On each of Amanda’s visits now, she has taken me into Morgan’s Woods, my frequent escape into subspace.
On her first excursion there, I gave her a tour. She learned some of the landscape herself, traipsing with me through the thick forest, across the glade with its grassy patch, and down to creekside. I know she was verifying the safety of the place for times when she is not there, when I am hiking alone in my reckless abandon. She has come to some peace about it, I think, the massive expanse and density of the forest giving her some confidence it’s truly remote, unlikely to beckon the proverbial Mr. Morgan or any of his imagined henchmen. Amanda’s one concern was my car not being shielded enough from the dirt road, and she helped me find another sheltered pull-off, deeper in the forest.
This is another time: Amanda and I go to Morgan’s Woods for the afternoon. We park in the new spot and walk further into the forest until we get to the open space, the grassy glade.
There, Amanda tells me to take off my clothes.
I obey without hesitation or even a whiff of sass. I’m in a space now where I’m putty in her hands, more so than ever before. My snark and sass have always been playful, but now I want her dominance so much that I offer not a sound, dissolving like fairy dust into obedience.
I pull off my tee and step out of my denim skirt. As always, I’m au naturel underneath. I am now naked in the trees but for the wedge sandals on my feet.
Amanda pulls a leash out of her big canvas bag, attaching it to the O-ring of my collar, which she swivels to the back. We will hike and I will be in front like a bitch tethered.
The forest is dense in patches, and she directs me away from the paths I have already well-worn toward the darker thickets of forest bed. The underbrush, with its twiggy fronds, cracks against my bare skin like a gauntlet of men slapping me with tawses. Weedy tendrils grab at my bare thighs. And my breasts, the first part of me to arrive anywhere, push through the thin reaches of saplings, scraped by the rough bark of young oaks.
This is what she wants: to march me through thicket and thin, to mark me with the barbed branches of nature. She wants me to bleed a little, to feel again.
We come to a space in the forest where the sun breaks through. Amanda tells me to stand against a tree. I obey, and she looks at me there, my skin randomly striped and colored like a Jackson Pollack painting, my breasts welted and reddened. She comes to me and touches my wounds, massaging my skin. She cups one of my breasts, squeezes softly, pushing my flesh up to spill over the top of her palm. She walks off, reaches down, and snaps off a plant, testing its fuzzy, rough stalk across her wrist. She returns to me, now sliding the stalk along my inner thighs, soon drawing it through the crack of my tender pussy.
Amanda has me turn around, facing into the tree. She pulls out of her big bag a pair of cuffs which she puts on each of my wrists, wrapping my arms around the tree trunk and squashing my breasts into the bark. Another strap around my waist tightens my hips against the trunk, pulling me into it such that my legs are forced to each side of the base of the tree and my thighs are spread to straddle it. It’s all tight and close — even my pussy lips are kissing a ridge of bark.
Amanda wanders away, knowing how abandonment, even feigned, triggers my submissive heart. I am left naked, tied to a tree. I lose time.
She says nothing. Nor do I. Without sounds, we partner in our communion. It is like we are making a ritual of something. Something we must do.
She steps close and with the open palm of her hand, spanks me on my ass cheeks. Then again, and again, and again. I breathe hard in gasps and can’t help but moan from the stings of my spanking, but otherwise I take it in submitted silence.
Amanda walks off again.
Again in some time frame I cannot measure, she returns. I cannot see her but soon know that she has collected various stems and stalks and thin branches, which she now slaps across my bottom like a cat-o-nines. She whips me there and also lower, across my back thighs until they start to burn.
And now Amanda’s hands touch me again, this time softly. She caresses my cheeks. Her hand reaches down between my legs and she touches my pussy from behind. I breathe in sharply.
I am wet, her abuse of me a kind of foreplay. With a finger, she takes a dollop of my ooze and paints my labia as if it is lip gloss.
I lean my head back, the only part of me that can move, and look to the sky. I feel her finger enter me, sliding in. I sigh. I close my eyes. I sigh again.
It feels like a different dimension of time, but upon reflection I guess it isn’t long before she brings me to the edge and then over. I gasp in repeated short breaths, my body trembles. I hear Amanda, having done her work, stepping back, observing her slave girl — me so needy and hopeless, now shuddering in full orgasm as I am wed to a tree.
My legs are wobbly, but we manage retrace our steps in silence. When we get to the glade, I ask if I might forego putting my clothes on again. I don’t know why.
With a faint smile, she nods.
We make our way back to the car. I climb in, my naked body scraped and striped — and satisfied to be bearing red badges of submissive courage.
I curl up in the passenger seat, lean over, and rest my head on Amanda’s lap.
Our whole time was virtually silent, mostly without words. It was something that one cannot explain to others, the “why” escaping reason. It was just something between us, something that just had to happen, something we just had to do.
Sometimes people do things together that are beyond meaning.