack moaned.
“These…” he growled, burying his face between them, sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, his hand roughly kneading the other.
Vivienne writhed, her thighs wrapping around his hips, her lips bitten red.
“Jack—please—”
“Beg me,” he growled. “Tell me who’s in control.”
“You are,” she gasped. “You—Jack—oh my God—”
He slid inside her with one brutal, beautiful stroke.
Her back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream as he filled her completely.
And then he fucked her like she was his—hard, fast, unforgiving. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. Her moans became cries. Her cries became sobs of pleasure.
She came once—violently.
Then again—screaming.
Then once more—collapsed and sobbing, clinging to his arms like they were the only thing anchoring her to reality.
Jack finished deep inside her, grunting, his body tensed, his seed spilling hot and thick into her.
When he pulled out, she was limp. Glowing. Ruined.
He lifted her gently and carried her to the rug by the fire. Covered her with a blanket. Brushed her hair back.
“You still wearing that perfume?” he whispered.
Vivienne looked up, dazed and shaking. “No. You stripped it off.”
Jack smiled, kissed her forehead, and stood.
Later That Night
Back in town, folks sat at the bar, sipping whiskey and exchanging glances.
The old bartender, wiping a glass clean, looked out the window toward the mountain.
“Another one gone up there?”
The waitress nodded. “Fancy type. Big tits. Looked like money.”
He grunted. “She won’t be the same when she comes down.”
The men nodded quietly.
The women smirked knowingly.
Because everyone in town knew exactly what happened up at the Cabin of Jack Johnson.
And Vivienne DeLaney… was only the latest to be claimed.
Jack’s Page