Her woods, Her Pleasure

An early story, 1994. When I wrote it, to speak about the mud, the pond, the grass, and the sexual feelings they aroused in me seemed almost impossible, making my hands sweat on the word processor keys.

On the other hand, one man– sensitive enough– wondered where the action was; Hardcore, it seems, is in the eye of the reader

I feel that this story is closer to literary erotica than most of my work is.

.

---

I must give her a name, first of all, and that’s not easy. She must have her proper definition, for you to understand. The name book on my desk is no help, all the girl’s names are sweetness and light. Light she certainly has; of a still, contained, yet ferocious nature. I want to give you this impression, of a preying creature at rest. We’ll call her Diane, that untouchable huntress. The fearsome mistress of the woods.

Diane leads the way, confident I will follow. Compliance is still terrifying, but at least it’s beginning to seem familiar to me, an act of will no longer. First to the stream, where we undress. The water is icy-cold, and there are softly rounded stones under the silt. She stands me in the stream. I stand as she desires, spreadlegged, my arms crossed over my head. A big maple becomes a scoop. She trickles water here and there over my body. She aims the water, down my spine, between my buttocks. She pours water into my armpits, into my pubic hair. The cold water trickles over my vulva, and warms as it flows down my legs. She pours the tiny scoopful against my clitoris again. I make a noise, to give her the pleasure of deciding if she will allow it. No. She scoops up the hidden pebbles, washing them clear, and selects just the right one. And I open my mouth to let her push it in. Smooth mostly, but rough in some spots, the stone is too big for me to close my mouth over. I explore it with my tongue and endure her water game.

Diane is too lush for her clothes. Her face a little too vivid, the hair an improbable wheatstraw, the belly too round for today’s standards of beauty. I didn’t look twice, the first time I met her. I thought she looked lost, and forgot about her. Young, spoiled, conventional, I thought, if I thought at all. No match for me, certainly.

The maple leaf sticks to my wet skin. Pleased, she covers me with wet leaves, pressing them into the hollow places, molding them over my breasts. She plants them in my mouth, slipping their stems alongside my stone gag, so that, peering down, I can see them bristle forth, but then she covers my eyes with them too, so I can’t see any more. I feel her invest my pubic hair with a garden of leaves. Then she makes me squat a little so she can implant my vagina. The delicate vibrations barely register on my skin, yet they invade my senses, little ticklings of heat. She wants me lower, so she can insert them into my rectum, too. A little slap; she is aggrieved that they are falling out. I struggle to hold on to leaves in my vagina while she opens my buttocks. One at a time, twelve stems, while she counts them softly for her own amusement. Then she adds one more, and brushes her hand over the bouquet. Further decorating of my arms, and she gives me leaves to hold between my fingers. The leafy mask is my refuge, but she peels off my blindfold. A plastic mirror, its surface hazy and scratched, helps me view my new persona, a suffering dryad. she presses on my neck, to make me hunch over to see my foliant crotch. Erotic horror reflects back to me, a growing tree bursting through my openings. She shows me my face; I am haloed in green leaves, vomiting leaves. I am layered with a verdant pelt. And I see in her face the pleasure that my mild anguish gives her.

I make a steady living as a fashion model. Boyish, just right for the times. A local celeb, a big noise in a small city, I’m not kidding myself. A cafe diva, with a notorious pair of handcuffs on my belt, a bad reputation at night, but my clients think I give them cachet on the runway. A touch of New York, our very own rough trade butch.

She turns away, to thread her own hair. I know how she senses me, with the antennae between her shoulder blades, and my reason for being here is to stand motionless in a little icy stream, her creation. My reward for my obedience in this instance is torment to my clitoris with a long grey goose-quill she’s picked up, but to obtain this that I crave I must open to her further, tilt my pelvis forward and watch in the mirror as she uses it to lift the hood away, tugging it excruciatingly forward. Then she releases it, that’s all, no more, and I must turn around, run in a squatting circle, while she directs me from the stream bank. Drying leaves fall, float away. Now she wants to see me revealed. She makes me lay back in the miniature rapids, my head downstream, the water gaspingly cold. Leaves whirl away, the water battering my open thighs. She peels them away from my face. How kind she can be, how gentle her cruelty. She stoops down and inserts both thumbs into my cunt and opens me to the water.

To be sure, I was beginning to believe that no one was a match for me. Arrogance; pride before a fall, poetic isn’t it? I saw her again that night, in the lavatory. Something was wrong with her bra, and she quite matter-of-factly stripped off her dress and then her bra, to fix it. Her body uncontained by the clothes looked rich, voluptuous, and the blond hair was now obviously natural. Me in my black leather, and I folded my arms and looked her up and down. I was hamming for the audience. They would have expected nothing else. She dropped her gaze right away, and though she fiddled with her strap still, a blush spread itself over her neck and breasts and rose up to her face. It was fascinating to the ladies-room crowd. Me, the notorious dyke, and this unknown little femme. I leaned back, watching her, and when she put it on, I came over and hooked it for her. I gave her a smile in the mirror and kissed her shoulder before leaving.

Nearby our stream is a claybank. Diane leads me there, and we pour water into the soft earth, knead the clay to smoothness. The clay is in prime condition already, from past sport. My sculptress creates ephemeral emotions, and she leaves her raw materials in their places. This clay will never see a potters studio.

Three in the morning, walking home, and she pulled up alongside me in a grey Cadillac Seville and offered me a ride.

I lay down. Clay in the ground is always cool, my body heat won’t warm it up. She’s taught me that, the earth-witch. On her bare knees in the clay, beside me, she creates a wall that lifts over my crotch, creeps up my belly between my breasts. She collars my neck with the cool earth. Another wall marches around each breast, down my armpits. She manacles my ankles to the earth, with earth. A band for my forehead. She builds me bracelets, which bind me to the ground because of their fragility, stronger than steel, stronger, certainly, than my will. She tests their strength, with stinging slaps inside my spread thighs, and sees that they hold fast. Sometimes she wants to hit me, sometimes not. Today, it seems, she does, and a rain of blows heat my legs while I struggle to keep still, keep inviolate her sculpture on me. She hits my breasts, in their mud circles, and my arms twitch with recoil. She wants to see how long I can remain immobile this way, and my breasts and inner thighs bear the brunt of her curiosity.

She kneels over my head, her light brown bush beginning to darken. I press my mouth to her other, little mouth, and push, with my tongue, the stone I have been carrying, I push it into her vagina. She sighs, settles herself, and her little fingers clear away the clay from my own hungry cunt. Teasing it to watch me pulsing in vain as I kiss and stab at hers. A slap now and then, and when her waters come in a rush she forgets to hit me, intent on wringing out the last drops of her pleasure.

I relax, her hot thighs my refuge, the cool earth under me, clay seeping into my hair. So that when the slap comes on my labia I startle and break my clay shackles. Diane laughs; according to her rules, she’s won. Now she can slap, pinch, pull. Her fingers dance over my vulva, leaving devastation in their wake. I sob, pant, suck at her, my legs spread out as wide as I can force them for her exquisite idea of punishment. Her cream floods me once more. Her body raises above me, her thighs strain; the river stone gag slips back out of her vagina. I open my mouth wide wide wide to catch it.

I said thank you and got out of the car, and she followed me to the door. I said good night at the door and she followed me inside. After a half hour of lackluster smalltalk I followed her to my bedroom. All I really wanted was to go to sleep. I had work in the morning. As far as I could tell, she’d never been with another woman before. Or many men, either, maybe only one teenage sweetheart. Just what I didn’t need, some Cherry Vanilla looking for god knows what. One mistake, and I’d be facing battery charges.

I’m laying on my back, by the stream bank, my knees drawn up to my chin. My arms twisted around my calves, I clasp my ankles. She has a piece of soft white rope which she passes under my body and loops around each forearm. Drawing it tight pulls my limbs down, opening me up, as she desires. She ties the cord in a little girl’s bow on top of each arm, and busies herself with packing the clay around me, to support my curved spine comfortably. The sun is rising higher, she turns my head to the side away from the light. She brings up handfuls of her beloved stones. Smooth, almost polished, they range from an inch to three inches in size. She heaps them onto my stomach and picks each one up separately. The smallest ones she casts aside, and the rest she presses into my vagina, one after another, and when my wetness overflows she uses it to lubricate my rectum, so it too can receive its share of the heavy stones. I feel them shift as they settle deep within my outraged being. I feel as if I am being weighted down to the earth.

She spreads a slurry of mud overall, spreading it out over my vulva, while I pant with dread. I know she will, and she does, bring her hand down in a shocking slap that sprays the thin mud over my chest and face. She adds a fresh layer for the fun of hearing me whine, adding to the spatters on my skin. Today instead of a pebble for a gag, she has peeled a thin willow stem and pushed it back between my teeth. Now she paints my face with bands of greyish brown mud, and leans down to kiss my stretched lips, licking at the twig inside them. My labia are engorged with blood, my rectum tingles with need. Each slap seems to reverberate deep within the stones dwelling there. She flicks her thumbnail hard against my clitoris, and laughs. She builds a little clay mound over it, and embeds a black pebble in the mound. And then she rinses herself off in the stream, spreads a towel and settles herself with a paperback while her captive feels the mud dry, the stones collect the heat of the sun. She leans over to fan the little flies from my face.

She stood at my bedroom door, and I watched her take in the trappings of my vocation; The paddle hanging from the center of the headboard, the leather cuffs at each corner, the whips and gags hanging in a menacing row on the wall. I tried to understand the feeling I got from her, that topping her would be dangerous. And throwing her out of my house also seemed inadvisable, by that time. I tried to lead her back for some sweet, vanilla sex on the front room sofa, but despite the blush consuming her from the chest up, she had found what she was looking for in the black leather. I couldn’t get her to explain or negotiate. I gave her a password; she had never heard of that little custom, and reassured her that no real harm would be done. The company brochure. And when I put the paddle to her skin, I heard her cry out, a sound of recognition.

I lay on my back in the stream and she pushes a yellow plastic funnel into my rectum. I lower it into the race at her command, the icy waters swirl into my colon, I raise it up, over and over. This is the most severe test she has ever set for me. The penalty for disobedience would be a stroke across the back of my thighs with a stem of Stinging Nettle; the plant lays on the bank in readiness, but the truth is that I would welcome the flogging instead of this; It’s the thought of failing her that I cannot bear. At length she slips it out. Now I must stay on all fours in the stream while she inserts stones into my anus as well, before I crawl to the bank to endure her hands. I may not void into the stream but must crawl, shivering, some ways away, and dig a hole with my hands into which I may finally release myself. She brings a bucket of water to throw over me, for cleanliness. I cover the hole, and she makes me wrap my legs around a young sapling’s silky bark as I lie on my back. I may rub against it while her thighs imprison my head.

It was what she must have wanted. from the time she was learning to walk. Her childhood sweetheart wouldn’t hit her and so he lost her, and she came out to the alien territories of the downtown nightclubs, alone and frightened, and hoping. My vision was of a deer, in search of its ordained predator, and as ordained I made love to her, without any volition, with all the amoral tenderness of a child, as I brought her to tears with the paddle. And talk and tears all the rest of the night, morning coming closer all the while. Diane was asleep in my bed while I strutted and twirled down the catwalk and my job had never seemed so dreary.

I have my period, first day cramps. She brings me to a tall rounded boulder. I straddle it, relishing its soothing sun-harvested warmth that relaxes my muscles. A huge burst of blood releases, spasmless, and the grey granite stains red. Diane, sitting in front of me, smiles. Her fingers drawn irresistibly to the stuff, she paints stripes over my body with the red sticky fluid.

I saw her at my apartment, in those first months, for the rituals of leather and chain. I bought her a new wardrobe, one that made a celebration of the lush body. I took her to restaurants and clubs, brought her under the scrutiny of the pale nighttimers that swim in and out of the scene. And some of them shook their heads at me, for destroying the innocence of this child.

My ankles and wrist bound together, I lay on my side like a captured animal. The tang of Autumn has turned the maples red, but there are some warm days left, and Diane heaps the brilliant fallen leaves over my body. I am blinded in red and yellow confetti, and she burrows in to find my unprotected cunt.

At last she invited me to her home, on her father’s land. I’m a city girl. I’ve never felt comfortable away from sidewalks and stoplights. Diane grew up on these half-tamed acres. Little by little, she introduced me to her private world, out in the Woods. And she took control out there, easily. I gave it to her, though not easily. I have a distrust of the ways of the earth, its plants and creatures unknown to me.

We follow a trail to a pond, half tamed, half-choked with lily pads. The grassy verge is mown and inviting, and Diane strips off her clothing there. I follow suit reluctantly. This is, in fact, the first time I have ever been out in the woods with her. I am mildly dismayed when she stretches out, not on the grass but on a strip of raw soil at the water. Joining her I find out how silky the texture of mud can be. She reaches out, and pulls to shore a pale water lily. The only other bloom floats far away, and she asks me to get it for her.

I have no desire to brave the brown water. Shadows move under its surface; I only know the civilized aqua swimming pool. Diane is contemptuous of my squeamishness. When I refuse to be coaxed, she pushes me in. The banks are steep and slippery; it is easy for her to keep me prisoner in the water. To reach and return with the flower, my only parole. Diane, gleeful and mud-smeared, would teach me her lore, she announces. I, looking up from the water, my feet nervous on the shifting floor, must agree. And so, at her direction, I wade out once again. I mount a half-submerged log, green with slime, horrifying to my city-senses. And, cringingly, I press against the moss, rub it into my cunt, ride it to orgasm for her. My first lesson.

I remember, the job that morning was a bridal show. The director asked me, snickering, if I had my handcuffs with me. I used them to lead a tuxedo-clad male model down the runway. Giggles at the joke, winks and thumbs-up from the local elite. The boy shared a table with me at the bar afterwards, relishing the fantasy of intimacy. I played the cold mistress for his benefit.

The day is sultry, too hot to wear clothing that might come between the skin and any subtle current of air. Diane and I are sitting out in the screened porch in back of the house. We are waiting for the thunderstorm that she says is imminent. Wasps dash themselves against the screen, we drink iced orange juice, read, turn our faces to the lazy fan in the ceiling. At last a peal of thunder announces itself. A blast of cool air and the first fat raindrops announce the kind of torrential downpour that crushes umbrellas flat, murders young flowers. And she sends me out in it. On the grass at the foot of the steps, I lay on my back. Shielding my face with an arm, I open my legs, pull them up, open myself to the furious battering rain. She comes out to me, opening an umbrella, and crouches at my head, tenderly sheltering my face while my breasts and belly, thighs and vulva sting under the sluicing onslaught. Her own hair, wet as mine, drips onto my shoulders.

My mistress is anything but cold. She does what she will, in malice or desire, but always in heat. And the trials that I undergo for her are, to her, no more than the games that a little girl had always played in the course of a protracted isolated childhood.

A tree has fallen across uneven ground. I lie on my stomach to wriggle under it at a low spot. When I feel the bark at the small of my back I turn myself to face up, the tree across my chest and stomach. She fills the hollow with broken leafy branches, pressing around me. Now I cannot move, my hands trapped obediently at my sides. I can’t see over the trunk. I can only feel her push my legs apart, feel her delicate invasions begin. The smell of rotting loam fills my nostrils, I watch the leaves flickering against a blue sky, but all I can see in my mind is a black abyss, and her beckoning hand.

Tags: -dykesex, bdsm, Femme Vitale, gender, outsidesex