The Wolf and the Mirror

Chopping wood. Next to the chore I saw the letters M. U. scrawled carelessly next to it. I laughed silently to myself. He only wrote his initials. I didn't know many names that started with a U. Maybe he was someone rich or famous in whatever big city where he made his life. Maybe he was here for a break, hoping nobody would recognize him. Or maybe he just didn't feel like writing out his whole name. Silence made even the mundane, interesting.

The sun set later here now that summer had freshly started. Here, north of the tree line, where the evergreens started growing, the days were long and lazy. I was pleasantly worn out by the time I had cleaned up for dinner, and the shadows were long as I trudged back to my little shelter beneath the cedars. I liked the dusk. I could rest and read a few of my favorite comic books I had brought with me in my haste to escape from where I was. After I had read all of my own Marvel collection, I had borrowed a Manga comic called 'Buddha' from the basement of the Shrine Room. The stories were foreign but enjoyable, just like the terrain where I slept. Tonight I knew I would be asleep quickly, following my restless night.

By the time I tucked myself in my sleeping bag and exhaled a full sigh, the sun was below the horizon. The peace only lasted seconds, before a loud THWACK broke my calm. Three small hills circled the kettle where I had pitched my tent. On the apex of the farthest one, he stood. His silhouette held an axe in motion with the dark orange light of the setting sun highlighting his perfect outline. THWACK. His first few swings narrowly missed the target. The third swing landed with a satisfying hit going straight through the whole length of upright cedar log. I could see the two halves of the cleaved log fall in opposite directions. I wished he could split my body in half with such force.

Dorje Mary was right; I admitted that often these days. She had told me many things when I arrived here before I took my vow of silence. She said, "Silence will make you notice more things, become more aware. And often awareness is painful. Come to me if you can't handle it." He handled the axe more naturally than I had expected. Most of the rich retreatees could hardly lift its weight above their head before they would come to me for help. I also like the sheer feeling of power the swing of the axe gave me. That warm evening, unfortunately, I did not have that privilege to help him. I secretly wished he would come to me. He could find my tent, and he could cover my hands as I showed him how to grip it. I knew how to wield an axe and a shotgun. My father had taught me a few useful things before he decided I was destined for better things. THWACK. Another perfect hit. He, however, apparently already knew a few useful things.

He has chosen the solitary assignment. His love of solitude shined clearly. I could see a smile come across his face, as he thought he was out of sight from the rest of the grounds. There, on top of the glacial remains, he no longer looked timid. His frame was enormous against the backdrop of the sun, with a well-defined outline. His enormous shoulders formed a strong 'V' with his trimmer waist. He hid himself around people. But now, seemingly alone, he let his light shine brightly, almost blindingly. At that moment, he looked like he had just broken out of a translucent shell, able to finally show his brilliance when nobody was around to be bothered by it. THWACK. I rolled over to peer through the red tent fabric. I hoisted my boyish body on my hands and knees to get a better view through the translucent cotton. He yielded the axe too well to have been born in Chicago or Minneapolis or Detroit or wherever he was from. His precision spoke clearly that he had a different life once. Perhaps he had to hide his humble upbringings to seem like he belonged in the bustle of his high society. And here he could let loose his hidden past every time his axe came down with the force of years of repressed passion.

He smiled gleefully with every downstroke. He looked as if he was getting sinful, almost sexual pleasure from splitting the helpless log with the full force of his being. The silhouette of his beard in profile showed me that he was smiling with his teeth showing. With each hit, frustration was being released. Anger. Hate. Regret. Passion. Heat. Fire. Desire. He pounded each new trunk with joy that glowed, like the setting sunlight behind him, with perfect sincerity.

THWACK. He hadn't missed a single swing for a while now. The sound of the splitting wood was loud, even though my ears were a good hockey-field's distance away from him, with several tree trunks and wild flowers between us. The sound was so loud that I could feel it reverberate in my bones. Each time the axe came down with its THWACK I could feel it. It was getting louder. He was smiling. Smiling large. Now I was the log that he was thrashing, and I could feel the power of his now unleashed energy spanking my young, eager buttocks. My eyes saw him pummeling wood, but as I looked, while on my hands and knees, I knew every thrust was meant for me. Yes. THWACK. YES. THWACK. Spank me, Sir. Spank me. Yes, sir. Spank. Me. Spank. ME. Each time the axe came down, my body naturally fell forward from the momentum of the force. I tried to brace myself with a wider stance so that I could withstand more force. I was there to serve him. Spank me. I moaned quietly as I could feel the imaginary palm of his hand touch my sweaty ass cheek. I pulled down my loose jeans so that my ass was now half-bare and exposed to the slight breeze in my tent. Now you can spank me better, Sir, I pleaded. You can take all of your angry lust out on me. It's okay. You must have had a hard week. Your energy needs a focus. Let my willing body be your focus to release all of your hidden burdens.

Now, I could hear the sound of two footsteps walking together down the path back to the kitchen. I could hear two women secretly talking and giggling. I recognized the voices from the shrine room discussion. One was a young Asian who wore bright red lipstick and had oddly blue eyes. The other, I figured, was her partner. She was an older woman, who had weathered skin, and walked with the careless elegance of someone who knew the world. Almost everyone would cheat at the silence rule when they thought they were out of earshot. Few people would go through a full day without speaking in their life. A few passing words could be a sinful pleasure after a day of silence, and I often heard them in my partially hidden tent.

I knew the fabric of my tent was nearly impossible to see in, but still, the sound of their conversation jerked my mind back to my body. Where was I again? And why had my pants so naturally dropped? THWACK. I was on my hands and knees with my pants pulled down exposing my bare ass. How had I gotten here? Even if they decided to invade my tent, which they wouldn't, I don't think I would have words to explain what had just happened. I pulled my loose pants up to my waist. My cock was now rock solid and throbbing. I braced myself perfectly still like prey crouching beneath a bush to avoid being ambushed. I did want to be ambushed but by the predator on the hill. They passed by and their hushed whispers faded.

The sound of the axe didn't stop as I unbuttoned the fly of my jeans and pulled them down passed my knees. I took off my shirt until I was a pathetic naked child-of-a-man. Without a scrap of clothes on I want back on my knees but then pressed my chest to the ground. I pressed so low my nipples rubbed sensually on the uneven floor of my tent. I turned my head to the side so that I could bring my ass higher, and he could more naturally use me as he needed. My stubble was pressed firmly against the thin crinkly barrier between me and the Earth. With every thwack, my ass felt as if it was being attacked. I licked my hand with spit, which by now had started leaking on to my own stubble. It has formed a small pool beside my awkwardly turned face. With thick saliva now on my palm, I grabbed my dick firmly with my right hand and slowly felt the length of it, from the sack of my swollen balls to its sensitive tip.

THWACK. Yes sir. I'm sorry sir, I can't contain myself any longer. I know I look pathetic. You need to punish me, Sir. I stroked faster. My whole body was rigid from desire. I could now physically feel the impact of the flat cold iron of the axe hitting me. I can't control my hand anymore. Punish me. You should be the one feeling pleasure. Not me. I licked my palm again and could taste the sweet, salty taste of my own precum from the head of my dick which was by now almost leaking like a faucet. THWACK. Yes sir. He knew how to yield an axe. If he held it at the wrong angle, he could make me bleed. THWACK. Yes sir. I trusted him. The doctor I had never exchanged a word with had me at his mercy. And I open up my vulnerability to him, willingly, eagerly, passionately.

Vulnerability felt intoxicating. THWACK. Yes sir. I bit my lip as I tried to contain the urge to moan in absolute ecstasy. My whole body felt enlarged by being engorged with pure energy that had to be released. I had no choice but to give in. THWACK. Yes sir. I felt the warm and thick splash of cum on my chest, and I could feel the impact of its release all the way to the light stubble on my unshaven chin.

I slept so deeply that night I only remember the faintest smell of burning cedar as a bonfire burned in one of the kettle-like valleys several over from where I laid. They were celebrating in silence around the rising smoke and flames that he had helped create. Fire burns and spreads, having a mission of its own. All lumberjacks know that and respect fire. He did his duty well, to spread the flames on those warm chilly nights. The fire he started inside me was beyond his awareness. I slept soundly, downwind, enveloped in the smell of fresh smoke and cedar.

I woke up with dried cum on my stubbled chin and sun-tanned chest. I threw on a robe and ran to the bunk house, hoping to find one of the shower rooms empty. I sighed softly as I put my shorn head under the rush of water. I turned the temperature to cold as I was slightly late for my duty for preparing breakfast. I would have to improvise that morning with what little fruit we had in the early summer. Strawberries. Maybe some blueberries. Even though I kept the water colder than usual, my dick resisted going soft. It hurt slightly from being constantly solid as I slept. The smoky smell caused it to be engorged with warm blood every time it hit my dreaming nostrils.

There was a small, lime-coated mirror suctioned to the old pink tile of the shower, one of the only mirrors on the whole grounds. It felt novel to see myself during the few times a week where I would shave the stubble from my neck and upper cheeks. Silence was its own mirror and usually sufficed. I looked back at the reflection of my tired eyes and as the water warmed and splashed my cum-coated skin, I could smell the distinct odor of burnt cedar and sweat and semen on my skin. Despite being a new day, the smell brought me back to the thought of the doctor chopping wood, and I could see my eye brighten in the reflection. I could see worlds in the gradients of the iris and the slightly blood-shot whiteness surrounding it. I could see an eye filled with raw desire, but also fear. I saw fear that the silence of this retreat would be too loud for me to handle. I saw fear that my untamed lust would shatter my vulnerable persona in half, like a log of cedar being split in two with the swing of an axe.

The hand-roasted coffee beans smelled extra strong as I ground them in the kitchen. I tried to muffle the sound of the grinding to be respectful to the still sleeping guests. But I heard stirring in the bedrooms above me. My passion had seeped through the smell and the sound of the coffee into the women sleeping in the bunk house. Each day, my emotional fail-safes were breaking. I kept my eyes down as they filed single file, and I served them stone-cut oatmeal with goat's milk and strawberries freshly plucked from the garden outside the windows of the shrine room. The men filed in from the tents and the trailers and from the single room in the loft above the barn.

They all smiled silently and politely. Some looked tired, others elated. Being alone with one's own thoughts affected everyone in their own peculiar way. Some eyes looked bloodshot from having the silence to hear their own muffled regrets and others had smiles from their eyes at being able to hear the goodness of their own hearts. Everyone seemed relieved to have a moment away from the city to reflect. The one woman with long wavy black hair with beautiful streaks of gray, looked as if it was any other day at the office, and she loved every morning. I imagined she was one of those that had touched what they called Enlightenment.

I had been serving for over a month now. I was a good worker. I had felt anger and sadness and joy and all of those other things I couldn't avoid with TV and Reddit posts. But now, a deeper, more primal emotion had tenuously reached the surface. Many layers of the onion had been forcibly ripped off me until I found a part of me that had formed much earlier during evolution, eons and eons ago, when a glacier had covered this forest. That primal part of me seemed no different than the coyotes that on rare occasions picked at the compost pile and stood on the top of the far hill howling out their lust. Touching clearly that primordial urge in me actually made me feel closer with the earth around me, with the trees and the animals. All of us animals were fortunate to find this little bit of the Midwest where the glacier had melted, leaving a little bit of garbage and paradise in its shadow.

As my mind was lost in thought he reached across the buffet under my gaze to grab a hot cup of coffee. I could see his forearm hair revealed underneath his blue flannel. It looked like a wolf paw stretching out to ensnare me, but it stopped prematurely. It lifted the carafe instead. This time I didn't look up. I didn't want to be trapped in his gaze again. Some thoughts had grown too powerful to hide behind my tired, morning eyes. The grunt of pleasure he made when the coffee touched his lips sounds a bit like a gleeful growl, and I wondered if he even was aware of me standing there, the invisible young servant. Was he giving me a warning with his growl? Oatmeal, keep serving it, I told myself to avoid having to fight with the trapped animal thrashing within me.

That morning, I didn't have the courage to enter the shrine room. I sat on the flat rocks that surrounded one of the many gardens out of sight of the windows from the room where they were chanting. I could smell the strawberry vines that overflowed the rock wall. I could hear the guests chanting in monotone. Sometimes I could hear his deep voice beneath the pack. "No Birth. No Death. No Being. No Non-being. No Defilement. No purity..." they chanted with an infectious rhythm. Sometimes I would hear a person stop to gasp for breath. I thought about how many times they said the word 'No'. I supposed that is why I was there, at the retreat, running from the normal life that had been crumbling into a pile of unmet expectations and internal violence. I was always saying yes to my own failures to live up to what I could be. Before, at the university, there was so much stuff, all the time. There were so many thoughts. But here, there was only nothingness and silence, and it felt good. But still, no matter how many layers got peeled off, there was something deeper waiting to disturb me.

I thought now, I was at a place that people rarely reached because they were too busy with their electronic distractions to even find it. Now, my vulnerability was readily apparent to me, and my heart had no stone walls to keep it from being destroyed by the cedar bonfire.

That night it rained, as it often did in the Kettle-Moraine State Park. My tent, even though it was made of cheap red-dyed cotton, kept me warm and dry. I imagined, as I drifted off to sleep, the ancient glacier that once stood here. The water that fell from its death as the world inevitably changed, rained on to the ground, to start something new. I had been sent to Ireland to study by my father a year previous. Despite being coerced into studying pre-med, there were some things I enjoyed about it. I enjoyed the human body. I loved its form, and its touch. I enjoyed the green-on-green grass and cedars of the state park, as if a portion of the Emerald Isle had displaced itself on to the Upper Midwest. My surrounding could not be any more different than the petrol fumes, strip malls, conspicuous wealth, skyscrapers, barren sandscapes, and endless judgments of Dubai. That thought brought me comfort.

At some time during the night I was aware of tentative footsteps walking down sloped path of grass from the stairs on the far side of the barn. I must have awoken when someone opened the creaky, sliding barn door. I had no idea what time is was, but it was very still, and the rain drops shrank and were now just suspended in the air as a thick mist. I peered through the translucent stretch-fabric of my tent and could tell by the thick fur I saw on the legs that were fumbling for a firm foothold on the thick, wet grass that it was him, my doctor-lumberjack. His thick body passed very close to my tent, apparently unaware of my sleeping spot. Even taking into account the slick grass, he still seemed to be having a tough time navigating in only the faintest moonlight. He had left his black-rimmed glasses in his room above the barn. A solitary stroll in the night from insomnia? No, he stalked in a way that showed he was on an important mission, like a wolf needing to feed. When he reached the lowest point of the path, the part of the valley where my tent stood, he squinted back and forth quickly to scan for people, and then positioned his large chest straight toward me. I only had a second of realization before I stood petrified. He couldn't see me, but I could see him very clearly.

I saw him pull his thick cock out of his boxer-briefs beneath his gray, robe that had slight stains of mud from the rough walk from the door of the barn.

My tongue involuntarily left my mouth as I could clearly see the hair beneath the elastic of his boxer-briefs as he urinated in front of me. I could feel a touch of saliva on my stubble as he moaned from the release. If only I could reach through the tent walls to feel the shape of his cock and balls in my hand. Let me hold it for you. I was hired to serve. Let me help you. He moaned again, apparently having held in a large volume, as there was no bathroom in the barn. My hand moved across my chest caressing each nipple lightly with my palm. I wanted to feel his piss on my body. I wanted to feel its warmth as I stood on my knees in front of him, looking up at his hairy chin as he relieved himself. I wanted to be part of his pleasure in the relief. I knew then the part of me, that made me who I was, was now part of him. He was marking me.

Maybe now was the time to talk to him. The sounds of the crickets and the cicadas would make a few hushed whispers safe at this hour. But instead my mind and body were paralyzed as they fixed on the sight of his gorgeous cock only several yards from my face. He shook off the last few drops. I wanted to lick it off for him. He didn't need to shake it himself, I was there. I could help him clean it. Several months ago such thoughts would have disgusted me, but disgust was difficult to hold on to, after you spent 49 days in silence. I had no choice but to become friends with my own filthy desires, until it felt as natural as walking over to lie on the path as he pissed all over my eager young body. He reached down with his stocky fingers and tucked his balls and dick back beneath the dark orange fabric of his boxer-briefs. I still was entranced by the bulge as he let his robe close around it. He mumbled something incomprehensible as he slinked back up the slippery trail to his bedroom. The wolf tonight, was just teasing his prey.