The Chickadee Connection

Finally!

After putting the stores away, which needed repeated trips from the car, and opening every window to air the cabin, Deborah saw the prospect of her own time looming. To forget the long year of teaching and Covid and stress, to forget the immediacy of cooking and cleaning, to forget Paul for a while. They had two weeks at the cabin in high summer, and Deborah wanted the great outdoors. The air of freedom, summer joy, night rain. She'd been too pale for far too long. Finally!

Her heart yearned, but she knew not, what for. But she knew she was restless, seeking something more.

"I might go up The Beyonds," she said to Paul, who was down by the lake, content with his easel and brushes. "I think I saw a rise of smoke last night, when we got here. Perhaps someone is renting the Logan Place."

He looked up at his beautiful wife, her eyes bright, her great mane of hair pulled through the opening at the back of her cap. "Yes, love, do that. I wish I could come too, but I couldn't manage the climb." He touched her hand, regretfully.

She leaned down around his neck with a warm embrace, breathing in the smell of him, remembering those days when his hair would smell of smoke from their camp fires. She kissed him tenderly on the lips, her hand on his cheek.

"Don't let the bears getcha," he said, their old refrain.

"I won't," she said, her old reply. "I can run faster than you!"

They both laughed, to hear them both say it.

Deborah turned back to the cabin, where she loaded up a small back pack with two bottles of water, the first aid kit, binoculars, the bits and bobs a well prepared girl always carries. She made up a pack of sandwiches for both of them for lunch, left Paul's on a plate and put hers in the pack. She took the first apple. This was Eden.

By the door, she found her trusty hiking stick, worn smooth from years in the woods.

"I'm off, love," she called down to Paul, who raised a brush in reply. "Back well before dark," she added.

"Run faster," he shouted back, and turned back to an immaculate detail in the painting.

Deborah set off up the little used back path that would take her up to the top of the ridge that separated this valley from the next. It wasn't marked as such on any map, but it had always been The Beyonds. She knew the back of it well.

The first climb was long and steady, putting a stretch in her thighs and back, and she felt the burn of worked muscles. When she got to the top of the ridge the walk was easier, with magnificent views out over the twin valleys below. Even so, as she walked she took off her shirt and tied it about her waist, leaving her arms and shoulders bare in a black tank top.

When she stopped for a breather, she lathered her bare skin with sun-cream, spreading it on her thighs and calves, long legs bare under her shorts. The temperature was idyllic, not cold, not hot, but the sun had a burn. Such a perfect day, it could only get better. Deborah smiled, and went on, her heart pumping from the exertion.

As she walked, easier now that she was on the ridge-way, she found herself softly singing favourite songs.

After a long while, she stopped, turned her head and listened. Yes, it was the crack of an axe she'd heard, and she realised she'd come on near to the Logan Place, walking further than she'd thought. She looked at her watch, she'd been walking for just over an hour.

She changed direction slightly, moving down along a spur from the ridge, to where a clear place looked down over the Logan property. There below her, fifty yards or so away, was a man, a tall man, chopping wood.

Deborah, suddenly shy at meeting someone here, stopped, and went back a little, in under a tree, out of sight in the shadows. But she could still see the man below her, quite clearly.

She slipped her shirt back on, to stay warm now she'd stopped walking, and to protect her back from the bark of the tree. She sat with her back against the trunk and her feet planted on the ground in front of her. She rubbed a thigh where a muscle burned, feeling a tight stretch right up inside her, right up inside her pussy. She arched her back against the tree, stretching like a cat, and watched the man

as he methodically, precisely, swung the axe down onto the wood with a crack, neatly splitting the timber. He was bare chested, beautifully tanned from the sun. Deborah thought he might be older than her by a decade or so, with short greying hair and a silvery shadow on his cheeks

and firm muscles that tightened and flexed as he worked.

She watched, spellbound, as he worked his way through another ten blocks of wood. Then he stopped, swung the axe with a final crack into the stump, and kicked some loose logs together with his foot. He walked over to another stump nearby, where Deborah saw a pack, his shirt, and a wheelbarrow. For the wood - she couldn't be far from the cottage, but she couldn't see it from where she sat.

He sat on the stump and ran a hand up through his hair. Then Deborah watched as he ran both hands over his chest, rubbing over his nipples, then down his sides, as if he were giving himself a massage.

Deborah's nipples instantly thickened, and now she was aware of her body.

Then he reached back to his pack and pulled out a Thermos. She watched as he poured a steaming liquid into the cup, placed the cup on the ground, and reached into the pack again to pull something else out. Deborah smiled as she recognised the characteristic tearing motion of a sugar sachet being torn. She smiled again as he looked around for a stick to swizzle the sugar into the drink. She kept watching as he took the first sip, closing his eyes for that first luxurious taste.

Deborah knew that life giving feeling well, depended on it herself, and wished she'd brought some coffee, not just water. But to treat herself, she found her sandwiches, and began to eat, captured now with this distant intimacy. It was as if she was in some huge café, but instead of the buzz of conversation and traffic outside, her world was defined by the soft swirl of wind in the trees around her, and as she sat and the world came to her, the multiple songs of birds.

The dee dee, dee dee of a little chickadee sounded from nearby, and she looked for it, knowing they were inquisitive birds, and might come closer. She broke some crumbs from the bread, and scattered them down by her feet, to entice one.

Ah look, there he was, a little flittering male with his black head and flickering tail, in a tree some ten feet away. She watched the sweet little bird; her man down in the glade, safe, drinking coffee or tea. The tiny thing came closer, quite fearless, and dropped to the ground by the crumbs. He looked this way and that, then stole a crumb, flying back to the branch with it, to sing his song again.

He danced down once more, coming a little closer, his tail, flick, flick. Deborah smiled with the joy of this little bird who seemed, really, to be flirting. Dee dee, dee dee, he called, then suddenly darted away. She watched him swoop and soar, and lost sight of him in the distance, but still heard his insistent call.

Deborah saw the man look up, look around. Had he heard the little bird too? It made sense, the glade below was obviously part of the bird's range. Had he flown there?

Her eyes drawn back to the man, she kept watching; a little ashamed to be spying, but she couldn't take her eyes off him, this man obviously so content on his own. Deborah craved solitude herself, sometimes, but at heart she was a sociable woman, and perhaps was afraid of herself all alone, when it really came down to it.

She continued to study the man, saw even from the distance his long fingers and the sculpted muscles on his shoulders. He was broad shouldered and slim waisted; and when he stood up and stretched, she could make out tight jeans and a pair of sturdy boots on his feet.

With a start, Deborah saw him stand up and move towards her, but then he turned away after a few steps and faced a nearby tree. She studied his profile, and at first completely missed that he'd stopped by the tree to take a piss. She gasped with a quick realisation, and knew she should look away.

But she didn't. Instead, she watched, open-eyed and shocked with herself, but unable to turn away, as he took a good sized penis from his pants, long and thick, and let go a long stream of urine, arcing patterns on the trunk of the tree like a boy does, on a wall.

Deborah quivered, and finally tore her eyes away, feeling a blush rising on her cheeks.

And a hot, heavy feeling in the base of her belly.

She should get up and stop this blatant looking, she should move away. But she didn't. Instead, her fingers crept inside the the neck of her top, found a nipple. And she pulled it up to a thick, hard nub.

She watched him as he tucked his cock away and zipped up. Then, curious now, she saw him collect long strands of grass from around the glade, until he had a good sized bundle. She watched him as he returned to his stump, sat, took a last drink from the cup. She watched him as he started to weave the strands, but couldn't make out what he made.

She watched the man, down in the glade, and felt peaceful, watching over him.

Spellbound by his concentration, she watched for ten minutes, her nipples thick and throbbing, the twist of her fingers automatic, and saw that he'd made a little grass doll, a token, a dolly. And all the time the little bird flitted between them, its insistent song a call in the air, dee dee, dee dee.

Time passed with a stillness. Perhaps it was Deborah's heart that she heard, beating fast but beating strong, and a full heavy throb in her belly.

He finished making the little poppet and placed her on the stump, her little feet in a crack so she stood there.

Then, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world for a man to do, Deborah watched him as he undid his boots, took them and his socks off, and pulled the jeans down from his legs. She watched him as he made a small bed from the jeans and his shirt, and lay back on them.

And in her watching place, caught now in a spell, Deborah did the same. She took her boots and socks off, pulled down her shorts and panties, and lay on the grass on her belly, watching him. She wriggled, and opened her legs, opened her pussy wide, and entered herself with her fingers.

She saw his hand move slowly over his cock, soft in a curve around his balls, and she saw how his cock thickened, straightened, and in not much time at all, was erect, long against his belly. Thick, long and straight. Deborah wanted it in her. Her fingers were a poor substitute, but she filled herself as deep as she could with two fingers, her other hand fierce on a nipple. She fucked herself as she watched his hand slowly move along his cock, up and around his cock head, down and around his balls.

Deborah saw how he loved himself in slow curiosity, his fingers moving in so many ways. She saw his face, his eyes closed, not seeing. Deborah knew that behind his eyes he was seeing women, all his women, all his girls, all his nights laid out in a long line around him.

Her cunt ached, and her juices dropped, and she wanted, she desperately wanted, to go to him, to take that beautiful cock into her mouth. But she couldn't. He didn't even know she was there.

When he came, long strands of come jetting up onto his chest in repeated pulses, Deborah came too. And when she closed her eyes, the colour of her orgasm was the same blue as the blue sky above them, with soft clouds drifting by.

Far off, but still calling, the little chickadee called, dee dee, dee dee.

She waited, her fast breath slowing, her belly hot, warm and heavy, until she saw him rub the come over his skin, just like the sun cream she'd applied earlier. She watched him dress, the beautiful cock thick and long, hanging against his thigh, gone hidden. She saw how he pulled his jeans up, bending to put his penis in place, and to sling his open shirt on, casually. He filled the barrow with the chopped wood, placed his pack and axe upon it, and heaved it into motion. She watched him turn a corner and move out of sight. She watched him go, wanting to call for him, come back, come back to me.

Deborah lifted her pussy-wet fingers to her nose and smelled herself, then licked them to taste her arousal. Astonished at herself, Deborah spread the juice from her pussy all up and around the curve of her belly, anointing her skin with her pleasure, just as he had. Methodically she dressed, tidied herself, and made her way back up to the ridge-way path.

She was vibrant, eyes bright, her skin hot under the sun and the memory of him, and she sang, "Dee, da da dee dee, da da dee dee," as she walked home.

"The flush of the sun on your skin suits you," Paul said, as he greeted her on her return. "How far did you get?"

"On past the Logan's," she replied. "Someone's there, I could see smoke from the chimney, and a stack of newly chopped wood. But I went on."

"I wonder who it is?" Paul commented. "Emma will know."

Emma ran the post office in the village. "Emma will," said Deborah. "I might ask her." Knowing full well that she would. Knowing even more, that tomorrow she'd go back up The Beyonds, this time better prepared.

She did. When she got to her sheltered place on the morrow, she saw him chopping more wood. He must be laying it in for winter, she thought, as she stripped from her clothes completely, and settled down to watch.

Her little bird came by, dancing, and she enticed him closer with crumbs from a biscuit brought specially for him, the sweet little bird. The chickadee looked at her, bobbing his head back and forth, and took the offering, then swooped down to the glade to her lover. Deborah didn't know the man with the axe, and was sure she'll never actually meet him, but now, in this world, he was her lover. And she'd come far better prepared this time, eventually penetrating herself with her favourite slim dildo, biting a cloth not to moan.

With a thrill, she saw him stop chopping with the same crisp stop of the axe into the wood, she saw him drink from his cup, and she saw him collect all the grasses.

Deborah edged herself for a good thirty minutes while he wove the new poppet, then undressed as he had the day before. He was quicker, more efficient this time, but Deborah had a good head start, so when he came, she came with him, her body soaring with a long ecstasy, her dildo pressed hard up within her.

The next day it rained, and she didn't go there.

On the fourth day she walked faster, and made it to her watching place in forty minutes.

To discover a little straw doll, put there where she had been, two days before.

Oh God, he knows. Somehow, he knows. Deborah sat down, amazed at the implications of the offering. How on earth did he know she'd been watching? She couldn't fathom it - surely she'd been quiet, invisible back in the shadows?

But he knew, and any damage to be done, was already done. So she resolved to stay, to let him make the first move, whatever that move might be. She realised he might have no idea of exactly when she'd been there - it could all have been quite innocent? Couldn't it? She didn't know. But of course, she'd been watching his most intimate moments, coming on his belly as he lay under the sun.

When he arrived with his barrow and his axe, he gave nothing away. The poppet might have climbed up by itself - he gave absolutely no indication that he knew another presence might be nearby. The little bird, though, became quite frantic, flitting this way and that, as if he didn't know what to do.

But when he finished that morning's load of wood, and took his refreshments as now she knew he would, her man did something different. He took his long luxurious piss, as she'd seen him do before, but this time he undressed straight away, and collected his grasses, fully nude. Deborah watched him wander and bend as he bundled together his grasses, the little chickadee swooping beside him, happier now with his presence.

So was Deborah, blissfully happy, as she sunk her fingers into herself. She felt blatant, exultant, but she thought, my God, what on earth has come over me?

Her arousal, as she watched in wonder as he made another little doll, was intense. She came once, and again twice, as she watched, her eyes clinging to the full but still soft shaft of his penis, torn between watching it and those clever fingers making the doll, weaving magic onto her skin and into the threads of her body. She knew she must be the object of his totem, even though he'd never seen her.

So when he placed the grass doll on the stump, her little feet firm in a crack, and lay back, Deborah knew exactly what she was going to do.

She watched him as he slowly stroked his cock up into a beautiful erection, long, thick and hard against his gut. She saw how he cradled his balls, and stroked his fingers up over his chest, down along the shaft, and back up in a curl of his palm, gliding over his cock head.

Deborah slipped her socks back on to protect her feet, then stood and went down to him. She walked quickly but quietly in a zig-zag down the slope, walking where she'd mapped the path a dozen times, as she'd watched him.

When she got down to him, her shadow fell over his body. He must have felt the change in the air, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun, for his eyes opened, and he saw her.

Instantly, Deborah knelt by his side and whispered, "I'm here, but don't say a word. I couldn't bear it, if you spoke."

She lay her head on his belly and took his cock into her mouth. Deborah couldn't believe what she was doing, but the hot flesh in her mouth... it was one hundred percent real, full, firm and hard. She began to suckle on his cock, one hand on the shaft, the other cupping the softness of his balls. She took him to the back of her throat and swallowed, to deny a gag reflex and to consume him. He knew not to thrust, to let her control the depth and all movement. She caressed his cock with her mouth, her lips and tongue, and the gentle bite of her teeth.

As she mouth fucked him, Deborah shifted her legs around, spreading them to show him her cunt, and to let him finger her there. His fingers found her, and she felt peaceful as he entered her. She could sense the slow wonder of his touch, and her waters flooded. She felt the coolness on her leg as her juices dripped down her thighs. Far off on a branch she heard the little bird call, dee dee, dee dee.

Deborah held the stranger's cock in her mouth, and the intimacy of it stunned and shocked her. She still could not believe herself, doing what she was doing, but her mind was completely consumed by the moment. She caressed him, a little stronger, a little faster, adjusting her own breath to his.

"I'll come soon," she heard him quietly say, and she was grateful for the warning, giving her the chance to stop. The kindness behind those few short words enveloped her, and she moved again, to give him deeper access to her pussy. He slid two fingers up inside her, slowly fucking her wet, wet hole, stopping only to circle her clit. She didn't stop sucking, but began to stroke his cock faster.

"Mmmm mmm," she managed to mumble, meaning, me too, but her mouth was too full to talk.

Deborah felt his body begin to buck. She loved this place in a man, the point in time where he was climbing to the inevitability of his orgasm. She eased his beautiful cock from her cuntal throat, so the hot head of him was on her tongue. That way, she'd taste him when he spilled his joy into her, and his come would drop from her lips in an exquisite, sexy mess. She loved nothing more than hot creamy come on her cheeks, on her skin, as she swallowed each pump into her.

She felt a hand grasp her hair, holding her head in place on his belly, and the fingers inside her pussy were divine.