Green Man Pt 01

Holly buys a spoon.

This is a modern incarnation of an ancient mythological person, the Green Man. In this story, he carves items that on one level seem utilitarian, but on another level work their spell on the user. In this chapter Holly purchases a common kitchen item that gives her incredible pleasure. Later chapters explore Green Man's effect on others. There is magical realism in this series, so you must suspend your disbelief to enjoy it.

All characters are adults in this series.

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Holly had wandered around the small, outdoor marketplace looking at the sellers' goods, trying samples of homemade lotions, nibbling on craft cheeses, sniffing the soaps. She must have returned three times to his stall, drawn to it, yet quite shy about finding herself there again, alone in his presence.

He was seated behind a table of his wooden wares and was busy carving. The stall seemed to be surrounded by a tent. It was cleverly decorated to resemble a woodland. The uprights of the tent seemed to be actual saplings and the cross-ties seemed to be cleverly arranged to look as if they were limbs.

The man did not look like the carpenters or joiners she knew from the remodel of her house. There was something different about him, but Holly could not name it. He seemed out of place and time, like a forest creature. His clothing was printed in some sort of camouflage. She could not place the pattern or weave. It was not the kind of camo that either the military or the eat-what-you-kill gun-nuts wear. It was more like he was covered in leaves.

The sign above his stall read 'GreenWood Wares.' He wore a sort of kilt that fell below his knees. Instead of pleats, it seemed to be made of panels so that as he sat on his stool, his thighs parted the pleats and they fell between his legs.

Holly caught a glint of something reflecting brightly and that drew her attention to the darkness between his legs. He did not seem to be wearing anything beneath, a glance, once - twice - suggested his manhood hanging thickly between his parted knees.

The man behind the table—Mr Green, she supposed—moved in a way that conveyed confidence and dignity. As with his kilt, his shirt, too, was more, a covering, than a costume. His chest was deeply muscled and through open buttons, Holly saw that his hair seemed to grow in groves rather than the wild tangle that men sometimes have. She thought, "He can pull off this fashion because it is not fashion, but more like a permanent style. I like that."

Mr. Green was not trying to impress. It was more that his were very practical garments. Holly's man, Joss, and his buddies wore handsewn leather aprons, lace-up boots, and knit caps when they did their crafts. The self-conscious look mattered to them more than the practicality of the clothes. "How cute," Holly thought, "that they, and men like them in their hobbies, dress up like burly workmen, these bankers, salesmen, and lawyers whose hands never raised a blister."

This man was definitely not her type, though. He was rough and earthy, where she preferred her men to be slim, hip, and heteroflexible in their fashion. He looked uncouth and perhaps dangerous. He didn't look threatening, not at all. It was all so odd.

Holly was acutely aware of style and fashion. She was completely put together for any event. If she were out at a country fair or farmer's market, as she was today, she would look like a fashion magazine's idea of a country peasant: natural fiber blouse, wool skirt, knit knee-length stockings. low shoes, a shawl over her shoulders, and a simple scarf to cover her hair. Her lips and eyes were perfectly made up to look as if they were not. Today her fashion was a carefully-practiced casual.

The irony of her disdain for Joss and his buddy going for "the look" of being a craftsman and her own carefully curated look did not register with her in the least. It is ever thus that the thing we most need to know about ourselves is often what we see and do not like about others. We project onto the screen of someone else's life, the drama going on in our own lives.

Holly liked to be noticed. She routinely declined to wear panties and instead of a bra would wear a silk camisole. It was her precisely curated attempt to display a natural look. She liked the idea that people would see how decked out she was and would guess that she was naked under a thin layer of fabric. She was an exhibitionist at heart.

Displayed on a table were various wooden bowls, spoons, spatulas, letter openers—how quaint, she thought—walking sticks and wands that would make a Harry Potter fan envious. She walked by slowly reaching out to touch them, but hesitant, as if she needed permission.

He watched her under his shaggy brows. His intense green eyes took in the shape of her body. Even under her clothes he knew she was soft and curved, as women in their 40s are. Still supple, but gravity having shaped her body, made her breasts sag, her once slim hips fuller. He judged her bone white skin was still smooth and responsive, if sadly out of practice being touched. Indeed, Holly had not been caressed in a long time. She loved her husband and he was faithful to her, but they had drifted apart physically.

In place of her husband's touch, she found her own fingers were able to arouse and stimulate quite well. On the outside, at least; though nothing filled her emptiness like a full and firm cock and it had been too long since that had happened.

Her hand darted out to lift a bowl and just as quickly drew back. She caught his eye and felt ashamed, naked, yet transfixed. Mr. Green, sitting on a rough stool, looked up from the carving in his lap, lifted his chin slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

An accented, deep resonance carried his words, "You may inspect if you like. Wood is meant to be felt." He moved a leg slightly and that glinting reflection came into view beneath his kilt, drawing her attention downward, between his spread legs. Noticing Holly was staring, he moved again, and her half glimpse of his manhood fell into the shadows again. He had had the effect he wanted: she noticed.

Holly felt his words wrap around her, holding her. She took a step closer and pressed her hips against the table holding the wares. She unconsciously rocked herself against the hand-hewn board, its live edge bulging outward toward her. She leaned in and felt the thick edge against her pubic mound, like a firm hand. Just a little, her left leg gave way, a slight stumble as if she had swooned a bit as she reached again for the bowl.

It clattered as she tried to grasp it. He watched her fumble with it unable to focus, as she tried to cover her slow rubbing against the table. With two hands, she at last brought the bowl up. As she drew it closer to her face to look at it, the smell of the finish met her. Something earthy, woody, and damp. She could not quite place the smell, but she was sure it was familiar, somehow.

The man stopped carving a ladle and watched her. He could see the way she was rubbing herself against his table, sensed her arousal. Beneath her layers of wool and silk, he knew she was getting wet.

"What is this finished with?" She managed to ask raggedly.

His deep drawl flowed slowly toward her. "Oh, that is a special formula, I make it myself. All natural, organic, if you like. All my wares are meant to be used often, to be an extension of the hand."

Holly smelled the bowl still trying to place the aroma. Bees' wax, perhaps. She was tempted to put the bowl to her mouth as if it contained soup. The rim was soft and inviting and her mouth opened instinctively.

"You'll want to try a spoon, lass." He knew what she was thinking. What all women thought when they held his wooden works. They want to put their mouths on the pieces, to taste them, to feel them in their mouths.

He reached for a spoon and held it out. Holly didn't want to let go of the bowl, but held it firmly in one hand as she opened the other to take the spoon. When it touched her palm, her fingers grasped it gently but decidedly. Though it was carved ash, firm and stiff, something about the surface called for it to be held gingerly as if it were a fine instrument.

The handle curved in a slow arc from the spoon's bowl. At the end was a finial carved like an acorn and cap, the cap pulled back from the rounded terminus. The shaft connected to the bowl on the underside, spreading out as if to hold it, making the bowl and the shaft appear to be two separate items. Holly turned the spoon in her hand to look at it carefully, then brought it to the bowl and dipped into the space enclosed by the rim.

She pressed her venus mound against the table edge more overtly. She could not help herself, it felt so good to feel the firmness of the wood against the intimate nexus of her thighs. Unconsciously, she began to swirl the spoon in the bowl as if stirring the contents. Round and round her hand went, pressing the spoon down against the bottom of the bowl. Her hips swayed slightly against the table as Holly kneaded her pussy against it.

The spoon went faster round, harder down, and her hips moved eagerly against the table Holly closed her eyes and felt an orgasm building. She wanted to use the spoon itself to rub against her swollen clitoris, to slide the hollowed end between her distended lips. She could not help herself. Despite being at a country market with people milling around, Holly was having a most private moment of self-indulgence. Had she any awareness of something other than her arousal, she would have felt shame at the rude way she was behaving.

The man studied her. Their eyes met. He watched her mounting to her climax. She stared at him as she masturbated against the table. She wanted so much to bring the orgasm on, but he would not let her. He held her in his gaze letting the fury build in her. Holly was responding to something ancient and primal about him.

He moved a foot and his cock reappeared through a panel in the kilt. It was deliberate, very deliberate, for her to see. Not now half hidden in the shadows of thighs and kilt but half out in the open. It was upright and thick. Aroused and rampant. The words coming freely into Holly's mind. A man's cock. How a man should be. The bulbous end was purple in its swolleness. She saw a gold ring circling the shaft just behind the crown. The source of the mysterious glint she had seen revealed and explained.

There was shock in her mind at its tumescent appearance. One thing perhaps to have clothing which might accidentally reveal what men possessed: quite another to have the thing out in the open like that at a country fair where anyone... yet it there it was, in the open there at the table.

It was not like a cock she had seen before. There was something different, something essentially masculine in a deeper way than... Holly did not know quite what she thought. Springing to her mind was the comparison to a tree in the forest. Yes, that was it! Holly thought his cock looked very much like the trunk of an old tree, deeply rugged and strong, but securely anchored at its root. She stared at it and her mouth again opened instinctively. The circlet of gold reflecting the sun, in contrast with the dark timber of his cock.

Holly's breathing became labored and perspiration formed on her brow. It would not have mattered to her if a crowd had gathered to watch her writhing. Holly was intently focused on that powerful cock and the delicious agony wracking her body.

The man nodded slowly to her. "You like the spoon and bowl. They can be sold as a set, if you like. I am sure you will find them to be a pleasure for years to..." The words were slow and deep, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere. A pause. She knew there were more words to flow from his lips, her eyes still on the purple head of his revealed and so erect, cock.

And then he finished his sentence with just the one word: "...come."

When he said the word come, she did. A dam burst and flooded over her. Electric shocks went through her body, starting between her legs, racing up her spine and down her legs. It was a lighting fast, but intense orgasm. She felt weak as it subsided and staggered slightly.

He sprang up towards her and reached across the table to hold her in his strong, steady grip. She looked first in his face and then down at his rampant cock, exposed to her across the table. She could not look away.

Biting her lower lip, Holly wanted to touch it. But like a mirage, the leather folds came forward and the stiffened rod disappeared within the pleated opening of his kilt.

She looked back at his face and saw how deeply furrowed his skin was. His moustache twined from his lips across his cheek and curiously it seemed to rise up to meet the overlong eyebrows. His hair and beard seemed more like vines and leaves than strands and locks.

He spoke again to her, but she did not understand the words. What she noticed was the clean smell of his breath. Petrichor: The smell of the earth just after a rainstorm.

From somewhere a voice seemed to come through to her. "You are fine, lass? Steady again?" Holly was beginning to get oriented again as the fog of that enchanted experience waned.

"What? Oh, yes. Just felt a bit faint there. Whew! That was a bit embarrassing. I think I sort of... half fainted. Thank you so much for your help." Holly was babbling, still captivated by the man-being in front of her.

He released his grip and she steadied. Holly still held the bowl and spoon. "I think I'll take these." And looked down furtively, hoping to see his magnificent cock again.

"Tuck them in your bag, there. They are sturdy and will not be harmed by knocking around a bit."

She gave him money, but could not recall how much or if she received any change. In fact, she could not recall the exchange at all, later as she drove home. It was all a very odd occurrence.

She was unsteady on her feet and only with some effort was she able to make her way through the market and to her car. Her head cleared the farther from the market she drove. The bowl and spoon, in her cloth bag sitting next to her on the seat of the car, seemed to call her. She could hear a musical note coming to her from the way they jostled and knocked together in the bag when the car hit a bump.

Thoughts of her husband Joss competed with thoughts about the strange man she had met. Joss was travelling on business that week. Had he been home, she would have insisted he fuck her. She would, for a moment, shed the cool aloofness and let her passion kindle his.

Holly thought again about Joss. She was eager to show him what she had bought, knowing how he liked to see (and to be critical of) other men's handiwork. His own work was not that well done, she thought to herself, but he had a very high opinion of himself, as all men seem to have.

Arriving at home that night, she had time to herself. After a warm bath, she wrapped in a terry robe and skittered about in her handmade elk-and-lambswool house slippers. Holly lit the gas fireplace and several candles around the room. She tried to create what magazines call, hygge, the Scandinvian notion of household coziness. The IKEA candles were stearine, dripless. The sheepskin throw, draped casually across the sofa, and the knotted-wool rug added to the ski-lodge feel. She looked around the room and concluded her decorating was, as she had intended, well-executed. This year she had changed from Mid-century Modern to Mountain Cabin.

Holly tried to read, but her mind wandered back to the interaction with that strange man at the fair. She felt a stirring in her abdomen. Between the flaps of her robe, her fingers slid down and through the neatly trimmed pubic hair over the swelling of her mound.

She spread her legs and was about to slide her fingers lower when she remembered the carved spoon. An idea developed. She fetched the spoon from the kitchen and brought it back to the sofa. Using the remote control, she increased the gas in the fireplace so that it radiated more heat. Leaning back, she nestled on the sofa, opened her robe, and spread her legs. With her feet on the coffee table, she could feel the heat from the fire warming her tenderest parts.

She liked being open and exposed to the fire, like how the radiant heat caressed her lips.. Holly held the spoon gently and studied it more carefully. Unlike mass-produced, perfectly alike items, this spoon showed the maker's handwork. Its glass-like smoothness did not result from successive sanding but from deft strokes with a sharp knife that produced tightly arranged facets on the surface. What she did not appreciate at that moment was the fact the combination of it being hard maple, that it was scraped rather than sanded, and sealed with the special finish meant that it would not raise any splinters.

The spoon felt heavy in her hands, the wood dense, like bronze. At the end of the spoon's shaft, its handle, was the finial carved like an acorn and cap. As she studied it her brow furrowed, it seemed to her the carving looked very much like a penis whose foreskin was retracting. She held the spoon away from her face a bit more and observed that, in fact, the handle held in a certain way was indeed shaped like a cock. It arose from the bulging bowl-end like a cock rising from its testicles. The underside of the spoon looked like the underside of a cock, with a raised channel along the axis like the ridge running along the underside of a man's penis.

Holly smiled at the recognition and was pleased the ancient carver had so deliberately carved, and hid in plain sight, a wooden cock on this ordinary domestic item.

As she turned the spoon over, admiring its workmanship, she could not help but think of the strange man who carved it. She brought the spoon to her face and again smelled the earthy finish. Absent-mindedly she rubbed the spoon across her lips feeling how delicately carved and finished it was. Reversing the spoon she brought the other end to her lips. She slid the end between her lips and held it, feeling with her tongue, the acorn finial.

It was fun to imagine she was sucking on a dainty, but perfectly executed penis. She let it slide in and out between her lips and across her tongue, fellating it as she had done with men. She liked how the cock-spoon glided in her mouth.

The taste of it was very pleasant. Not sweet exactly, but had a pleasant hint of... was it mushrooms? Holly savored the feeling and taste exploring and trying to catalog the layers of stimulation, still trying to place the taste of the bowl and now the spoon.

Her other hand had roamed down through the thatch of hair to her warm pussy. She was getting wet from the excitement pleasuring her mouth and from the cozy fire radiating toward her open legs. Holly made small circles around her clitoris, lightly touching it and then drawing her fingers down along her lips. They were getting swollen and Holly tugged at them, pulling them away and apart. She liked how long her labia were and how full they would get as she became more aroused.

The tugging on her lips also pulled the hood of her clit across the sensitive nub and sent small shots of pleasure inward and upward. She dipped a finger in her vagina. The walls were wet and hot, swollen from the stimulation. Holly was wet enough to insert two fingers easily. Then, pulling her fingers out, she ran their wetness over her clitoris.

The interplay between the outside and inside of her sex became more focused, guiding her arousal onward. She continued to suck on the spoon shaft as she stroked herself.

It was perhaps inevitable, an obvious direction of travel. That she should take the wooden spoon from her mouth and use it to simulate her sex. Out from her mouth, the spoon again reversed in her hand so it was held as people normally hold a spoon - by its handle. She lowered it down between her thighs.