“Wood” by Erin Stokes

I dont know what first drew me in. His eyes? Green as the swampy marshes down by the old AppleRidge factory. Empty, desperate, pleading. As if they’d been waiting their whole life just to hold my refection, and steal a piece. His hands? Veiny and large, they seemed to shrink everything that came near them, taunting objects with impending diminishment just for being held.

Whatever it was, it stopped me in my tracks that day.

I stood somewhere between the shadows of the old Radner barn and the black woods that had filled my morning with sounds and introspection and excitement. I stood there drinking. My eyes attempting to quench a thirst I never knew existed before, a thirst deep inside me, deep inside me in a place I had never visited yet. Somewhere dark and light and moist and dry. The more I drank, the thirstier I became. I was frozen against the tree.

His eyes burned into the wood pile before him in a lustful haze. The broken tree parts were whispering, muddled. At first it sounded as though they were pleading to be left alone, but as I watched and listened, I began to realize that they were begging for something completely different. Begging for those huge dirt-tinged hands to grab them. Aching to be picked, plucked out of the pile and carefully stood upright, tall and important for a moment in time. Then broken, split, shattered into pieces by the splintered maul he held so purposefully it was almost hard to tell that it wasn’t an extension of him, all strong and worn and weathered and calm. And oddly, he seemed to care. He heard that wood pile loud and clear, easily translating their whispering pleas and deliberately choosing which piece to love, and then demolish with his next swing.

As he sorted through and listened for his next victim, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be that piece of wood. Laying there lifeless in a pile of the same, whispering my silent pleas for death. Feeling him pick through, pushing me to the side to inspect the others, big hands scratching and rummaging alongside me. The horrible rejection I would suffer as I felt him stop at another, the inevitable thrill as he came back to me, and grabbed me, as if he knew it had been me all along.

He bent down to pick up the halves of wood, and I could see the muscles in his ass tighten under his jeans, hard, direct, flexed all the way down the back of his thighs and calves, only to disappear into the rough leather of his immense brown boots, strong and sturdy as the legs they encased.

This routine went on for a good hour at least. The whispering wood. The obliteration of the same. Me wanting, imagining, fantasizing that I was one of his logs. The maul. The ass. The legs. The boots.

I’m not sure how he went about this routine without noticing me. It relieved and angered me simultaneously. It thrilled and daunted me. I was still, for sure. I had, perhaps, melded myself so completely with the very trees he was working with, blending in as if my skin were made of weathered bark, my arms branchlike, my legs, rooted in the earth. All that moved was my hair, blowing ever so gently with the wind like the leaves fifty feet above me.

Finally, I saw him retire the maul. He sat down on a jagged rock that sat feet from his wood pile. Out of his pack he pulled a thick twine rope, and began to ever so gently tie up his victims. Within minutes they were all packed tightly within the rope, and a handle had been created as well. And then he left. He grabbed his woodpile, his pack, his maul, and he was gone.

My legs began to tremble when the last glimpse of him was far into the shadows, my arms became too heavy to hold, my head too light to allow me to stand. I fell to the ground and breathed as though it was the first breath I’d ever taken. A long, deliberate inhale, loud, scary … gasp. Gasp. Had I been breathless for that entire time? Had my heart stopped beating? My hands landed on my chest to check for the rhythm. Pound. Pound. Pound. It was fast, steady, terrifying. My hand fell to the slope of my under-breast, and I felt my own touch shock through me, sending waves of pleasure strait down to my girlhood. My other hand followed the sensation, down my belly, landing on my clitoris underneath my sweats. I touched myself and the waves grew stronger, more centralized, heavy, and then erupted into ecstasy deep within me. I was contracting inwardly and shuddering outwardly, and in the next moment I began to cry. Long gut-wrenching heaving wails, the tears poured out of my eyes like the wetness poured from between my legs. And in that moment, all I ever could have wanted or wished for was to be bundled in his rope with the others.

Giggle. Please God turn me to wood. I began cackling out loud like a crazy lunatic, eyes still closed from my moment, hair entangled in the leaves on the ground , feet that had worked themselves up the tree caressing the bark with their soles. Laughing.

My eyes opened. He was there. Gazing at me, head cocked to the side. He didn’t look startled, or worried, or amused. He just looked.

I could feel myself smile. No control. Complete and utter loss for it. Gone.

“Better?” He smiled.

I began to sit up, attempting to stroke twigs and dirt out of my wild tresses.

“Yes,” I answered.

He reached out a hand, callused, filthy, splintered, strong.

“I’m okay,” I rejected his help.

I leaned myself back against the tree, the bark prickling me thru my clothes. It felt wonderful.

“Well then, I shall join you.” He sat down.

No more words. I could feel my grin getting wider as I gazed his eyes. I could see myself in the pools of green. I could see how completely I did blend with the tree, how at home I looked in its embrace. I could see he saw it too.

He was fondling the bark near my hair. Stroking the tree, softly, deliberately. I felt five fingertips ease onto my scalp, calm, steady. Suddenly all the pleasure that had just been lingering in my vagina rushed through my body to come to rest on top of my head. Fingers. Hair. Heaven. As he stroked my head I thought of everything. I thought of me. Evelyn Ryder. Thirty four. Strong. Driven. Powerful.

I pondered my walk. Not much different than my usual route. A slight variety. Now here I was, pinned against a tree by an invisible force, with a green eyed man whose fingers had now moved down onto my face, over my temples. They had traced my eyebrows and my nose, grazed along my cheeks, and were now hovering over and around my mouth, begging to be suckled, I’m sure. I could smell the sweat on his hands, the way it mixed with the dirt of the bark and the freshness of his slivered logs. Pine and soil. It was dizzying. I think I must’ve accidentally inhaled a part of his thumb, for suddenly I was gagging on it. And then, for the first time, I saw him smile.

I released. “You”, I whispered.

His grin widened. “No, no, …. YOU”.

Suddenly he was on his feet. I wondered if he was leaving. His fingers appeared on the buckle of his belt. He was opening the steel armor. He unzipped the denim of his fly. I received another aromatic whiff of sweat and splinters. It was the ghost of lust making its way to my flared nostrils, and down into my lungs, and through my blood to land in my cunt and swirl like waves of predestined orgasmic delight. Out it came, like a rocket ready to be launched to the moon. All I could see was his masculine hands alongside his actual masculinity. I swallowed hard.

“Put this in your mouth.” He said.

While I was still absorbing the demand, my lips flew to his erection, and my mouth obliged him his direct request and order. I felt his meat inside my face hole. My tongue swirled, my lips tightened. I hummed a soft salute to heaven. I looked up. He looked hard in the cock and face, strong in both. His energy was intoxicating as I breathed in the sweat of his nutsack.
He held my head steady against the hemlock. The bark scraped my scalp a bit as he started thrusting his dick in and out of my eager mouth. He pulled out and I followed. He pushed in and my throat opened.

My hands were on my pussy, swirling my clit in rings through the cotton of my sweats.

“You’re my baby.” He whispered from above. My insides started to convulse and my body endured heated waves of ecstasy and pleasure.

I felt it cumming out of his delicious man-piece. I felt it hot and pulsating over my tongue and down the back of my throat. It was the most delicious delight I ever had graze my palate. I swallowed every drop, falling back to the ground in delight.

He collapsed on top of me. Heavy. Sweat. Heat. Panting. His heartbeat felt like a subwoofer on my chest.

“Man.” He shuddered.

I hugged him close.

“And you?” He asked.

“Huh?” I responded, confused.

“The name is Man,” he replied. “And yours?”

I lost it, laughing hysterical and wild “MAN? YOUR NAME IS MAN?!”

“Yes.” He stared into my eyes with his green pools of heartbreak and desire. “It’s Man. And YOURS?” He pleaded.

“Evelyn, ” I answered. “Evelyn Rider.”

“It was a pleasure, Evelyn Rider. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

He stood up. Zipped and buckled his beautiful weapon back into safety, turned around, and walked back towards the line of the forest.

Tears stung my eyes again as I watched him go.


The Name is Man

An Erotic Excerpt

by Erin Stokes

facebook.com/erry.stoberry

 

 

 

 

New York, United States

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