Would today be the day? Saturday morning was cool and crisp, and the woods were full of sweet, late-summer smells, and bright sun shimmered off the dew that decorated every living thing. She walked ahead of me, her movement hinting of beauty concealed in loose-fitting flannel shirt and baggy slacks.
Tomorrow would mark four weeks since I had agreed to be celibate. In that time, nature's sexual inclination had been frustrated, starved, imprisoned-had transformed into a terrible, yearning need writhing just below the surface of every thought and feeling. All my senses, heightened by a condition I had imposed on myself to please her, had turned on me, continuously tortured me, demanded a response through every waking moment, and sometimes even in my dreams.
"You are so quiet, lately," she said without looking back. "Is anything wrong?"
Of course, something was wrong! I was miserable! But I said nothing, too proud to allow her to suspect I might not be able to endure. Then, she stopped and turned to face me. She looked into me. Bright, blue eyes, with tiny flecks of brown in them, looked right into me, melting my protective covering.
"Sometimes, I think I can't go on," I said, unable to pretend any longer.
She kissed me with full, moist lips. The roundness of her body, her warmth, softness of her hair, tortured me with little touches as we embraced.
"Sure you can," she said matter-of-factly, again looking into me. "You can endure it if you set your mind, because it pleases me for you to do that."
She turned and continued to walk on. I watched her hips tease the fabric of those baggy slacks, and her flowing red hair toss about her shoulders.
I was steeped in my own uncertainty. Could I make it for another day? The emotional discomfort had grown to be as tormenting as the physical ache. Neither, however, could compare to the growing spiritual void, a loss of connection to meaning, a dissolution of my center. When she said, "Sure you can," as if my hurt meant little to her, that pain magnified and further hollowed out my core. I wondered how monastic people ever got past this emptiness in the pursuit of true, lifelong celibacy-what kind of devotion must possess them to even consider such a thing.
We came out of the woods into what had once been part of an orchard. Construction of the bypass many years ago had cut it into a pie slice that was now grown up with brush and wild grasses. What was left of the orchard consisted of a handful of abandoned pear trees, wild and scraggily. We often ventured here because nobody else ever did.
One of the pear trees, heavy with growth from years of neglect, dropped its bows to the ground, forming a shady alcove. Except for the traffic noise from the bypass, which a thick hedgerow mercifully muffled, it was cut off from the world, a secret nook that occasionally we crawled into like children at play.
Before we entered, we paused and looked at the tree. Left to fend for itself, it had continued to produce, although sparsely. The fruit were small and uneven, but very tasty. Every year we came here and ate them as we sat in our shaded hiding place, partaking of a natural sweetness nobody else seemed to know about.
"This one is ready," she said as a yellow pear came loose into her palm as soon as she touched it.
I was about to pick another, but she stopped me and said we would share.
Turning it over in her fingers, she studied the pear, then stooped, went in under the boughs, and sat down on the soft ground, leaning her back against the tree. Her eyes flashed at me, and she said she would like me to join her-after I removed my clothes.
She watched me undress. Cool morning air touched my skin as more of it became exposed. The last thing I removed was my under shorts, spotted with wet stains. I placed them on top of my clothes, which were piled on top of my shoes. My erection stood out, pulsating, oozing.
"Hand and knees," she instructed. "Oh, and bring the belt. We will be needing it."
I undid the leather belt from my pants and coiled it around my wrist, then got down on all fours, and crawled into our secret place. The high grass brushed against my shoulders and thighs and teased my genitals. Crawling that way, naked, my anus exposed and sensing the cool air, flooded me with vulnerability.
Inside, she took the belt from me and had me kneel up before her with my legs apart. Holding the pear gently in one hand, she continued turning it with her fingers. She held the belt in the other and allowed one wrap of it, about six inches long, to uncurl. She gently played it over the top of my penis, first along the shaft, and then onto he crown, where her touch became lighter and more teasing. The intensity of the sensations coaxed me to close my eyes, tilt my head back, and let out a sigh. A light smack of leather against the underside of the tip of my penis brought me back to reality.
"The fruit from this tree is not the only thing that is ready," she said as she showed me the splotch of juices the smack had caused me to deposit on the belt.
"I'm sorry, Mmmm."
She laughed, and I blushed with embarrassment.
"Looks like I know how to pick the really ripe ones, the ones that are just aching to give up their little seeds. Doesn't it."
"Yes, Mmmm, it does," I replied, and smiled at her enjoyment of the moment.
When she held the belt up to my lips, I licked away the salty splotch. She put the belt down in the grass, where it rested menacingly in a partial coil.
She instructed me to place my hands behind my neck and stretch upward with my elbows pointing to the sky. She said in a soft voice how much she liked me this way, torso stretched upward, biceps curled, and armpits wide open with hair fluffed out. Mmmm loves male armpits, and takes great delight in men showing them off.
Making a circle with her index finger and thumb, she slipped it over the tip of my penis and slowly stroked. Anything else I could endure, but she knew this was the one sensation I could not struggle against for long-if she kept it up it would soon milk me of resolve. Again, my eyes closed, my head leaned back, and I sighed.
"I will lose it," I complained. "Please, Mmmm, don't make me lose it."
"And, why is that, my bullyboy? Any other man would welcome the opportunity to spend his seed at his woman's beckoning. What makes you so different?"
"My need is to endure for you, Mmmm-because it pleases you."
She slowed her movements, lengthening the torture to my raging erection. "I am a few inches from your cock, my bullyboy. You are just aching to befoul me with it, aren't you-watch it splatter on my face and then ooze down."
"No, Mmmm," I whined, afraid I was about to lose control. "Unless it would please you, Mmmm."
"That would not please me-not today, anyway. Today, it pleases me to have you endure. It has pleased me for many days to know the suffering in your face, in your demeanor, in your long bouts of silence."
Mercifully, she stopped. Grabbing me tightly around the shaft, she forced me to rock forward and back on my knees. She laughed at the way my scrotum swung to and fro.
"Now, you do it," she said, releasing her grip. "I want you to rock so I can watch your balls swinging."
I did as instructed, aware of the cool air surrounding my testicles as they swung for her. My penis, oozing strings of dew, bobbed in tune to the motion.
"How long has it been, my bullyboy?"
"Almost four weeks."
"Hmm…that long. I hadn't paid attention. And tell me, bullyboy, what has been the most difficult thing for you during that time? Other than my teasing you just now, what has led you closest to losing it?"
As I was thinking, I stopped rocking, and she reminded me to continue.
"Well?"
