Tree Whore

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

She buckled, then stood and concentrated. She wanted to be wet. She wanted to pour. She squeezed her insides, trying to make the cum stream out of her. She didn’t know it, but streams of liquid already dribbled down the insides of both legs.

He had led her to the tree. It was a perfect tree, straight and sunlit. It was “her” tree he said, as he ran his hands along the rough bark. He tied her to it, hands behind her, ankles spread. Her back and buttocks pressed into the trunk as he wound the scarf around her head, blocking her sight.

He stood back and admired her. Her auburn hair stirred, gently, in the mountain air. The sun flowed across her tanned breasts like olive oil. Her smoothly-shaved pussy arched away from her flat stomach, standing like a golden hill at the end of a flat plain. Her legs, strong and muscular, tensed and released in anticipation. She gasped when he touched her with his hand. He ran it, from her slightly parted lips to her thigh. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out the clamps. First, the left nipple, then the right. The clamps were tight and painful. She took a deep breath, then groaned. He kissed her.




The sun poured over her, the wind “shushed” in the soft needles overhead. The bottoms of her feet rested in pine duff. Every once in awhile, an ant scurried across the top of a foot. Her nipples ached, her pussy drew all of her attention. It was the center of everything. She secretly hoped someone was crouching in the weeds, watching her. She secretly hoped men were stroking their cocks in the bushes. She was leaking without being touched.

He took out the soft flogger and whipped her with it. The leather stung her thighs, then her stomach, then her pussy. With each strike, she lurched. With each strike, she wanted more. With each strike, her knees became weaker, her breathing shallower. Harder and harder the blows came, until her stomach was red and tight. Then, he stopped and licked her nipples, tenderly, circling around the clamps. He reached between her legs.

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

He reached into her sopped crotch. The cum coated his fingers. Her clit was huge, as hard and insistent as his cock. He rubbed it slowly, spreading her delirious liquor all over its rigid head. With one hand, he masturbated her. With the other, he pulled on the chain of the nipple clamp, stretching her nipples to the breaking point. Her toes dug into the earth, her ass ground into the tree, her fingers clenched. He sensed all of this and increased the tempo of his rubbing, his maddening rubbing.

He felt the head of her clit erupt from its hood. This is where he focused his attention. He pulled on the clamps and pressed his flicking fingers into her, harder, harder, harder. When the clamps snapped off of her nut-hard nipple, she came, screaming. Her legs buckled and she slid down the trunk of the tree, scraping her back against the ragged bark. Her legs shook involuntarily. Spasms wracked her abdomen and ass and thighs. She envisioned the men in the bushes squirting their loads into the air. She remembered his cock in her throat. She wanted to be seen like this, her shining pussy thrust shamelessly into the forest air.