My Woodland (re) Treat

My Woodland (Re)Treat

Most of my stories will be about things which have actually happened, but like any good, honest pervert, I have my fantasies. Some of them are fairly standard, and have, over the years, come true - gangbangs, bukkake, naked in public and so on (I'll write about them at the proper time). Others are just plain freaky.

This one was a dream, and as with all dreams, it started with a very ordinary situation.

I was on holiday with my boyfriend at the time. We had spent the evening in the local pub, chatting with holidaymakers and locals, but not making any real connections. By that, I mean we had not met anyone to invite back to our bed.

I suppose that might be a little surprising, as I've never had a problem finding company, but sometimes it simply doesn't happen. I have few hang-ups about sex and have always been happy to fuck soon after meeting someone (or several someones) - however, it has to feel 'right,' and if it doesn't, forget it.

That doesn't mean I'm shallow enough to go on looks alone - I've turned down people who are very attractive, and gone with others who many would reject after a glance - there has to be a 'connection.' I'm not sure how that works, but I think everyone has it. Maybe it's eye-contact, or conversation; maybe it's some deeper sixth sense. Whatever, if it's not there, it won't happen.

So, on this particular night, we got home alone. He was drunk, which is never attractive (I don't drink much - never have), and despite his fumbling attempts to seduce me, I really wasn't interested. Looking back, it was a relationship that was in its death throes anyway.

I had long since learned that being drunk and sex simply don't mix - "it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance," as Shakespeare put it. He was right - as he was about so many things (you see - I'm not just a pretty face).

It was, perhaps, the first time I had turned down this particular young stud, and he stomped off, sulking, before returning, sitting as far from me as possible and turning on the TV. Honestly - men! Why can some of them not understand that saying 'no' isn't a deep personal insult, and doesn't mean a woman hates them, it just means that we don't 'feel' it. Could be the time, the place, the circumstances, the mood - anything - but a smile and understanding is so much better than behaving like a child whose favourite toy has been taken away.

I took myself to bed alone, irritated, but unsurprised at his behaviour, and lay in bed, reading. It was a book I'd read before - 'The Day of the Triffids' - John Wyndham's dystopian classic - and I was thoroughly enjoying re-reading it.

I was, in fact, feeling quite horny (not because of the book), and considered playing with myself for a while before settling down to sleep. There was a small 'bullet' vibrator in my bag, which was quite powerful, and very capable of getting me off quickly, but the thought of going back into the living room and waking the incredible sulk who was in there deterred me.

I considered my fingers, and even glanced around for any suitable objects. My eye paused at the electric toothbrush - but no. It wouldn't have been the first time, as I had been very experimental with household objects in my youth - but not now.

In truth, I was tired after a long day walking, and knew I should sleep. Ten more minutes reading, and settle down, I decided - there would probably be an argument in the morning, and I wanted to be refreshed to deal with it - and at least keep the relationship limping on until the end of the holiday.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, bright sunlight streamed through the window of the holiday cottage, which is always a pleasant surprise in Wales - doubly so after two rather damp days. I got out of bed, embracing the warmth on my naked body, and approached the patio doors which led to the garden.

I flung the curtains wide, not caring if someone saw me (secretly hoping they would, if I'm honest), and looked across the small, well-tended lawn and footpath leading to a gate. This opened on to a woodland path, through towering trees, arching over yellow and blue wildflowers.

The grass was glistening with dew, and silvery webs criss-crossed every section. Beyond this, a low mist was in place, hiding perhaps the bottom six inches of the ancient trees. It was the sort of scene I imagined in 'The Lord of the Rings' - a cottage in a clearing, with woods hiding wonderful secrets.

As if from nowhere, a rabbit appeared, hopping across the garden, nibbling grass before darting under the gate into the wood.

I glanced up as a shadow crossed the lawn - a single cloud drifting across the sun. It brought me back to reality. There was a cloud on my horizon too - the sleeping tantrum on the sofa - and I really did not want to deal with it just yet.

I reached a decision quickly. Before confronting harsh facts, I would enjoy this beautiful morning a little more. I wandered to the drawer, looking for comfy underwear. I was disappointed. I must have worn all my comfies earlier in the week, and all I had were my tanga knickers, which were better than a thong at least, and a translucent bra which offered little support, but was great for flashing my boobs in a low-cut top.

Whatever - not the best, but good enough.

I looked for a top, finding my baggy vest top, which was low-cut to start with, but gaped massively if I had to bend forward. Then I slipped on my tight, ripped denim shorts, cut so high that you could see the lower part of my bum cheeks.

I wouldn't usually choose these things for a casual walk - they were more appropriate for attracting every perv within five miles - but I didn't care. I was hardly likely to see anyone (which defeated the object of this outfit).

With sandals on my feet, I opened the patio doors and stepped out.

It was chilly, and my nipples instantly stood to attention, blatant points through my thin bra and top. My exposed skin tingled, and I considered putting on something a little warmer. I knew, however, that this was just an early morning coolness, and the day would soon warm up.

I strolled across the lush grass, feet and ankles soaking from the morning dew. I opened the gate and continued across the field to the wood.

There were mature trees arching broadly, branches meeting overhead. They were oaks - I recognised the leaves and developing acorns. The branches were gnarled and twisted, binding together above lower growing plants. I thought that I may not find a way in, until I spotted an opening, a pathway leading inside.

I looked up the path. It was gloomy and disappeared into blackness after a short distance, yet despite this, I didn't think twice about going in. Oddly, I had the feeling that I was heading somewhere - I just had no idea where.

After a hundred yards or so, I looked back. The entrance had disappeared in the darkness, and I could only see because my eyes had adjusted to the dappled gloom of light, filtered through the trees.

As I walked further, the path narrowed. Branches grabbed like fingers at my arms and clothing, pulling my vest, dragging it down, off my shoulders, revealing more of my cleavage as I walked. I had no desire to turn round, however, and allowed my top to become ragged, on condition that I remained unscathed.

I found myself having to turn sideways to get through, pushing past plants that seemed to grow and grasp at me, not scratching, but brushing gently across my breasts, catching my nipples, flicking them, making them erect and solid. Still, I never thought of turning back. I had an urge, no, a need to keep going onward to my destination.

As I pushed on, the harsh, rounded projections became softer - mounds of gentle moss, brushing around my thighs, caressing my backside and hips, like a tender massage, sometimes pushing firmly and insistently, others being feathery strokes across my inner thighs, making me damp and moist.

I reached a final, almost solid blockage, where I had to force myself in, feeling every part of my body tenderly manipulated, tendrils creeping inside the legs of my shorts, brushing my most intimate parts, gently flickering across my labia, and working, somehow, into the crack between my buttocks. Impossible, of course, I knew it could only be because they were pushing from outside, but it felt so much like direct contact with my skin - and I liked it and welcomed the fact that I was being gently stimulated.

I burst through the final barrier, my hands and knees landing on soft mosses and emerald grass.

I looked at myself before considering my surroundings. My body was damp all over, covered in a light sheen of dew and mist - and maybe sweat, for I had certainly become very warm as I made my way along the path. I had a greenish tinge, as if the natural dyes of the plants had tinted my skin.

I checked my clothing. My baggy vest had been stretched and ripped, so that one breast now hung over the neckline, the thin fabric of the bra torn to allow a nipple to peek through, as if it had been designed that way. My shorts were more ripped than previously. Where the legs had been tight to my skin, they had been stretched. Every item was soaked.

I checked myself briefly for any injuries but saw none. Then I looked at my surroundings.

The first thing I noticed was a gentle roar, and as I scanned the clearing, I saw a large pond, with a waterfall pouring into it. Rainbows shot above the water as the spray played, and sunlight reflected off the surface, bouncing off crystal clear waves.

Around the extensive, deep pond, was a small, sandy beach, followed by grass extending maybe twenty yards back to the forest. Dotted in the grass were flowers - pink, white, blue, yellow - and rocks, standing around the edges like some ancient stone circle, with others dotted around in groups, extending upwards by anything from a few inches to a couple of feet. All were worn and smooth.

Apart from the waterfall, I heard branches rustling softly, as if in a gentle breeze - yet there was none - and an occasional scuttling, as if there were woodland creatures nearby. Interspersed with all this, was a low hum and a gentle chattering, as if these same creatures were communicating in some language all of their own.

There was a scent of opulence - rich and fruity, along with fresh mown grass, honey, and lilies. Beneath this, however, was the hint of another odour - rotting fruit, slightly on the turn, as if it were the day after peak ripeness, and rot was beginning to set in.

I walked to the edge of the pond, enjoying the tingle of my skin from the cool moisture and the brushes of the branches - reminiscent, a little of how I felt after being spanked, but without any pain - just glowing. I touched my fingers to the water. It was cold, but not icy. I licked my fingertips and felt invigorated by just the slightest taste. I must have been thirsty, but this had never registered.

I heard a scurrying behind me and turned quickly. Some branches swayed, and slowly came to a stop. Another sound - more branches moving - then nothing. This happened a few times, before the previous stillness returned.

I gazed at the water. I could see clear to the bottom. Stones glistened iridescent blues, greens, silvers as rich water plants swayed slowly. I looked at the gentle shelf down into the pond, which sloped away for maybe ten feet, before plunging deeply into the depths carved out by the waterfall, which fell from maybe fifteen feet - enough pressure to erode the rock, but not enough to be uncomfortable or painful. Like a power-shower, I guessed.

I cupped my hands and drank a mouthful of the water. Every part of me came alive. My muscles were firm and prepared to move, my mind was alert, senses now more aware than ever. I felt more alive than I had ever been. This water was better than any energy drink - it was energy itself, as my eyes cleared, no longer just seeing the surface, but looking deeper, beyond the veil, if you like.

Another scurry, but this time as I looked, I thought I saw shadowy figures - more a ripple in the air than anything solid, but I knew I could not be alone. In the water, too, invisible shapes seemed to carouse and play, defined only by outlines. It was mesmerising, as if I had entered a different world - a secret world, beyond the veil which usually cloaked it, now exposed to me.

I needed to swim. I was vaguely aware that this was a public area, and anyone could appear at any time, but I didn't care. If someone saw me, so be it. At least I could dry my clothes.

I pulled my tattered vest over my head, noting how the high-pitched chattering sounds around me intensified. I looked down. I knew my bra was translucent, but the sheen of moisture on my skin had rendered it virtually transparent. My dark nipples stood proudly erect, the left one peeking through a hole which had been created. They were a deep, ruddy-brown, darker than normal, the areolae stippled, each tiny goose-bump evident against the diaphanous fabric, the tubular buttons in the centre long and inviting - begging to be touched, and impossibly sensitive.

I slipped off my shorts. My knickers, again, were near-transparent, clinging to my labia, my slit visible to all in a camel-toe between my thighs.

There was a frisson to every touch. My skin tingled, each brush of fabric sparking neurons and stimulating my brain to greater heights of self-awareness.

I became aware that the sounds around me had increased, like a breeze blowing across the top of bottles of varying sizes in short bursts, or a wet finger around the rim of a glass. It was building, like some natural orchestra to a crescendo as I looked round. It stopped instantly, with a small scurrying.

I was certain I was being watched, but not by human eyes. Maybe I was like Snow White, drawing in the creatures of the forest. Did Disney miss that part of the film? The part where the beautiful princess stripped naked, watched by birds, bees, foxes, badgers, fawns, and frogs. Did they admire her small, pert breasts? Were her nipples erect? Did she have a small bush of black pubic hair against her alabaster skin? Or would it be air-brushed? I can't imagine she shaved, as in the porn version of the film that I had watched, where she fucked all seven dwarves.

I unhooked my bra, eager to be rid of my clothing. If I was being watched, I didn't care. I didn't care in front of mixed company at parties, so why would I care now? I felt the consent in the air, the willingness to see me, but now there was no judgment, like a naturist resort, where nudity was just a part of everyday life.

I released my breasts, the touch of the air welcome after their confinement, and I put my head back, thrusting them forward, inviting the cool breeze to surround them and brush across the firm flesh.

Finally, I slipped off my knickers, willing the air to enter me, explore my inner passages invisibly and without stretching or invading. I knew it was unreal, but the thought of the air occupying every orifice stimulated me.

I walked into the water, the cold making goosebumps erupt and my nipples contract even further. People talk about nipples that can cut glass. Mine never could, but they could have been stoppers in narrow-necked wine bottles.

I continued walking, and small waves caressed my thighs, occasionally lapping up to my labia, gently washing them, like small fingers, before receding. I reached the drop into deeper water, lowered myself down to my shoulders and pushed off.

I swam a few strokes, before stopping and treading water. As I spread my legs, in a vertical breaststroke, I felt water push at my entrance, trying to force between my labia, working its way inside to my clitoris, surrounding it and pressing with little butterfly-soft touches. I wondered if a fish might have been attracted to me - I could see small silver sparkles darting back and forth - but when I looked there was nothing but water.

I lay back, the water supporting me with ease as I lifted my feet into a star float.

The fluttering around my clit continued, but now I felt a new pressure - two new pressures - one trying to actively enter my vagina, while another probed my back passage.

I felt no aversion, and relaxed, allowing the rich, denser liquid inside. It entered me, filling me gently, applying pressure to my vaginal walls and still fluttering, as if tiny, microscopic organisms were hammering tiny fists against my most sensitive parts.

I felt the same on my back passage. Initially, it was tight, my sphincter being closed. Then I eased, relaxed the small ring of muscle, as I would when preparing for anal sex.

The water entered. Again, it filled me, with no discomfort or stretching, and the fluttering began. I had no problem with water being there - obviously, I cleaned myself before anal sex - but this was different. Unlike the discomfort of pumping water, however, this entered gently, and, I felt, would leave just as gently.

There was no aggressive thrusting, just a gentle swelling and fluttering from both orifices - and all around my clitoris.

It was arousing, but in a way, I had never known before. Every pleasure-centre of my body was being tickled. Not the vigorous tickling of clumsy hands that makes me giggle and writhe until I want to pee, but a subtle, gentle tickle which I welcomed and made me relax, as it barely touched me.

As it happened, I felt small explosions - eruptions of waterspouts inside me, blasting every surface of my body, cleansing me more deeply and thoroughly than I ever thought possible, while, like a shower, focusing on my most intimate parts - after all, what girl hasn't pointed the gushing streams from a shower head directly at her pussy and loved the sensations.

I knew I was producing my own lubricating liquids, and these stimulated whatever was inside me to greater heights - stronger spurts, more vigorous fluttering across my G-spot, my clitoris, my labia. It was as if they took strength from my excretions - and as they took strength, so my pleasure intensified.

I began to breathe heavily, panting and gasping, aware of my muscles tensing. My head dipped back, under the water, stopping me from breathing. As I tried to resurface, gentle pressure kept me underwater. As I thought I might be about to drown, I was released, and surfaced, gasping mouthfuls of air. As soon as my lungs were full, however, I was drawn down again, depriving me of breath.

Oddly, I still felt no fear. The intention was not to drown me. This was breath play. This tactile, sensual water was trying to enhance my orgasm, but so much more gently than the men who had placed their hands on my throat, often making me more scared than erotically charged.

My muscles tensed, and I pulled my thighs up, taut, opening myself further than ever, a million tiny waterspouts exploding against every blood-suffused, hyper-sensitive part of my anatomy.

Deprived of breath, every muscle rigid, I felt my orgasm begin. My head was thrust up, gasping in air, and expelling it in a huge sigh, blended with a gentle scream. I know my pussy gushed, and I felt it convulse as the fluttering climaxed, like soft brushes across me, washed by intensive jets of liquid.

I felt contraction after contraction, as my pussy pulsed, expelling the soaking invasion from both front and back passages - not by force - the water simply left of its own accord, having cleansed me, and satisfied me with an earth-shattering, if gentle climax.

I came to my senses, still floating in the water, and stared around me. The water was now... well... just water - the most pure and clean water I had ever known, but no longer alive. Had I simply applied some weird anthropomorphic attribute, or had it actually lived?

All I knew was that I had enjoyed an unbelievably intense orgasm, and all I now wanted was to shower in the waterfall and lie back on the grass.