If Bree Calls In The Forest...bynemo_quill©
If a Bree calls in the forest, does she make a sound?
Not with a red scarf crammed tight in her mouth. She was tethered to the trees when I found her.
I was roving the paths on my hundred acres of property, enjoying the cool North breeze, when I heard a smothered yelp. I paused, filtering the sounds of the woods – the creak of branches, the shush of leaves, the rustling of squirrels and chipmunks – until I heard the sound again, to my left. I followed the trail to the first clearing and there she was, bound to a clump of four young, sturdy maples.
I recognized her. She was Bree Donlan, one of the three young women who rented the Barnes farmhouse for the month of June. I had already encountered the young ladies several times: twice in the general store, once when I caught them trespassing on my property a week earlier, and the night before in the only bar in the nearest town. After the trespass I had been insistently clear, or so I thought, regarding my desire for privacy. They assured me they got turned around in the dense woods, and that it wouldn't happen again.
I didn't believe their story about being lost. When we met while shopping they told me they were college students; even worse, they were Lit majors. Though I’ll refrain from dropping my name, let’s note for the record that I have a modest national reputation as an author, along with a moderate local rep as a lech.
So, I've had my share of drop-ins and groupies. This unwanted attention was flattering when I was young and starving - for women as well as food. But that was years ago. These days I crave my three months of solitary confinement every summer. No phone, no friends, and (most emphatically) no women.
I said as much to the girls, and hoped it had registered.
Unfortunately, I said much more to them the night before, after many rounds of vodka and beer. It’s a lonely life, the writing life, and it's been almost a year since my last divorce. Over the intervening months I have abstained from females. I suppose this thorny fact has taken a horny toll.
We sat together for a few hours, drank, flirted and cavorted in the mildest sense – a pinch here, a grope there. The two sisters, Lucia and Maryanne, were a handful.
Literally - not just figuratively. Maryanne’s breasts kept “accidentally” bounding out of her halter-top, and Lucia’s roaming fingers and stunning green eyes had me hard on the verge of spillage once or twice.
But gentle Bree was quiet; hence, for me she was the most alluring of the tree …
Ah, I meant to say three.
By closing time we were swapping sexual escapades and fantasies. I slightly remember swampy conversations about the most daring places we had given or received oral sex, who liked to spank whom …
And about tickling – who was, who wasn't, and where.
Bree laughed along with us, blushing at our most outrageous jibes. But she offered no scenarios of her own, so Lucia offered several that came to her teeming imagination.
“I know for a fact that Bree’s verrry ticklish, right hon?”
Bree went from blushed to scarlet in an instant. Maryanne joined the fray, adding:
“Yeah, remember the first night we all roomed together. How she screamed when I grabbed her …”
“Enough – Okay?” Bree interrupted with some force, and the two sirens took the cue and were silent. For a moment, anyway.
“I think he’d like to make you scream,” Lucia said, grinning wickedly at Bree as she raked her long nails over the apparent swelling under my khaki shorts.
“Like the lady said,” I managed to grumble irritably, drunk as I was, “enough.”
We finished our drinks and were soon on our way - to our separate dwellings. While I concede I am by no means ancient at fifty-five, I figure having the twenty-year-olds is at least a decade behind me.
Besides, despite my enduring reputation, I'm actually rather shy.
A romantic at heart.
Regardless, my cock and balls were more than a shade blue by the time I arrived – having driven only once off the road - back home.
I woke after noon with an apocalyptic hangover. It had taken most of the day, and a gallon or two of juice and water, to resurrect myself. In the meantime the girls had apparently been back, and they had left me a novelty gift – a breathing sex toy.
Bree was tied to the bunched trees, hands over head and feet together. She was nude, except for the red scarf and a note pinned to one of the outer maples:
DO NOT FEED OR TICKLE THE BARE.
Must have said more than I remembered last night.
Or maybe it was that urgent bulge in my lap?
Bright, funny, horny girls. The bane of my life.
Bree averted her glance when she saw me, mumbled and groaned, twisted and tried to turn her body, but she could barely move. Her friends had done a thorough job.
Poor Bree was spread and yoked fast to the maples.
I took a moment to relish the sight of this delicious, sun-browned dryad as she struggled vainly against the bonds of her mock crucifixion. The noble thing to do, I immediately thought, would be to release her from this embarrassing predicament, from this ticklish situation.
But as the word crossed my mind for the second time since seeing the note, I felt a wave of heat surge through my body. This was warmth no summer breeze could dampen.
A scene from Frank Capra's It's A Wonderful Life, wherein Donna Reed begs Jimmy Stewart to return her robe as she hides naked in a shrub, flashed before my mind's eye. What was it Stewart says, about a fella not getting too many opportunities of this sort?
I started toward Bree and the trees, walking slowly, debating with myself. She tugged at the knotted cloth around her wrists and ankles – shreds of her clothes, the remains of which were scattered near the trees – and looked frantically over my shoulder, hoping I suppose that her friends would suddenly rush in, cover her up, and tell me this was all just a joke.
She stopped moving when I stood a mere four or five inches from her glorious, stretched body. Her honey-brown hair was rumpled and wild; the pleading look in her sky blue eyes, under those thick, arching eyebrows, almost convinced me to reach out and set her free.
But the full pink lips poking around the gag, the half-inch rosy nipples blooming from the plump breasts, the spotty freckles loitering here and there down her skin, all the way to her dark brown mossy mound, the soft, rounded thighs pinched together …
These all combined in my mind and led me to doubt, to wonder.
Surely her friends were nearby, watching. They were waiting to see what would happen. They were unsure, just as I was unsure, of the outcome. They probably figured this as just a tease. The old prof and poet wouldn't take advantage of Bree, his favorite from the night before.
Or would he?
That was the unfortunate, gagged Bree, of course, muttering something in reference to my undoing her wraps. For a second time I noted the imploring look in her azure eyes. I reached out and …
Ran my fingers over her belly button, along her stomach and right up in between her breasts.
"Shhtpppp," she screamed, as her whole body twitched and jerked. I could have stopped then – imbibed the image of this fancy come alive and moved on. But even if I hadn't made up my mind, the wild contortions of Bree’s ripe flesh closed the deal.
Seeing her struggle, seeing the taut muscles rippling beneath her skin. It was all too much to refuse …
To decline …
So I continued.
"What's that, hon?" I said teasingly, "Try the ribs?"
I smoothed my hands down her sides and rested them just above her hips. Bree shook her head violently from side to side as she searched over my shoulders, hopelessly seeking some sign of her friends. I took that despairing look as my sign. A wind of passion flamed through me, through my hands, as I pressed them into the soft skin and tickled her wildly.
That wrapped yowl was all Bree could manage when my fingers skated up and down, from hips to ribs. Her stomach pumped out and in as she shrieked behind her gag; she tried to twist away from the tingling torment I was inflicting, but in her confined state she could only buck and jump in place – in seismic waves. This caused the most delectable juggling of her perky tits; they bobbed and bumped together in a rhythm with my fingers.
After several minutes of unrelenting torture, both her muffled screams and her frenzied tossing waned. I pulled back, reluctantly, to let her recover.
Could one die from too much, I wondered?
I wouldn’t – couldn’t – wait too long though; I was alive with the fire by this time. Bree's knees sagged forward as she fell limp. Tears, saliva and a trace of mucus stained her elfin, oval face. She continued to laugh and blubber even after I stopped.
"No sign of your friends, eh?" I asked. "Guess we're giving them quite a show?"
My eyes were drawn to the faint, sweaty shadow of stubble in her armpits, on the few freckles and moles that formed an erratic square on her belly, and on the mark around her waist where the elastic of her pants had left a range of ridges in her skin. Then there were her tits and nipples, her hairy box …
So much bounty from which to choose.
I deliberated quietly and conjured up a new angle of attack. I gathered a few twigs and pulled a large clump of tall, spiny grass from the edge of the clearing. Bree's body went rigid again when she saw me draw near with my humble natural tools.
Smiling my finest Cheshire pussy smile, I asked, "Want me to work somewhere else, don’t you? We don't want any parts to feel neglected, do we?"
Again the violent sidling of the head, and the wet, blue glimmer of the eyes. If only she had known how much that look of desperation inspired me, ignited my desire.
Fortunately – for me at least - she didn't.
I selected two fat stubby twigs and scraped them lightly up her sides before settling and twirling them under her arms. This time she levitated a couple of inches off the ground and howled so hard that I thought she would blow off the gag. Her eyes bulged and body jiggled as if she were being shot through with electric charges.
"Hmmmm - Hmmmaaww!"
Dear unfortunate Bree had quite a set of lungs behind those quivering boobs. Even with the gag, I had no doubt her two pals could hear her loud and clear.
"Nice friends you have, hon," I said, to stimulate our one-sided conversation, "Leaving someone as sensitive as you spread and ready for the taking, er, the tickling."
I gave her another opportunity to gather breath, before the next stop on the tour.
After a few minutes had passed, I picked up my swatch of long, dry grass. Bree instinctively tensed. "My, hon, you’re a mess. Here," I pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of my denim jacket and wiped her eyes and mouth. "Give a good blow." She responded half-heartedly, and I wiped around her nose. "This next bit shouldn't be much of a bother, so hang back and enjoy."
I made a reedy switch for each hand and stretched my arms forth like a philharmonic conductor. I grazed the tips of her erect nipples and traced the circles of her wide, blushing areolas with the prickly bundles.
Could I have ever imagined the extreme effect these light caresses would elicit? She exploded in muzzled guffaws and an epidemic of uncontrolled tremors. Is there anyplace she isn't wildly ticklish, I wondered? Then I realized that in her current, galvanized state she could be sent into writhing paroxysms by simply blowing on her skin.
I brushed with long, forceful strokes all over her torso, imagining myself a master of the painted body – a rural Delacroix or Courbet. Bree's appreciation of my genius was evident in the berserk wriggling of her frame. After several minutes her "hroos" and "hrrrms" faded, leaving her a silent, quaking mess of flesh.
I decided she needed a real breather this time. No use having her pass out right in the middle of our dance. I sat myself on the ground a few feet away and lit a cigarette.
Her "friends" are something else, I thought to myself. I was sure they would have intervened by now. Perhaps they were in the thicket at the top of the hilly area to our left – no doubt watching and whacking each other off.
Well, the show wasn't over yet, so I hoped they had a climax or two held in reserve.
Sweet Bree was hanging in there. She was drenched in sweat and flushed as a luncheon lobster, but still quite beautiful, like some soaked sexy pixie after an afternoon's romp in the forest.
I weighed my options, and considered how drained - and humiliated - she must be. Yep, I thought, maybe that's enough. I took a deep drag and watched her standing there, swiveling her hips and legs ever so slightly.
Poor thing can't stop flopping, I noted.
Then wondered …
Could it be?
Yet another whim fulfilled?
When I was just a boy of twelve or thirteen, my friend Donny Flagg told me the story of a time he had been playing with his two older sisters. They were at the beach, running in the sand, roughhousing and wrestling, when Hester, the oldest of the lot, pinned younger Emily flat on her back.
She told Donny to sit on her legs, and they proceeded to tickle the helpless girl without a hint of mercy. First it was just a short poke to the ribs, a quick assault under the arms, but as Emily's face grew redder and her laughter louder they lost all control and fingered her with abandon.
Being children, they paid little heed to Emily's situation, or to her increasingly emphatic appeals for release. Then, as Donny related the tale, when he started tickling along the top of her thighs a warm torrent of urine gushed through the rough fabric of Emily's bathing suit.
Rather than pausing, or releasing the poor girl, Donny and Hester actually increased the tempo of their prods and pinches, incited by the powerlessness of their victim. Donny said he dug his hands between her legs, to get her right where she was leaking, and he never failed to describe how hot her piss felt on his hands.
Even after she stopped peeing they kept right on going. As Donny told it, "Hester figured if you could tickle someone until she pissed herself, why stop there. Maybe there was more to come. After all, the three of us had a huge dinner the night before and a big breakfast early that morning. Emily hadn’t had time to crap before we left for the beach, so we went on and on."
Finally their mother materialized, putting and end to matters. Ironically, Emily was grounded the longest.
For shaming herself that way in public.
My mind gripped hold of that story because the image of poor Emily pivoting, pleading and peeing in the sand has obsessed me all life. I have tickled babysitters, girlfriends (including the aforementioned Emily), and a couple of my ex-wives, always yearning for that magic moment …
A moment that never materialized.
I took a last puff, ground the butt in the dirt, and resolved to set to work in earnest this time. All the while my eyes remained fixed on the regular gyrations and shifts of Bree's hips and thighs.
Shouldn't be long now, I mused in quiet bliss.
I had some difficulty standing; the stiffness in my khakis had reached critical proportions. How can I put into words the rage and lure of that moment when I started toward her. What had been an insistent itch had become a scalding need.
Bree made the mistake of looking at me with those imploring, sky-clear eyes. I quickly pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my shorts to the ground. I stood several inches away, but part of me rooted itself in the sweltering nest of her pubic hair. If her friends wanted a show, I'd give them one.
Most of all, I wanted this moment to last a lifetime.
Her curly bush thrilled the head of my cock as she squirmed and moaned. I felt a furnace of heat blaze up from my balls, through my oozing hard-on and back across the shivering muscles of my ass.
My hands trembled as I gently caressed her cheeks, her breasts. Her skin felt baked beneath the moist tips of my fingers, yet it was so supple – so fleecy and yielding.
All mine for the taking.
I burrowed my thumbs into her belly and began anew.
"Nmmmm … "
I pressed myself closer to her body, knees around her thighs to keep my cock buried in her hair during her spasms. I dropped one hand into her bush, plucked and fiddled the hair, pinched the inside of her thigh. My other hand returned to one of those insanely sensitive, stubbly armpits.
"Ahrrrm … Ahhmm …"
I teased her tickled pink nipples with my tongue and slipped my hands from place to place on her squirming, stewing skin. I replied to her jolts with a steady pumping of my own. I ground against her thighs and my cock chafed inside the muggy, hairy tangle of her mons flammas – her thrashing mound of fire!
I wanted a simultaneous release for both of us – me in climax, her in …
I simply wanted her to release, to pour forth, to gush.
If she came, well, that was just a bonus.
"C'mon hon, don't be shy now," I whispered hoarsely, leaning even closer to absorb every sweaty slap of her feverish, convulsing body.
I also wanted to absorb the hot flood I expected at any moment.
And, as I boiled, I fleetingly wondered just how big a breakfast she had eaten that very morning.