What are you doing?
Sheila watched him nervously as he opened his shirt out and spread it across a larger rock in the full sun, moving it every few seconds to leave a large damp patch on the rock, seeing it begin to dry, then he moved his shirt to yet another rock.
Before she knew it or could stop him, he turned back to her, unbuttoned her shirt, and was taking it off her shoulders and down her arms, discovering too late, that she was wearing nothing under that shirt. Absolutely nothing!
She tried to bring her arms up to cover herself, but she couldn’t with her shirt low on her back by then, and her arms trapped in the sleeves.
He faltered, staring at her breasts. He’d never seen breasts so perfectly formed, so substantial, so breath-taking, and he’d seen breasts all of his life growing up with his older sisters who'd had to ignore him.
She felt the shock to him seeing her breasts in their entirety, unexpectedly, like that.
He paused for a moment before he continued, trying to ignore what he could see. He tried not to stare but it was impossible not to notice.
His mouth was suddenly dry, and he fumbled taking the shirt down her arms as she made a futile attempt to wrench her arms free of it, only setting her breasts dancing in front of him until her shirt was completely off her.
She actually groaned. She hadn’t meant him to see so much about her. It had now become so much more dangerous for her.
His sisters sometimes got daringly rebellious in the same way when their mother wasn’t close by to reason with them and pull them back, but they didn’t have breasts like this. He spied on them, as most younger brothers did, delighting in pissing them off whenever he could. They were only his sisters and they were a pain in the arse!
These breasts were disturbingly... wonderful! But he shouldn’t stare, or she’d get even more scared of him. His much older sisters only got annoyed when he stared at them, and if he stared too long he risked having a bar of soap or something heavier thrown at him so he'd learned not to be too obvious about being curious.
Things had just gone from bad for her, to very much worse.
She avoided looking at him and waited to see if he would say anything to her to embarrass her even more. The situation had suddenly become very threatening for her.
He was surprised, of course, but he was not about to let it, or her embarrassment or shyness, stop him doing what was needed for her.
He said nothing about any of that embarrassment for them both but tossed her shirt onto another rock to one side of them, out of her reach, (dammit!).
He wrapped his shirt around her, bringing it over her head, and dried her hair; rubbing at it, setting her breasts moving delightfully in front of him again; jiggling so nicely as he did that, despite her covering them with her hands, trying to hold them still. There was nothing she could do about any of it. She could say nothing; she couldn't get away from him. She was trapped with him no matter what he chose to do to her.
He used another dry part of his shirt to dry her back, then swept it across the top of her shoulders.
She was as stiff as a post, terrified again, wanting to push him away, but she’d have to uncover her breasts to do that.
“I’ll let you dry yourself more, while I see to your shirt.” He turned away from her.
She hadn’t expected that!
He left his shirt over her hands and partly over her shoulder, though it took her a few seconds for her to become conscious of that, as he stood up and moved away from her to squeeze out the water from her socks and her wet shirt, and to spread them out on one of the larger rock slabs that was almost too hot to touch, just as he had done for his own shirt earlier.
His walking away might give her chance to recover her wits; him too, and allow her to do something for herself.
He ignored her, sat on a rock a few feet from her, and took off his boots and socks, squeezing the water out of them; drained his boots, laying his socks on other nearby rocks to dry as she watched him warily, seeing that he seemed to be no longer interested in her. She did not believe that.
Hell! He was getting undressed, so the situation wasn't improving at all.
She hadn’t expected him to leave her alone and to walk away as easily as that.
He glanced at her, seeing that the side of her leg was scraped and bloody, but not seriously so.
“Use the shirt to dry yourself. That’s why I left it with you.” He said nothing else, ignoring her again. Except she would be impossible to ignore.
She watched him with growing alarm as he stripped off his shorts and did the same for them, wringing them out several times, with the water pouring out of them each time.
He still had his underwear covering him, but they were wet too. He got his shorts drying, knowing that she was watching him like a hawk, or as a deer would be watching a pack of circling, hungry dogs.
He didn’t care. He wasn’t going to fight with her. She would soon change her tune when she realized that she had no choice, and that if she wanted to get warm and to get out of here before dark she needed his help, and should learn to cooperate with him to get dry.
When he looked at her again, it was to see her avert her eyes quickly, but she wasn’t doing anything with his shirt, still trying to hide her breasts. It would be an impossible task. His getting partially undressed didn’t help either.
He sighed heavily. Annie had been right. She was too shy for her own good.
He’d never get her down to the road if she was going to be like this all the time and fighting over what had to be done or getting scared every time he touched her or came near her.
At the same time, he felt sorry for her. He would try again.
She was nervous, and he didn’t seem to give a damn about her personal situation. He was not shy or embarrassed, but why would he care? She was the vulnerable one. How could he be so nonchalant about something so serious for her?
When he turned again to see how she was doing, he could see that she hadn't done anything for herself, probably frustrated at her relative helplessness, sitting with her head down and her eyes closed, afraid of seeing him go even further to undress himself, or scared of what else he might do for her... and never sure what his plans for her might be, in such a remote place.
She was also in pain.
He moved his own shorts and socks once more to keep them drying, doing the same for her clothes, seeing the wet splotches they left on the rocks; but they were drying already. He walked across the rocks back to her, took his shirt off her as she still covered her breasts defensively—but not very successfully covering them, and dried across her front, above and below her breasts, where she would not do it for herself; ignoring that she’d gone tense again. It was difficult to help her with her so rigidly uncooperative.
He knelt in front of her, speaking in a low voice to her, telling her what he would do as he wiped at her arms, then under them as he lifted them part way out from her body but only as far as she would let him, never letting go of her breasts, always tense; and then he dried across her abdomen.
He paused and spoke to her again as though he were dealing with a frightened child.
“Before I can do anything else to help you, I will need you to relax much more than you are. Even move your hands if you can, or I’ll never get my shirt on you properly to get you dry and warm.”
He sensed her response to that request.
No... bloody... way!