My Solitary Fantasy in the Deepest Part of the Forest

It’s one of those summer days when the heat clings to your skin and there’s no shade that can quite drive it off. I decide to go for a walk alone in a park near my house, one of those places that almost nobody sets foot in during the week. There are tall trees, bushes closing in around the path, flowers growing wherever they please. The undergrowth is so thick that you only have to step three paces off the trail to disappear, so no one could find you even if they were looking.

I make my way between the trunks, toward the densest part, where the path vanishes and the forest rules alone. No car sounds, no voices, no phones. Just the rustle of the wind through the leaves and, in the distance, the lazy hum of some insect. That silence loosens something inside me. It lets me go. And, without meaning to, I start thinking about something else.

If no one sees me, no one knows.

The idea settles into my head slowly and then won’t let go. I think about taking my clothes off right there, in the middle of the woods. I think about walking naked among the ferns, about stopping in the middle of the trail and standing still, feeling everything. I want to feel the cold, damp earth under my feet, the twigs, the dead leaves, the remains of the forest floor sticking to my skin. I want that contrast right when my cock starts to swell and demand attention.

My heart speeds up just imagining it. I look around once more. Nothing. No one. Then, in my head, I begin.

I unbutton, strip everything off, pull my T-shirt over my head. The hot air touches every inch of my body and gives me goose bumps despite the heavy heat. My cock is already rock-hard, throbbing, pointing forward as if it knows better than I do what I want. I take one barefoot step onto the dirt and feel cold mud crawl up between my toes. It’s disgusting and perfect at the same time.

I sink to my knees and then lie down. The damp earth takes my chest, my belly, my thighs. I rub myself against it slowly, feeling the leaves stick to my sweaty skin, feeling a small branch scratch my side. I push my hips down, trying to press my cock against the soft ground, bury it in the soil, melt into all of it. To become one with nature, nothing more. I don’t think about anything except that raw sensation.

I roll onto my front, rest my weight on my chest, drop my shoulders and raise my hips. My ass is left open to the air, exposed, and I can feel my balls and my cock hanging and swaying with every movement. Down. Up. Down again. I move against something that isn’t there, against something primal, wild and wet that only exists in my head but feels more real than the ground beneath me.

I want more. I want to feel my ass wet, open, alive. I sit up on my heels, spreading my cheeks, and then I see it: a fallen log a little farther on, covered in bright green moss, soaked with dew even at this hour. I look at it and my mouth waters. I want to sit on it. I want to feel that cold moss against my hole and rub myself slowly until I’m drenched in the moisture it holds.

I crawl over to it. The bark is cool, almost slippery, and the moss gives beneath my weight like a sponge. I sit down, spread my legs and lower myself until my hole is pressed against that soft, wet surface. A chill runs all the way down my spine. I start moving in circles, slowly, feeling the dew slide between my cheeks, soaking me with that green, clean dampness while up front my cock twitches on its own, hard as stone, beating to the pulse of my blood.

I close my eyes and focus on every detail. The smell of wet earth and rotting leaves, sweet and earthy, fills my lungs. The sun filtering through the treetops warms my back in soft bands while the moss keeps cooling me from below. There’s something obscene and clean at the same time about being like this, offered up to the forest, without anyone having asked me to.

This is what I am when no one’s watching.

I’m almost there. I’m so turned on I can hardly believe it, and I still haven’t touched myself. Not once. Just the brush of nature has me right on the edge.

And then, all at once, a crackling sound. Close by.

My blood turns to ice. I freeze on top of the log, completely naked, muddy, leaves stuck to my back and my cock ready to burst, with my clothes thrown God knows where, too far away to reach in time. My pulse races. What if someone’s there? What if they saw me?

I slip off the log and push into the undergrowth, crouched low, holding my breath. Branches scratch my thighs, a leaf tickles my face and I don’t move. I listen. I wait. And strangest of all, instead of putting me off, it only makes me even hornier.

Because there, hidden, crouched, dirty and naked, I feel like a female in heat. Lurking among the bushes in case some thirsty male comes sniffing by. Waiting to be found with my ass up and no turning back. The fantasy devours me whole.

No one appears. The forest returns to silence and the crackling comes to nothing, a fallen branch, a bird, whatever. But I don’t want to come out of hiding anymore. I stay there, among the leaves, and finally I take my hand to my cock.

I start slowly. In silence. With my ass open and my cock smeared with dirt, I work it slowly, measuring each stroke. The contrast feels incredible: nature’s cold soaking into my skin and the heat of my own desire rising from inside me, fighting, blending. I grip harder. Pre-cum starts to seep out and wet my fingers, and that lets me slide my hand faster, into an ever more frantic rhythm.

I raise my hips again while I jerk off, offering my ass to a male who doesn’t exist, imagining him stepping out from between the trees and spearing me without asking. My hole is already open, stretched, throbbing. I just need someone to fill it. The idea twists me up inside and my hand pumps on its own, out of control.

My ass still feels the dirt and leaves sticking to me, and it only makes me hotter. Hotter and hotter. Hornier and hornier. More. I want more.

I turn, looking for something, anything, something shaped like what can fill me. And lucky me, there it is, half-buried in the ground, a stone with a protruding tip, smooth from the water of a thousand rains. Hungry, I position myself over it. It isn’t a cock, of course not, but I manage to catch the tip against my ass, just enough for it to slip a little into my already-open hole. And then yes. The cold of the stone against my heat tears a gasp out of me, one I swallow between my teeth.

I start rocking over it, a short up-and-down motion, kissing the tip again and again, letting nature possess me in its own way. My sphincter tightens and opens, tightens and opens, and my hand up front never stops. Dirt, stone, dew, precum, mud: everything surrounds me, everything becomes part of me.

I’m not going to last much longer. The pressure of the stone rubbing inside me, my wet hand sliding, the mud clinging to my entire body. It’s too much.

I tense my stomach, my legs, my neck. I clench my teeth. And I explode. I send a first thick, powerful burst up to the sky, and I watch it rise against the treetops and fall back down. I throw my head back and open my mouth to catch whatever I can, as if it were an elixir the earth itself is giving me back. The second burst, just as strong, lands on my chest and balls, hot, thick, sliding over my dirty skin toward the ground that had possessed me a moment before.

I stay still, vision blurred and body slowly loosening. I lower my gaze and see the tip of my cock, shining, wet, still spitting out the last of me.

***

The pen slips from my right hand and bounces onto the ground.

I come back all at once. There is no deep forest, no moss-covered log, no stone. I’m sitting on a wooden bench, dressed, with my notebook open on my thigh and the late-afternoon sun filtering through the branches of the plane trees lining the promenade. This is what really happened: me, a bench, my notebook and my fantasies running faster than my hand could write them down.

Because while I was making all that up, I had taken my cock out with my pants still on and started to jerk off in silence, slowly, alert in case some passerby showed up on the path. The thrill of someone suddenly walking by, of catching me with one hand inside myself and the notebook in the other, was half the game.

I look down at myself. My left hand, wet, is still holding my cock, now looser, spent. I take my time squeezing out the last drops and watch them fall onto the dirt, beside the leg of the bench, still imagining I’m far away, in the thickest part, merged with everything, in the midst of the ecstasy of my dream.

I pick up the pen from the ground with my right hand and take a deep breath. I close the notebook on this invented story that fed my imagination just enough for me to come right in the middle of a hidden park on the outskirts of Robledal, without anyone suspecting a thing. I hope it turns you on just as much as it did me, reliving it, word for word.