They say the forest holds magic. I say—I do.
When I told him to follow me into the woods, I wasn’t inviting him on a hike. I was summoning him. No shoes, no plans, no bullshit. Just me, barefoot and wrapped in a turquoise silk I thrifted from a woman who swore it was blessed. Maybe it was. Or maybe I’m the one doing the blessing. Either way, it clung to my hips like it had something to prove.
He followed. Of course he did. Men like him always do—soft-eyed city boys with too much tension in their jaws and not enough dirt under their nails. He had that hungry look, the kind that makes you wonder if they’ve ever really touched anything sacred. I was about to give him a full-body baptism in my personal gospel: pleasure, worship, surrender.
I found our spot in a mossy clearing, warm with twilight and glowing with that peculiar shimmer the woods get when the veil is thin. There were fireflies. Not metaphorically—actual ones. But if you want to believe they were fae spirits, I won’t stop you. I’m not here to tell you what’s real. I’m just here to make you feel it.
I draped my silk down like an altar cloth and knelt, slow and deliberate. He just stared, reverent, as if my body was a spell he’d been waiting his whole life to cast.
I let him kneel too, eventually. Made him undo my jewelry, piece by piece, like sacred offerings—bracelets sliding down my arms, pendants lifted off my collarbone, one gold chain tangled in his lips before I told him, firmly, to focus.
“Touch me,” I whispered, “like I’m the temple.”
And baby, he did.
His hands trembled at first. It’s always like that with the good ones—the ones who know they’re in the presence of something divine. I guided him with soft moans and arched hips, taught him the language of skin-on-skin devotion. Every sigh was a prayer. Every kiss, a hymn. Every time he slipped deeper between my thighs, he forgot a little more about whatever version of the world he’d known before me.
Out there, in the wild where no one could find us, I let myself be worshipped. Fully. Blissfully. I didn’t perform. I didn’t pose. I just was. Animal and spirit and goddess all in one soft, slippery, delicious body.
And him? He wept. Actually wept. Not because I hurt him—not like that. He cried the way a starving man does when he’s finally fed. Big, messy, grateful tears while he knelt in my scent and begged for more. I don’t shame that. That’s devotion in its purest form. The real ones always break a little.
When he came—shuddering, gasping, face buried in my belly—I cradled his head like a priestess holding a supplicant and whispered blessings into his hair. He wouldn’t stop saying “thank you,” like I’d given him a gift no one ever had before. Maybe I had.
When we finally rose, he helped redrape the silk across my shoulders like the Queen of the Forest I am. I kissed him on the forehead, handed him a dried flower I’d tucked behind my ear, and told him to go back to the city.
“But what if I want to stay?”
“You’ll ruin it,” I said. “This wasn’t for living. This was for remembering.”
And I walked away—barefoot, glowing, grinning—knowing damn well I’d haunt him forever.
Wild, wet and waiting – Serenity
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