Natalie:
I know that I shouldn't be here again. But it's where I find myself. Alone in the woods. Or, rather, I
should
be alone in the woods. Instead, I'm looking down the hill to the little log cabin tucked into the hillside and the gorgeously sexy man below, chopping wood in a rhythmic pattern of thwacks, thumps, and pauses. He's like a cliche of a lumberjack: ripped, bearded, and shirtless with tanned skin and a dark beard. Bearded not usually being my type, but whose type isn't ripped and shirtless?
This is all kinds of wrong; anyone this far out in the woods wants to be left alone. Which is the precise reason why I'm miles from the trailhead in this uncultivated stretch of Appalachia. I left the tourists and daytrippers behind miles ago and can safely indulge in my clandestine adventures.
This particular clearing just a few feet off the trail is my most shameful, indulgent secret. Cautious of my footing, I wend closer to where the canopy of trees gives way to scraggly underbrush, saplings, and unfiltered sunlight. I scrutinize the mossy undergrowth for any signs of poison ivy before I lay back against a fallen log. My knees fall open, and I slide my finger down into my folds, picking up moisture and brushing it over my clit on the way back up my body. I glide my finger sensuously up my side, teasing my nipple; I lick my finger before returning to circle my clit in slow, torturous movements.
The moss is soft and sticky under my sweaty back; the sunlight filtered through the dense spring leaves paints my forest bower a dappled green sea undulating in the light breeze. My heels push against the earth, breaking through the layer of moss to feel the gritty, moist clay of the soil.
My hand moves lazily, the slow build to pleasure fading to the background of the scene below me. I imagine that the rugged man looks up and catches me pleasuring myself in my shadowed bower. The disquieting thrill builds my pleasure in waves. My heels slip on the clay soil, trying to find purchase; my core clenches and my body stiffens, frozen in a rictus of heat and pressure before it crests. I mute my cries, my heartbeat hammering my body as I collapse back to earth. I want to giggle; I feel like a forest nymph hidden in the forest, spying through the trees.
Reality intrudes, and I stand up, brushing off the small pieces of mossy debris from my body as best I can. I drag my heels along the spongy forest floor to clear the mud, and my face heats as I return quietly to the trail, regrets and thoughts churning uncomfortably.
A few miles down the worn path, I find the meticulously placed neon-green of my dry bag behind the easily identifiable ancient oak that forces the trail to detour around its roots. I unbuckle and unfold the bag to extract my clothes and get dressed quickly.
Few hikers make it up this far, but this is the most nervewracking part of my journey. I'm a few feet off the trail and concealed by the oak, but while I get dressed and undressed, I won't be able to quickly scurry far enough into the treeline to avoid discovery. And as much as I get off on the thrill that I
could
be caught, I have absolutely no desire to be found out and face the real-world consequences of my weekend escapades.
I traverse the miles back to where I left the car tucked back on the unmarked mile-marker pull-off of the Parkway, thoughts crowding my mind. I know I'm acting like a complete creep and am uncomfortable knowing that part of why I think I can get away with this because I'm female. It's plain wrong, a guilty secret I'm not willing to share with even my therapist. And I know that it's more than likely that I'll be back here next Saturday morning as well. Just like I was last Saturday. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Yes, I have issues that I undoubtedly need to work through.
Matthew:
I'm exhausted. I got back out to the cabin late after work last night and still feel groggy; up with the dawn, unable to sleep through the birds' cacophony. I light the propane stove and prepare my coffee, splashing cold water from the sink on my face to clear the sleep and run my hands through my dark hair. Probably could use a haircut. Add that to the damn list.
I pour the coffee into my mug, hardly feeling the burn of heated blue metal through the callouses on my hands. I move out to the back porch and sit, watching nature and feel the stress slip away- at least for the moment. But as the coffee wakes me up, familiar anger creeps back in.
For months now, I've been in an emotional state ranging from mildly irritable to burning rage, and I don't fucking like it. Unable to stay still, I move over to the woodpile. I tell myself I need wood for the winter, but I'm more than aware that this is really a pressure valve release. I throw myself into the effort, bleeding off my fury with physical labor. Although the violence of hacking things to bits certainly doesn't hurt anything, either. The day heats up quickly, and I take my shirt off, using it to wipe some of the sweat from my face and take the last swig of my coffee. Fuck. Cold coffee tastes like ass.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and resist the urge to turn around and stare. She's back. At first, when I noticed the toned, nude woman on the edge of my property, I'd thought I'd finally lost it and was hallucinating. Gone over the edge and needed to be fucking committed to the looney bin. But she's returned for the last three weeks, and at this point, I'm pretty damn confident that she's not a figment of my imagination.
I decide not to be subtle as I adjust myself and go back to chopping wood. Right, wrong, or otherwise seeing her pleasure herself like a fucking ethereal goddess up on that hill makes my dick rock hard. Not to mention, I'm pretty sure I'm the one that she's getting off to. Maybe it's because I'm all kinds of fucked up in the head, but I find it hot as hell. My ego could use a boost right now, and it's not like I've gone out fucking looking for it. She found me. I'm not sure what the hell I want to do about it. I get the feeling that if I even look at her directly, she'll take off like a startled rabbit.
Natalie:
It's Saturday and, predictably, I'm back. I have little doubt that when my therapist suggested I spend more time nude working on feeling comfortable in my body, she meant
inside
my house. I sigh. Yeah, no doubt she'd be shocked I took it to it's extreme and am hiking nude every Saturday in the woods. Or, on second thought, once she'd gotten over the head-palming frustration, she probably wouldn't be. It's apparently one of my patterns; there's not much that I do halfway. So yay me, par for the course here.
It feels like minutes instead of a couple hours before I crest the hill and reach the oak where I stash my clothes. I'm getting fitter and faster, so the miles seem shorter. I duck behind the big tree and remove the dry bag from my pocket, looking around to make sure I don't have any unexpected company.
My ears strain, but all I hear is the layered noise of nature. My heart rate picks up as I untie my shoes and peel off my socks, setting them resolutely into the bottom of the bag. I'm on high alert as I strip off my top and sports bra in one smooth motion, separating them for efficiency on my return. By the time my pants are stowed in the bag, I'm noticeably wet and hyper-aware of my body. My phone and keys go in last, my final lifelines to the modern world. I shudder when the cool breeze blows over my exposed lips when I bend over to stow the bag. Anyone could see me, vulnerable, exposed.
