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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.


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 küçükçekmece escort 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.


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.

Blood pulses in my fingertips as my calloused, bare feet work their way back to the trail. My ears strain, attuned to the smallest change in sound, and my feet navigate the smoothest route to protect my soles.

As I move up the trail and fall into the repetitive cadence of walking, nature soothes my nerves, and I lose myself in a meditative experience of nature and exertion, my thoughts free to drift. I debate what it is that I’m getting out of my furtive explorations and what I would do if he catches me. I’m half-convinced I won’t take the risk today, and I’ll hike past without stopping.

Too distracted to pick up on the approaching sound, a dog appears around the bend in front of me and bounds up, tail wagging and ready to greet me. My heart attempts to escape my chest, and my fingers shake as I rush off the trail as fast as I’m able, ducking behind a tree for cover. Please don’t catch me. Please don’t catch me. Please don’t catch me!

“Hey boy, see something?”

I hold my breath, terrified that someone will see me, that my hair is poking out, or that the dog will bound after me in the woods, leading their owner right to my hiding spot. What was I thinking? This was too dangerous, and getting caught would be mortifying. I can imagine the headlines now: “Nude freak caught in woods by unsuspecting hikers!”

My breath catches in uneven intervals when I try not to make any sounds to give myself away. I wait to hear something, anything, that indicates the hiker has moved down the trail and I can leave my hiding spot.

Finally, I hear, “Come on, boy, let’s move on. Probably just a squirrel.”

The muffled jingling of the dog’s collar fades into the distance. I stay put, not yet confident enough to leave my hiding spot. I count to thirty once, and then again, before peeking around the side of the tree. I see no one; it appears the coast is clear. I exhale, traveling back to the path, alert to any new sound, ready to dart back into the cover of the trees. My feet move towards my clothes of their own volition. I’m prepared to call it a day. That was way too close a call.

I pause only a few dozen feet along. I admonish myself to think logically. I’ve never run küçükyalı escort into anyone up here before. What are the chances of two run-ins in a single day? I should finish my hike as intended. And nope, it wasn’t because I was thinking about the hot man by the cabin. And it has nothing to do with the way almost getting caught had my core throbbing and clenching like nightclub speakers. Nope, not at all.

I reach the hillock where I veer off, careful to not disturb nature in a way that would notify a curious passerby of a detour. I’m aware that they’d probably think it was just a deer trail, but I can’t seem to help the excess vigilance.

I hear the faint rush of the creek that passes by the cabin, swollen with the week’s rain, and the distant thunk of the ax falling on wood. I smile. It would seem that he’s as predictable as I am.

My movements are measured and meticulous, my heart beating a tattoo of anticipation and anxiety as I duck under branches and around the sparse underbrush. I reach my log, and I can still see the tears in the moss from my heels the week before. My thighs are slick with arousal by the time I dare to look down at the woodsman. He appears wholly engrossed in his task as if he had a personal vendetta against the wood.

My hand crawls up my thigh, gathering the slick arousal coating it, sliding around the side and up to my belly before plunging back into my center. I’m not sure I have ever been so aroused by anything in my life as I have been by these clandestine encounters. Honestly, I don’t even want to know why this does it for me, so instead of thinking, I plunge my finger deep into my slit and focus on the task at hand. I resist the urge to giggle at my pun. The task at hand, indeed!

The woodsman stops his aggressive chopping, the silence drawing my undivided attention. He peels his shirt over his head, wiping his brow. Yes, please! I can see the vee of his abs disappearing into his jeans and almost groan.

He pauses for a second, and I hold my breath, knowing that despite the distance, he could catch me if he scanned carefully enough. I gasp. I couldn’t have just seen that, could I? He blatantly ran his hand along the outline of his member in his jeans and reached in to adjust himself.

Had he somehow seen me? I remind myself that it most likely was just his morning wood or some fantasy projected in his mind and had nothing to do with me. After all, I doubt his reaction to a creeper in the woods would be getting hard. Right?

Watching, I’m frozen, unable to move even as the sound of the ax resumes, his back and shoulder muscles rippling through the movement. Sweat glistens down his unevenly tanned back, mesmerizing me. There’s no way I actually see the subtle outline of his shaft straining against his jeans; my imagination must be filling in the details my eyes can’t see from this distance.

Even so, as my fingers renew their familiar routine, my entire awareness throbs with the thrill of feeling like I could be discovered at any moment.


Yeah, she definitely noticed me adjusting myself. I’m surprised she didn’t bolt like a frightened little rabbit. But damn! The way she’s frozen, looking stricken, is doing something to me. And it turns out the chopping wood with, well, wood, is fucking uncomfortable. Who would’ve fucking guessed?

Although she’s too far to make out all the details, my mind fills in the gaps when her hands start to move again. This is too god damn much! What does a girl like that think she’s doing, and how did she even get here? Especially naked as the day she was born? She isn’t even wearing shoes! And I don’t see any clothing in sight, so I can only assume she was naked before she got to my clearing.

I decide I don’t fucking care how she got there or what I should do. Resolved, I swing the ax down and lodge it into the log. I hear myself growl when I pull at my belt, cinching it tighter to release it and jerk down my jeans and underwear. My cock springs free, and I waste no time before choking it with my calloused fingers.

Body angled so she can see my full profile, I watch her from the corner of my eye. I don’t want to scare her off, but I realize I also don’t have a shit ton to lose, so I turn around and meet her eyes directly, my hand working my shaft in even, deliberate motions, teasing the head and squeezing it. I issue a challenge with my eyes. I’ve caught you, Little Rabbit. Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?


I jerk in surprise when the ax comes down hard and lodges in the log. I’m plain shocked when he yanks down his pants, revealing toned thighs, and a massive, swollen member pointed proudly to the sky. I feel an answering gush of arousal from my own throbbing center. I’ve only seen a handful of men naked in person before, and nothing like this one.

My jaw clenches; I’m not sure if I’ve been maltepe escort discovered. Worse, I secretly hope that I have been caught. I’d ask myself what I was thinking, but it’s more than evident that I’m not. My private desires overtake my better judgment and demand that I give in. I moan, clasping my hand over my mouth, uncertain if the sexy woodsman heard the small sound.

I can only assume he did; he turns straight towards me, stroking himself and staring directly at me. I have never once in my life felt my body so aroused, terrified, and thrilled. Pinned by his arrogant gaze as surely as a butterfly in a display case, I realize that, at this moment, there is very little I won’t do to satisfy my overwhelming lust. I’m alarmed by its intensity, dazed, my thoughts evaporated as thoroughly as the morning mist.

He frees his and actually beckons me to him. Despite the absurdity, it’s like he tied a string to my belly, pulling taught and reeling me in. My body is hyper-aware of every last square centimeter of skin, every nerve ending; it feels surreal as I stand confidently, rubbing my hands up my sides and over my breasts, and step into the bright sunlight, blinking in the glare.

I look down at the ground to plan my steps carefully, stepping down the steep incline that will lead me to the woodsman. Losing contact with his intense gaze, my anxiety spikes. What the heck am I doing! This isn’t the type of woman I am, is it? I look back up at his confident, demanding gaze, and I make a choice. This is the type of woman I am. Or it will be. I want this so badly I won’t lie to myself any longer.

Every step closer to this man feels dangerous, electrifying. I move haltingly towards the woodsman, avoiding the sharp rocks, brambles, and sticks beneath the litter of decaying leaves. My feet angle sideways to keep from slipping down the steep slope. Even when I falter or stumble, his expression doesn’t change. It continues to issue the same challenge, keeping me tied to that invisible line, drawing me ever closer.

When I’m nearly down, he pulls up his pants, buttoning the top button and nothing else, striding towards me, belt dangling to the sides. I stare as his bulk grows closer, humiliated by my acquiescence, and aroused despite it. No, aroused because of it.

He grabs my waist, his callouses rasping against my satiny skin as he pulls me over the small, rock-lined trench encircling the cabin’s clearing. He sets me down in front of him, holding me willingly captive under his scrutiny.

My nipples harden, and I can feel the fresh trickle of my arousal down the insides of my thighs. I’m mortified; I’m sure he can see it glistening. My face flushes, and as I break our gaze to look down to hide my confusion. His hand reaches out, grabbing my chin in his firm grip and lifting it to him, refusing to let me hold back.

He makes a strangled sound, laced with desperation and need that calls to the growing ache deep in my belly, and abruptly captures my lips with his. The scratch of his beard and movement of his satin lips send my body into overdrive, impulsively closing the distance between us and plastering myself to his hard body.

My breasts glide against the sweaty, hard planes of his chest, the hair pleasantly scouring my vulnerable flesh, his cock pushing against my belly. His hand snakes up my neck, slides under my tight ponytail, fisting my hair and exposing my neck. I stare up, helpless in his firm grip. He plunders my mouth, tongue flicking against my lips, soothing the small nips of his teeth. He explores my mouth, his tongue invading mine, and claims everything I have to offer.

His hand pulls my hair, forcing my head to one side and offering up my neck to his attentions. He nips and sucks the sensitive skin marking a fiery line to my core. He returns to my lips, releasing my head to run his rough hands down my back, grabbing the globes of my bottom and lifting them to him. I whimper through the haze of my desire and release a breathless, “Please!”

I’m not entirely sure if I’m asking him for more, or for release. I can’t collect my thoughts long enough to know what I’m begging for. I can feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest as if he knows what I can’t articulate, “Yes.”

He reaches for a firmer grip on my bottom and lifts me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and my slick sex presses into his belly. I cling to his broad shoulders, head nuzzled into the hollow of his neck. I sample the salty skin as if my existence depends on drawing his essence into me.

I’m peripherally aware of the deliberate steps he’s taking from where I’m cradled in his arms, and I cling tighter when he bends over, arranging something behind me. He peels me off, encouraging me to slide down his body. My face heats again when I see the slick streak down the leg of his jeans. He leaves me no space to worry about my body’s embarrassing excess; he twists me around and pushes my chest down until I hit something hard and abrasive, covered by a thin layer of soft fabric.

My breasts squish against the hard surface, my knees sting as they collapse into the side. Rough hands snake under my waist, pulling my legs straight, forcing my stance wide as I try and balance. My bottom arches into the air, spreading open my vulnerable, drenched slit to his lustful regard.

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