The Tree

There is a tree in your backyard.

When your house was sold to you, the previous owner could not stop smiling as she pointed it out to you. You couldn’t understand why. It didn’t seem like a remarkable tree, and for the first year you lived in the house, you didn’t notice anything. It looked like every other oak tree you’d ever seen or climbed over as a child.

One evening, you were home alone. Everyone seemed to be occupied; everyone had plans. The summer breeze was calling, so you went outside with your rum and coke. You looked up and down your street: party at one house, cars coming and going…kids playing outside at the end of your street…the view is too depressing, better head inside. There’s nothing for you out here.

Sigh.

You move back inside.

In your bedroom:

What to listen to, what to listen…

You pop both CDs of Led Zeppelin’s "Physical Graffiti" into your changer. “Custard Pie” blasts from the speakers.

You drift into your bedroom and find yourself in front of the mirror.

Not bad

, you think. Your dark auburn hair spills a little from its loose knot, black eyes stare back. You catch your own eye and can’t help yourself: you wink, then giggle.

Looks like the drink is loosening you. Your eyes move down the rest of your body: your favorite silk button-down sleeping shirt’s top two buttons are undone, your creamy cleavage peeking out. You undo two more buttons, revealing more of yourself.

You’ve always liked your breasts. Many of the women in your family are, ah, better endowed, but you don’t consider them lucky. You had to listen to them complain about aching backs and ill-fitting tops when you were growing up. You even prayed to God (when you believed in Him) to keep your breasts from growing huge. You’re happy with your 34Cs.

Not too big, not too small

.

While you are thinking of these things, your hands had crept up and were now softly kneading your chest. You look into your own eyes and moan quietly.

You naughty girl, you.

Your nipples are ready to greet your fingers; they usually are when you begin your explorations. A wave of pleasure ripples through your body as you lightly trace around them…almost to the tip…not quite touching it…back around the outside…nearly there…

oooooooh

.

You sigh. Looking again into the mirror, your skin has grown rosy. You move your hands around the outside and lift, silently offering yourself to the lover you imagine in front of you.

The silk of your shirt feels delicious as you slide your hands down your body. What the hell, take it off. No, leave it on and unbuttoned. You rub over your softly rounded tummy. You’ve always had a thing about tummies. You’re not sure why--you just do. Whenever you pleasure yourself, you find yourself stroking the skin of your tummy for a long time. Your legs become weak; time for bed.

Moving back a few steps, you collapse onto the soft blanket you placed on your bed earlier that day…softness and silk, your favorite combination of textures…you resume your exploration. Your hands move from your tum to the sensitive tops of your thighs. You writhe a little.

Oh.

Your nails gently dig into your flesh. You sigh, and open your legs further.

Ooh, touch me. Touch me!

You tease the skin of your inner thighs, moving your fingers along the silken skin, pausing at the juncture, not quite touching, though you are aroused.

You can smell your scent, feel your own heat. Your hands move back down and you run your nails back up your upper leg. You become hotter. Your clitoris stands to attention, asking you to consider it. Your fingers trace the outlines of your lower lips through your panties. Another wave…feels incredible.

Please don’t tease me

. You move your hips up, slipping out of them. You feel warm air on your bottom and shudder a little. Opening your legs again, you lazily move your fingers, feeling your lips fill with blood. You dip two fingers into your opening, seeking the flowing moisture. You are rewarded. You lift that hand to your mouth, and lick those fingers. Yum.

Your other hand moves to take its place at your pussy, placing two fingers inside. The pleasure pulses through your body. Your clitoris is begging for attention now, erect and throbbing. In the back of your mind you hear “Kashmir” begin.

Your index finger moves softly over it, rubbing little circles from around the base to the tip, and back. Your back arches and you gasp loudly.

Good! That’s good!

Little by little, you increase the pressure. You begin to pant. You take the first hand and dip the fingers into your juices and bring them to your breast, moving them around the peaks.

Waves of heat move through your body, and you feel the shudders of your orgasm approach. You open your legs more, giving your self up to your insistent fingers on your clit.

That’s it, just a little more…a little more…oh my…

You scream out as your climax hits you direct and powerful. You lay on your bed, listening to the last strains of “Bron-y-aur.” You fall asleep to “Down by the Seaside”.

It feels like it’s the next morning when you wake up. The CDs have stopped. There is a scratching on your window. You part the blinds to look, and find no person outside.

Hmmm…still dark.

You turn your back to the window and are about to walk away when you hear the scratching again. Part the blinds again—nothing.

Strange.

You button up your sleeping shirt, and walk downstairs with your empty glass. You place the glass in your sink…and hear a scratching on the window in front of you. You peer past the filmy curtain, and see nothing yet again.

I must be hearing things.

No, there’s the scratch again. You open your back door and look around. You hear the party still raging a few houses down, the children have long since gone inside, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone out there.

Your eyes move to that tree in your backyard. Its branches touch your bedroom window. Maybe that’s what it was. But wait—they don’t touch the kitchen window. What was that you heard in the kitchen? As you are trying to figure out what’s happening, you think you see the tree move.

You stand in the doorway, squinting at it. You saw it move. You think.

Nah, can’t be

. You turn to go back indoors when you feel something brush against your shoulder. You start, and turn around, fists raised. No one.

All right, this is too strange.

Before you can stop yourself, you walk outside and up to the tree. You stand, legs slightly parted, and stare at it. In the dimness, you see a branch move towards you. You step back, and it moves gently against your cheek.

”Help me.”

You hear a whisper. You turn. There is still no one around. You look at the tree’s trunk, and you see a figure standing in front of—or maybe even in—it. No. That can’t be right.

As you are contemplating these things, the branch that was caressing your cheek moves down to the front of your shirt.

What is this?

The figure in the tree smiles at you. You panic and run back into the house.

The next weekend, you call the woman who’d sold you your house. The conversation is cordial and breezy until you mention what had happened with the tree. There is silence on the other end of the phone, then a sigh.

“So, you’ve discovered the secret of the tree?” she asks.

“I don’t know. All I know is that it attempted to unbutton my sleeping shirt. I thought I was going crazy.”

“No, you are not. That’s what I was trying to tell you when you first came to look at the house. That tree is very special.”

“Special.”

“Yes.” There was a click. She’s hung up on you!

Well.

You head for the library and spend the next three hours trying to find information about any strange happenings on your property. You find nothing until you look into a book about legends in the area. An article called “The Enchanted Oak” catches your eye.

The Enchanted Oak

Local woman discovers special oak tree in back garden.

January 15, 1874

A local woman was behind her home gardening, when the largest oak tree on the property spoke to her, at least, that is what this reporter was told by her husband.

Mrs. Clara Shadney is an avid gardener and plant enthusiast. She enjoys planting and cultivating and has helped the town in planning gardens and public parks. She has developed a great knowledge of wild and domesticated plant life and will share it with anyone who inquires of her. She is the head judge of vegetables and fruits at the County Fair and has been for over twenty years.

According to Mr. John Shadney, Clara was outside two days ago, gardening as usual. He was in his workshop, fixing one of the carriage wheels when Clara excitedly ran in. At first, he thought that there was an intruder on the property, so he took up his gun. Clara assured him that it was neither an intruder nor anything harmful. That is when she informed him that the tree spoke. At first, he did not believe her.

Two days later, Clara told him that the tree spoke to her again. He called the Reverend John Crines of the First Methodist Church. The minister spoke with Clara, and ascertained that she was not possessed or attempting to deceive. The Reverend examined the tree and could not find any unnatural devices or people inside.

Mrs. Shadney is currently seeking medical treatment for hallucinations. This paper and its readers wish her well.

Okay

, you think. You see another article pasted underneath that:

Is the old Shadney Oak haunted?

Another claim to the strange tale

March 22, 1910

Ten years after the Shadneys had moved away after Mrs. Shadney’s encounter with the oak, the family that bought the property claim to have made contact with the oak tree in the back.

Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Richards recently purchased the property from the heir of John and Clara Shadney after he decided to move his family out West.

Mrs. Richards was outside supervising her children at play when she thought she saw a movement behind the Shadney Oak. She gathered up the children, went into the house, and sent a messenger for her husband. Dr Richards arrived with one of his orderlies and searched the premises. They saw nothing at first, but as they stood next to the Oak, the orderly found himself being lifted by the back of his shirt.

“I could not believe my eyes,” the doctor informed the police. “One moment, George was standing next to, the next—the tree had him by the shirt!”

Similar incidents occurred over the next two weeks. Dr. Richards has had botany and horticultural experts to his home to look at the tree. The experts are baffled. Could this be a new, evolved species of tree?

Turning the page, you see another article:

Local Spiritualist and Psychic to Investigate Shadney Oak

April 12, 1911

Eugene Collins, spiritualist and psychic, has offered his services to Dr. Geoffrey Richards who is the current owner of the old Shadney property.

After hearing about the Shadney Oak’s activities, through his local newspaper, Mr. Collins traveled halfway across the state to investigate for himself.

He will be conducting a special séance to see if there are any spirits trapped within the tree or within the vicinity of the home. He plans to do this next Wednesday evening.

The next pages on the subject had been torn out.

Oh, well

. At least you have some idea of what you may be up against. Still, you are intrigued.

At dusk, you pull a chair outside under the tree. The same noise of activity drifts through the air, but it is strangely still in your backyard. You look at the privacy fence-enclosed area. Nothing stirred.

You hear a rustle. You look around. All is still. Then you feel something move up your back. It’s a branch of the oak. You look up and see the tree almost bending over you. You don’t move, just stare.

A voice whispers in your ear.

“Help me.”

You turn the chair to face the tree. You see a what appears to be male figure in the trunk.

This is what Mrs. Shadney might have encountered.

You nod to it.

”If you help me, I will do anything you desire.”

Anything?

”For example, I can tell that you have been long without a lover. I can be your lover if you need.”

You shake your head but find yourself getting up and moving closer to the tree. The figure in the trunk smiles.

”I will tell you my story… I am Thomas Lawrence Adrian Cavendish. Three hundred years ago, we came here from England. My father was Head of the Household to Queen Anne and falsely accused of conspiring to murder her. He fled England to escape the noose. Having found his way here, he purchased a large property, though it was later divided between my brothers and myself, and brought Mother and the rest of us over here.”

You feel the branches of the tree reach down to your cheek and caress it again. You look to the tree and see a pair arms reaching out to you. You walk into them and feel the softest pair of lips on your own. The kiss is warm and sensual, and you move your arms to hug the trunk. The arms that hold you are strong, yet gentle, and your mouth opens to let the man’s tongue in. His tongue duels with yours, running along the length of it, stroking you. You moan a little. He sucks on your tongue, sending shudders down your back. He pulls back from you. You open your eyes and look into a pair of bright blue ones.

”I have more to tell.”

You feel the branches push you to the chair, which is now closer. You sit, hands at your sides.

“My father died when I was twelve years old. My mother died soon after, leaving my eldest sister to raise us. She was a dear one, was Sarah—very kind and sweet. She married a bully of a man. Father had arranged the marriage shortly before he died and Mother did not stop it. My sister’s husband would yell at her and call her names. He beat her. He was terrible to us all, but he treated me with the most contempt.”

While Thomas is speaking, the branches move down your throat and to the collar of your denim shirt. One of the branches brushes against a nipple. The feel through the rough material makes you gasp. The other branch hooks through the first button and tugs gently, undoing it. Your breathing quickens.

”I was studying to become a doctor when I met a beautiful woman called Cynthia Dasher. She had the loveliest soft skin, dark auburn hair, and piercing, intelligent black eyes. You resemble her quite a bit.”

The tree has undone the buttons to your shirt and is gently brushing against your breasts through your lace bra. Your nipples respond to the touch, stiffening and aching. Your head goes back, exposing your throat and you sigh. A branch begins to stroke the skin of your neck and Thomas begins again.

”I loved Cynthia from the moment I first saw her walking with her brother to their home from the stables her family operated. She had a sparkling personality, a quick wit, and a tinkling laugh. She also had an appetite for love to match mine.”

Some other branches hook into the button of your jeans and pop it out. They begin to caress your tummy slowly, gently, inflaming you further. You love having your abdomen stroked.

“Unfortunately, my darling Cynthia died at the hands of my bastard brother-in-law. He made advances to her, which she refused. He in turn spread a rumor that she was a witch. Because of her hair and eyes, it was joked when she was a girl that she was enchanted. Suddenly, people began to believe that she was a witch. It wasn’t true, of course. But he was an influential man in the town, and Cynthia began to receive threats. The final straw came when she was publicly denounced in church. We discussed moving away before the situation became perilous. One day I had gone to the woods to bring in some wood for the cooking fire. When I’d neared the house, I heard my wife scream.”

Like you’re making me do right now.

You thought.

The branches had moved to remove your jeans. You lift your hips to facilitate it. In one movement, you are left in your panties and bra, which the branches are lifting and pulling from your heaving chest. Your breasts come into view. One of the branches sprouts small tulip-like flowers. The next thing you know, they attach to your sensitive nipples. You gasp. The flowers begin a gentle suction, while the tongue-like pistils swirl around, driving you mad. You moan louder this time. Your head swims. You lean back and abandon yourself to the sensation.

Meanwhile you feel something between your legs. You look down and see three branches probing at your soaked panties. As you watch in amazement, you see one slip underneath the crotch and then feel it on your opening pussy.

YES!

You look back at the figure in the tree trunk. He is smiling at you. It brushes against your clit. You throw your head back again. You are glad you are sitting, otherwise you would have fallen at that point. The flowers keep up their activities at your nipples and you’re drowning in the feeling.

”I dropped the wood and ran as fast as I could. When I got home. I found the police there, led by my brother-in-law. They took her away. At the ‘trial’ three days later she was convicted of being a witch and burned. In anger and sadness I marched to my brother-in-law’s house and challenged him to a duel.”

You can hardly hear him as the tree is bringing you so much pleasure: suckling at your nipples, a flower had sprouted and attached itself to your throbbing clitoris and was suctioning at it. Your hips bucked in rhythm with it. One of the other two branches between your legs was still probing about, gently then with more pressure, stroking your vulva and around your slick opening. Your juices were flowing now. The other was moving along the sensitized skin of your inner thighs, scratching ever so slightly, driving you mad with the teasing.

”The coward refused. He apparently was happy enough to have gotten his revenge on my upstart of a wife. Every day without her was a nightmare. Everywhere I turned, she was. I could not escape my grief. One day on a solitary walk, I came to this fine tree. I sat under it, thinking of my wife and feeling sorry for myself. I decided to hang myself—on the branches of this very tree. I was cursed because of my decision and imprisoned in here. I can only leave when I find someone who is willing to love me as Cynthia did. Will you?”

You are awash in stimulation. You can hardly hear the rest of the tale as you are so far gone. You hear the last question, though and look towards the trunk of the tree. You don’t even feel ashamed to be naked in front of Thomas, for him to see you spread and wantonly bucking your hips against the tree’s—his?—branches.

You just want release—sweet, sweet release. You want something inside you. Now. You notice for the first time that Thomas is nude, and his member has grown to a rather impressive size.

The last time I saw something like that, it won first prize at the county fair

. The thought makes you chuckle to yourself.

Thomas asks you again.

“Are you willing to love me as Cynthia did?”

“Yes! Please!” You pant. The tree trunk pulls open in the front, and Thomas steps out.

“Free!” He looks at you. The tree branches leave your body and you cry out in frustration and need. “I want to thank you now.” He walks over to you, and picks you up from your chair. You lift your head, searching for his mouth. His lips capture yours in a kiss that leaves you breathless. His tongue probes, much like the tree branches were doing. You think that he is going to take you inside, but instead he sits on the chair, putting you on his lap. He senses your surprise.

“I would take you indoors and make love to you properly, but I need you here and now.”