A Tree! A Tree! (2018) Pt. 02

After Tom left the coffeehouse, I stayed behind for a few minutes. He had gotten a text about an urgent family matter. It was sweet how he seemed to think it agony to be separated from me.

I nursed that second coffee and thought about the situation. During our conversation, I had become completely wrapped up in the moment and now found myself in an absurd entanglement. Entanglement? Was that was this was? An entanglement or an exuberance? I was torn. It was true that handcuffing a guy to a tree was my all-time favorite sexual fantasy. On the other hand I never visualized Tom's face in that picture. My ex. Sure. Cuff that dick to a tree and sell the key on eBay and send it to the buyer third-class mail. With insufficient postage.

But Tom? I thought he was too nice even before I realized that he had a kid sister who saw him as a father figure.

I gulped down the rest of my coffee and drove home. I decided to spend the night at my parents' cabin. There was no way I could make the drive out there in the morning and be awake by the time he arrived at ten. Besides, I wanted to make sure my parents weren't there. If I had simply asked my mom, she'd fret all evening and feel guilty about not telling my dad and then blurt it out first thing in the morning. When he found out that I was taking a guy to the cabin, he'd insist on going up himself. He's impulsive like that. (If any of you are wondering about any connection between my dad's heavy-handed capriciousness and my attraction to assholes, I'm way ahead of you.)

I considered driving Tom up with me to save gas — and the idea of him being completely dependent on me for a ride home, there was something sexy about having that kind of control over him. But if my parents did decide to go up Sunday morning, when they saw two cars, my mom might have enough sense to make sure that they weren't barging in on anything. She might be able to stall my dad long enough to get Tom presentable.

I considered packing some sexy lingerie but it didn't feel right for the situation. Besides, I wasn't sure I wanted to see how poorly my old lingerie fit since I hadn't worn it since I was pregnant. Then a question popped into my head and I grabbed my phone and started texting. "Tom, you've got the handcuffs, right?"

"Yes."

"Has anyone used them on you?"

It was awhile before I got back the word "No." I couldn't resist interrogating him.

"How long have you had them?"

Another long wait. "Since high school."

"You've had them TEN YEARS hoping someone would use them on you???"

"You're embarrassing me."

"Aww..." While waiting for a response, I added, "You know, it's flattering to be the one to pop your cherry so to speak, but we don't have to act out my fantasy. It seems too cruel. We could just sit on your sofa and have a nice coffee chat except your hands will be locked behind you."

Very quickly I got the response "It's important to me that the woman wants to do this and not because she's trying to please me."

I texted back, "Did I say out loud my comment about leaning in and brass knuckles or did I only think that?"

"You said it out loud."

I muttered, "Geez, buddy," under my breath while I texted him the cabin's address in response.

I grabbed my dog, some food, some dog food and a toothbrush and headed out to the cabin. I turned off the phone for fear that Tom would text me.

On the drive I kept thinking about how I would apologize to Rebecca, the coworker who seemed horrified by what I said at the bar, given how she had been given me the cold shoulder since the night I couldn't remember. It might be something like, "Rebecca, I'm so sorry by what I might have said at the bar. You have been acting uncomfortable around me since that night, so I'm horrified that I might have offended you. I can only beg you to consider that sexual fantasies are like dreams: they are not bounded by reality but is just the brain talking to itself. Our fantasies do not define us, our actions do. As long as a person recognizes that there are fantasies that are better left in the imagination, that you should never do, I can only beg you to in turn recognize the full complexity as a person. In my case that means that I have a lot of anger that comes out in my sexual fantasies. Please don't think less of me because of it."

Yeah, like Rebecca would let me drone on like that. Her response would probably be, "Uh... actually your new shampoo is bothering my fragrance sensitivities."

Anymore, well, usually, I get depressed every other Saturday night, when my daughter is at his dad's. Thinking about Tom cuffed to the tree, however, had me in a rare batshit happiness for a "bad Saturday night." I spent the evening Facebook messaging and reading what to me was weird porn but things that Tom might maybe possibly like (?). Until I clicked on a link about phone security and became paranoid about updating and scanning everything on my laptop and figuring out how to encrypt things on my phone.

With having a serious case of tree-brain, I kept discovering my fingers had somehow made it into my panties. It seemed naughty to not bring myself to an orgasm but to wait until Tom arrived. It took me a long time to put a name to the weird feelings bouncing around inside me, but not only was I giddy, I was almost sick with stage fright.

In all the brouhaha about doing Tom a favor, I had forgotten that this was in fact *my* fantasy. I had nearly bought a pair of handcuffs in high school myself but didn't want to be seen as "that girl." Then the guys I date snort a "yeah right" if I were to suggest such a thing. Too macho to ever be under a woman's thumb.

I woke up at eight in the morning. With a headache. I tried aspirin and coffee and mindfulness. That didn't help. Then I remembered why I was at the cabin and went for a walk with my mutt, Collie, to find the perfect tree. That did.

It was like it was planted for that very day. It didn't have any branches lower than six and a half feet and the bark was so smooth that I wouldn't even mind if it were my own tush pressed up against it. And the odds of a hiker stumbling across were almost nil. (Tom didn't need to know that.) If I did want to have a high chance of hikers seeing him, well, there was another perfect tree for that... Maybe next time.

The weather was perfect too. As the forecast promised, it would be the genuinely warm day of summer with a mid-afternoon rain upping the humidity. A hint of being too hot, the forecaster had said, jokingly. To which my mind instantly popped the thought: "Buddy, you're assuming people got clothes on."

Tom wasn't going to show up. There was no way. I checked my phone, which I had accidentally left on silent. Forty-five minutes earlier there was a text saying, "I'm at the gas station. I should be there in about an hour."

He'd be there in fifteen minutes.

Oh shit.

My heart couldn't decide whether to leap out of my throat or fall into my stomach. I suddenly needed to do something to keep calm. Collie needed to be in the cabin. That's it. Collie would run around and jump all over Tom and no one cuffed to a tree wants a yappy collie-cocker spaniel mix jumping up on them. I called for my pooch and locked him in the cabin. He started barking and I started apologizing to him through the closed door.

Then I had an awful idea. It wouldn't be fair to do to Tom because I hadn't said it at the bar but... But what? My mind said, "This is your one chance to act this out. Do the whole she-bang." Ignoring Collie's barking, I opened the door enough to reach him without letting him out. I took off his collar and grabbed his leash.

He was still barking when I sat on a stump waiting for Tom's car. I got as much hair as I could off the collar and tried it on myself. It fit easily. I heard the distant crunch of gravel and started to hide the canine accouterments in my back pants pockets when I realized I hadn't given a thought to how I was dressed. It was too late to change and what I was wearing wasn't that sexy. A hoodie over a sports bra, blue jeans, panties, grey socks and hiking boots.

The drive was long and Tom's car crawled slowly, radiating uncertainty. Or maybe I was projecting. When we made eye contact, his car abruptly stopped and his face erupted in horror and desire. He didn't think I was going to be here. My waving seemed to give him the courage to park and propel himself out.

"Hiya, handsome soon to be naked guy!" I squealed. Maybe that was a little much.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He had on his face the Platonic ideal of a nervous smile. He looked like he could use a hug in the worst way and I sensed he was in some weird submissive zone in which he wouldn't initiate a hug.

I'm a hugger, so I didn't need much excuse.

As far as hugs go, it was on the awkward side, lightened only by some giggles.

"You really want to do this?" I asked skeptically.

He bit his lip and nodded his head as if he didn't trust what words would come out of his mouth.

"You look nervous," I said.

"Honestly, I'm scared. Shitless. Are you nervous?" He sounded like he was hoping I was.

With a bravado that felt as sincere as a Bernie Madoff investment pitch, I casually waved my hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Why should I be? I get to keep my clothes on."

His mouth turned into an "O" a look somewhere between a hungry goldfish and having an orgasm. His breathing turned shallow.

"You getting turned on?" I teased.

He bobbed his head.

"Ain't seen nothing yet." My god, was he shaking and gasping for air. "It's been I don't know... five years since I took first aid. I have no idea how to treat hyperventilation, so you gotta practice some self-care buddy." I clapped my hands. "Okay, let's get down to business." I held out my hand and signaled with my fingers towards my palm, the international 'gimme' sign. "The cuffs."

He dived back into the car while I wondered why he didn't grab them when he got out of the car the first time. Ah, he didn't think I would go through with this and he didn't want to seem pushy.

"Leave your phone and wallet in there!" I yelled toward the car. When he got out, I held out my hand. "Come to think of it. Give me your car keys first. Should've done that first."

He shakily handed them over. A double tap on the fob and his car alarm hooted. I couldn't help but smile at that. I stuck his car keys in my back pocket.

"Is this starting to feel a little real." I knew I was doing a full Chesire. "And *now* the cuffs."

The cold metal on my fingers. Electrifying. "It's like a vibrator for my hand!" I exclaimed. He had no idea what I was talking about. I tried to sound stern as I ordered him to explain how to use them, which he did.

"And what if I drop the key?"

"Don't even joke about that."

We started walking up the trail. I would describe what Tom was wearing but I assure you, his clothes were pretty damn irrelevant to what unfolded.

On the walk I asked him the question that's probably been on your mind, dear reader. "So when we were at the bar, what did you say was your all-time favorite sexual fantasy?"

"I didn't. I sat beside Gally." That would be the supervisor of everyone. "She shut down the game when it came to her," Tom explained.

"Whoa, that's harsh. She really let all those people make themselves be so vulnerable and then not reciprocate? Damn. That's so cold. So, Tom, what would you have said?"

"I'm not totally sure. But what you described as your fantasy was more erotic than anything I ever came up with on my own. I'm not sure if I could've admitted that it probably would have involved handcuffs."

We walked in silence until we got to the tree. "There she be," I announced.

Tom looked at the tree with fear and awe. He touched it with a finger, as if he expected to be shocked by it.

"Okay, well then," I stammered. To seem more decisive, I gestured towards his clothes.

He took deep breaths like he had to remind himself how to undress. He knelt down and took off his shoes and socks and waved them around like he was uncertain about what to do with them. I shrugged my shoulders. "Don't look at me. When I've jilled to this fantasy over the years, the guy's clothes just vanish like in a magic trick. Not an important detail for me."

He finally set his shoes and socks on the ground and stuffed the socks inside the shoes. Each time he set down a foot he was very careful to avoid hit a sharp twig. I pointed out that I had carefully checked that morning to make sure there were none.

He gave me a pleading look as if he was hoping that I would be appeased by how much he had already undressed.

"I don't have a foot fetish. Keep going."

He bit his lip again like he was steeling himself and then suddenly he all but tore off his polo shirt.

Holy shit.

"I had no idea you had so much muscle definition," I blurted out, not at all sounding very dominant.

That comment seemed to relax him a little. But only a little. Redfaced and avoiding eye contact, he put his finger around his belt buckle and closed his eyes like a basketball player visualizing a foul shot. I was torn between dragging this out — omg, I had no idea someone's embarrassment could be so hot — and wanting to see the goods. Pronto.

Soon he was kicking his pants off his ankles. I was starting to wonder if I shouldn't reconsider my general lack of enthusiasm for pale guys.

"Go on," I cooed, more fangirl than domme (the latter, a word I learned last night, courtesy of the internet).

"Please, please let me keep my boxers," he whined.

"Hell no!" I shouted rather too loudly. It hit me that I was getting very wet.

"Somebody might see," he wheedled.

"That's what makes this fantasy so powerful for me," I growled. "Besides if your abs are any indication, I want to see that derriere of yours."

"Can I just flash you for a moment and then pull my boxers back up?"

"Nope." It occurred to me that I could agree and simply pull down his underwear after I cuffed him to the tree. But there was something way more thrilling about getting him to strip himself.

He couldn't think of anything to say and I resisted the urge to rescue him from the awkwardness by saying something myself. I covered my mouth with my hand and my breathing got ragged when he hooked his thumbs inside the elastic band.

I don't know how to describe what happened next. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Words fail. Let's just say his penis fit his personality and body perfectly. You know what I mean — or maybe you don't — but some of the assholes I've bedded had penises that were too nice or delicate or animalistic or polite or something else not exactly asshole-ish and all I could think is, "This would be a nice penis on someone else." His *matched*. Very Adonic if that's the adjective form of Adonis and the memory is making it hard enough to keep both hands on the keyboard without having to check an online dictionary.

Afraid my fingers would betray me with their shaking, I gestured toward the tree with my chin. He was obviously as terrified as he was hard but he complied. It was such a relief to get behind the tree and out of his sight.

He turned to face me and hugged the tree.

"What?" I said, confused. "No, I'm cuffing you facing outward."

"But in that scene in Tank , she cuffs him *toward* the telephone pole."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Turn around."

"But I'll be too exposed. Someone could see my pubic hairs from three hundred yards through the trees."

"Uh, yeah," I said sarcastically. I made the "turn around" sign with my finger. He reluctantly complied. Shaking uncontrollably, I took the cuffs out of my back pocket and slapped them on his wrists. "Did that hurt?" I asked apologetically.

He simply moaned in response. It was hard to double lock the cuffs with the pin on the back side of the key like he had shown me. It was like I was wearing dishwashing gloves. When I had the key in my pocket, I announced, "I think you're good."

When I got back to the front of the tree, he was struggling against the cuffs. Unsuccessfully of course. The more obvious it was that he was trapped, the more his penis throbbed and bounced.

"You are a sight to behold," I said. His skin in his midsection was somehow even whiter than his arms and face but his pubes were pitch black. Fascinating. "You're like a zebra," I whispered. "Or maybe a panda."

He didn't seem to be listening. He was too busy struggling and whimpering, "Oh my god," over and over. He finally broke out of that enough to ask, "C-c-could I s-see you naked? Please please please?"

I couldn't help but laugh and snort derisively, "Nope! Ain't part of my fantasy."

If disappointment could kill...

I crouched down to get a good look at his goods. They were... whether's he's circumcised, what kind of fruit his dangling balls reminded me of — that's not really any of your business now, is it? Visualize whatever turns you on.

I gave an appreciative whistle and stood up. "So it's probably fifteen after ten o'clock. I said a couple of hours. So should I uncuff you at, say, noon?"

Like a drunk suddenly realizing he had to talk sober to a police officer, he struggled through his arousal to say, "Oh my god, you're not seriously going to leave me like this, are you?"

I'm afraid that I looked at him like he was an idiot. "Uh, that's what we talked about."

"But someone could see me like this."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, obviously. We've already gone over this. Look, buddy, you agreed to do my fantasy. I didn't agree to do yours. Besides, you have nothing to be ashamed of." I looked down and under my breath I added, "Good god no." I suddenly felt shy. I got very close to him. "Could... could I touch your nipples? They're like little buttons that say, 'Push me.' But we didn't talk about whether I could actually touch you. Could I, please please? "

He seemed to struggle to figure out a response before gamely saying, "I can't stop you."

"Well, then, in that case..." In one smooth motion, I stepped back and whipped out my smartphone. "You can't stop me from doing this either." He seemed confused at first until it dawned on him that I was holding the phone like I was taking a picture. He didn't seem to notice that I hit the 'record' button.

He went on and on in the most sincere pleading, begging me not to take a picture of him. It was pretty desperate — and hot. I knew I had to delete the video immediately and the thought was killing me. Then I noticed something.

"I'll make you a deal. Your brain is obviously scared of my taking nude pictures of you. But your other head has never been happier. If you can lose *any* of your erection in two minutes, I won't take any pictures, but if Mr. Happy is still happy, you're going to cooperate and pose nicely with sexy facial expressions."

He didn't sound that happy. "It's not like I have much choice."

"It sounds like you prefer it that way." I stopped recording and pulled up the stopwatch function. "Starting...now."

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, even going so far as singing, "Happy birthday," which was a hoot. When I had suggested this bet, I thought I would give him a few strokes at the 1:50 mark to ensure that I won.

Instead, I waited and waited and waited and then quietly approached him, showing him the stopwatch passing the four-minute mark. Then we both looked down at his still engorged cock.

He wasn't a natural at taking directions and it took an awful lot of shots for his smile to get into the sexy zone. Eventually my phone started complaining about the lack of space. He was still hard. I took a couple of close-ups of the river of precum and put the phone away.

"Okay now it's 10:30 so I should wait until 12:30 to uncuff you. Sayonara."