tagExhibitionist & VoyeurNot Just Another Walk in the Wood

Not Just Another Walk in the Wood

byA-Heart-On©

I love the warm weather, but here I am, stuck in a cold climate. It's great when spring finally comes. How I do look forward to getting out of doors without a coat. The warmer days are pushing past winter's cold shoulders, today, and it's hard to believe it's only been a year since I took my last, but memorable, walk in the woods.

On summer days Susan and I usually go for a walk in the twilight. On this particular walk, however, I discovered that my wife had made a plan for me. Just as we reached the woods she stopped and said, "Take your shorts off, Honey. I want to see what underwear you have on." For everyday, I usually wear cotton thongs, not the string kind that go up my butt and are more annoying than sexy after a few hours...but thongs nonetheless. I tend toward bright stripes and fun colors. I often show off my underwear on these private walks since we live in the country and own quite a few acres. But this time I must have looked at her a bit askance because she repeated her request, this time more firmly: "I said take those shorts off, now." I was finally getting the point, so I did as she requested. She held out her hand for them and with a smile hung my shorts on a nearby limb. She reached for my hand and guided me along down the path, my shorts left behind as we continued our walk. I shivered a little in my skimpy underwear even though I wasn't chilled. Quite the opposite, I'd say.

I had to admit, the warm air felt great against my skin, but the thought of being a long way from my pants caused me concern. As we walked her hands roamed over my ass and down into my undies and onto my now-growing cock, popped right out of my blue and white striped cotton thong, just the way she likes it. Ok, I forgot my concerns pretty quickly in the excitement of the moment.

This game she began evolved over that summer. For the next few walks, we would ramble with me wearing only a thong, but soon she was willing to take greater risks—at my expense, I might add. One day she had me remove even the underwear. But the real fun for her, I think was that she hung my pants and underwear on a limb at the point where our walks really got started, at our picnic clearing in the woods. So there I'd be, naked from the waist down, poor me prancing about in the woods literally hanging out and ready, though certainly not willing, to amuse or horrify farmers in neighboring fields or wandering neighbors. (Yes, before my wife had fully conceived her game, we did run into a neighbor and his new wife, out looking for morrell mushrooms and—praise the heavens—I was fully dressed.

But I was haunted ever after by the knowledge I jolly well might be caught out.) In that excruciating event, my clothes would be too far away to get back to. I never was able to shake the fear that I was completely exposed and taking a risk, a small one, perhaps, but it doesn't feel like a teensy risk when it's your cock and buns hanging out. Susan felt some of the risk, herself. What wife would want to be found on a casual stroll with a man in the buff? Someone fully clothed, however, is still able to grin widely at that thought. This was a very unfair game, to my mind.

Well, to continue, when I'm hanging out, I'm erect—Susan makes certain of that; I'm not allowed to let her toy deflate. She amuses herself by leading me along by the balls, in a manner of speaking, batting playfully with the tip of my cock so that it bobs up and down.

Often, though, we would just walk, chatting, enjoying each other's company, the beauty of woods, and the special birds we might chance upon. Susan would decide if and when she wanted to play. Never knowing added to my sexual excitement. Ok, I had figured out by this time that I liked this dangerous, one-sided game. Go figure. I must be more of an exhibitionist than I'd previously admitted to myself. I was beginning to think of myself as Susan's slave. And liking it. I could see she was liking it, too.

On several occasions I would assume we were just out for a little fresh and exercise since my pants were still on well into our walk. Since I never knew what our walks would bring, I would sometimes surprise her. If she asked me to remove my pants she just might find that I was wearing a sexy-guy thong...or even a pair of girlie panties for her. "Well, well, well," she'd crow. "Aren't you a bad boy? Now you will just have to go for our walk in those. And what if some macho farmer should see you? Ha! You'll never be able show your face at the Amoco again."

One time she had other plans. In a clearing in the woods she said, "Pull your pants down, right here." I did as I was told and my jeans fell to my feet. Then she knelt down in front of me, briskly pulled my underwear down and watched as my cock rose right up to greet her. She inspected my balls to see if they were smoothly shaven the way she likes. I was at her mercy. Once I was good and hard and she was satisfied with her inspection, she told me to masturbate for her. She likes watching me spray cum all over the grass and leaves. We're ever hopeful that the poison ivy won't take kindly to a dose of pungent cum.

One warm evening in midsummer when the light was especially beautiful, Susan said, "Hon, let's try to get a walk in before the light fades." I had been busy working in my woodshop and had lost all track of time, so I hurriedly joined her on the path and we headed off hand in hand.

But instead of taking our regular paths, she seemed to have a new direction in mind. I didn't ask; I just followed along. It was evident that she knew where she was going, a new and different place in the woods near the stream. It was a lovely clearing, with light filtering through the branches, scattering golden droplets onto the underbrush. Directly in front of us were knurly trees bent over from age and many snowy winters; under them grew small trout lilies and a clump of May apples. I could hear the creek close by.

"Now I want your clothes off." Then she quickly added, "I want you completely naked."

I had often taken my pants and underwear off for her on our walks that summer, but never everything. This was scary news. I removed my clothes as directed, even my sneakers and socks. When I was done she directed me to climb up onto the largest fallen tree in the clearing. As I did so, very, very gingerly--hey, did she think I was Tarzan?--she pulled our digital camera out of her baggy shorts pocket. "Great," she said, pointing the camera at me and adjusting the shooting angle. "Just hold that pose, now."

As I moved farther out on the tree, she continued to direct me: "That's good. Now turn this way a little bit," she'd say, happily choreographing my moves while I unhappily complied. These sorts of poses might look good in photos, especially if the model is 21, which I am certainly not. And something the viewer can't see is how painful bark is to tender tootsies; nor does the viewer realize the unhappy choice the model must make as he totters precariously: should he swat at the mosquitoes and fall off or offer the vampires a free feast?

Susan was unmoved by my plight. She was still having fun posing and positioning me for her shots. I had lost track of the time, but she must have taken quite a few shots since the light was now fading and the flash had gone off.

"What shall we do for my final shots? It looks like 'he' has lost interest in modeling for me," she smirked, referring to the now limp state of my cock. I matched her smirk for smirk because her attention to "him" had caused it to begin to twitch and swell. "Oh, yeah, that's better," she said, pointing the camera at me once again. "Now I know what I want: I think I'd like to capture one of those cum shots of yours. Work it, baby."

I began working my cock to oblige her. In the parting glow of the fading light I lost it, my body stiffening as I sprayed cum on the flowers below. "Ok, wow! Now that was a fine finale to our photo shoot," she said, tucking the camera back into her pocket. "Now let's head home before these mosquitoes eat me up." Was I sympathetic?

---------

I'm opening the back slider as I finish writing this journal entry. It's early April, now, and the temperature has risen to 60 degrees. Something else begins to rise as I imagine the day, very soon now, when I'll be stepping through this door and launching another season of adventures with my playful wife.

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