It had started with a message earlier that morning:
“You’ll know when it’s time. Wear the black leggings. Walk the wooded path behind the house. Don’t look back.”
I’d agreed, of course. This was our game — our secret world. Dangerous only in the way desire is. Intoxicating. Uncontrollable. Deliciously twisted.
By the time I stepped into the woods, headphones in, music low, the air already felt charged. I moved slowly, letting the rhythm of the track settle into my hips, the path narrowing around me as the trees thickened. Sunlight filtered through in slanted beams. I was wet already. The idea that he could be watching — had been watching — turned me on far more than I cared to admit.
Halfway down the winding, tree-lined track, I saw movement. A flicker. A presence. My pulse quickened. I didn’t stop walking.
I didn’t have to wait long.
A hand closed around my mouth from behind — firm, confident — while another gripped my hair and pulled my head gently but firmly back. My breath caught in my throat, adrenaline and arousal tangled up like vines.
He kissed me then — masked, silent, overwhelming — and I kissed him back with hungry urgency. His body pressed against mine, hard, commanding, and I let him take control. That was the deal.
One hand slid down the front of my leggings and found me instantly soaked. My moan tore through the trees, loud and raw, as his fingers moved expertly — deep, frantic, curling right against the spot he knew would break me open. He didn’t let up. He wanted the mess. And when it came, I sprayed with no shame, legs trembling, body quaking.
He ripped my leggings down and bent me over the thick branch of a tree, cold bark biting into my thighs. I spread for him instinctively. A slap cracked against my arse — then another, and another, until the skin burned and I whimpered.
His slick fingers slipped into me again — not into my pussy, but lower. A promise. A filthy, wicked promise.
“Good girl,” he growled through the mask. “You’re going to take it all.”
He plunged into my dripping cunt first, fucking me hard, unrelenting, making me come again almost instantly — squirting down his thighs, moaning into the open woods like I was being claimed by the forest itself.
Then he pulled out, spit-slicked his cock, and pressed the tip against my tight, aching arse. I didn’t resist. I pushed back.
He filled me in one long, ruthless thrust, and I screamed — with pleasure, with shock, with bliss. His hand found my throat, but to anchor me. To ground me in the chaos of the pleasure tearing through my body. He fucked me hard, deep, filthy — until I was begging, babbling, a mess of moans and yes and please and don’t stop.
When he came, it was with a growl so guttural it seemed to shake the trees. He stayed buried inside me for a moment, breathing hard, hands gripping my hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.
And then — true to his word — he pulled out, fixed his mask, and walked off into the woods, silent as ever.
I stayed there, bent over the tree, body trembling, dripping, aching — grinning.
We never needed words.
The woods knew everything.
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