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“Any weekend plans?” Dr. Ashford asked casually as she and Rhiannon washed up, having seen the last patient of the day.
Rhiannon nodded, “Yeah! Going camping near Pharaoh Lake! I haven’t been there since I was a kid but I have the best memories from up there!”
Dr. Ashford’s look was cautious. “Alone?”
“Mm-hmm! I need a quiet weekend. Recharge the batteries, y’know?”
The veterinarian’s concern gave way to a smile. “Well, you’ve earned it. Everyone wants to work with you.”
“Thanks, doctor. This really is the best job in the world.” Rhiannon felt a blush rising.
“Alone out there, though—just be careful.”
The city’s concrete grudgingly gave way to sprawling green. She parked in the lot she knew well. This trailhead was rarely used, unknown by most. Moments onto the trail, she was already out of earshot of the highway. She followed Desolate Brook Trail until she located the spur she remembered from her childhood, and turned deeper still into the wilderness.
The air grew heavy with the scent of damp earth and pollen. The clearing she remembered appeared as if summoned and she sighed happily, unshouldering her backpack. In the clearing’s centre stood an ancient oak, the trunk wider than a car. She didn’t remember it, but everything else was a perfect match to her memory.
“Hope it’s okay if I sleep with you, big guy,” Rhiannon laughed softly, caressing the monstrous tree’s bark. A resonant thrum vibrated through the bark, up her arms and into her ribs. The debt of seasons paid in flesh. A voice, ancient and slow as growing wood, came from all around her. Amaethon had his due in autumn. The Living Wood pays tribute in spring.
She gasped, backing up a half-step. The bark had shifted, swirling into a pattern that resembled a bearded, textured mask. Panic tickled her mind, but before she could react, vines, thick as her wrist, uncoiled from the base of the tree. They were quick but gentle as they looped around her wrists and ankles. They turned her back to the oak, then pulled her against the mossy bark. “What—?” The moss thickened, softening the wood, becoming a living throne.
From the heart of the oak, he emerged, The Green Man. He stood impossibly tall, his body a weave of branches and leaves, tall, bony horns extended from his head, his face a gnarled mask of wood with eyes of glowing amber sap.
Distantly, Rhiannon registered that the vines had not ceased their work. They held her, yes, but they had already opened her shirt, removed her bra, and as she sat, fascinated by The Green Man, they had removed her jeans. None of that seemed important.
“You called the Lord of Rot.” His voice was the creak of boughs in the wind. “He answered with a year of stolen fortune. Now the forest calls you, offering true fortune.” Rhiannon’s gaze left his ‘face’ and she started. His ‘penis’ was a shaft of polished wood, veined with channels of amber that pulsed with a faint light. “I will plant the seed of summer in you.”
No! she thought, wildly. YES! Then: I need this!
He was on her. The tip of his wooden member, impossibly smooth and warm, pressed against her pussy lips. It was unyielding, and as he slid inside, the veins on its surface exuded a warm, golden sap.
Rhiannon’s world dissolved. The sap was a fire inside her. Her senses expanded. She felt the desperate push of the first snowdrop through frozen soil, the shudder of the beechnut splitting open for the root, the patient climb of ivy seeking the sun. Her pleasure was an echo of the forest’s perpetual orgasm. He drove deeper, the wooden shaft filling her completely, each thrust a hammer blow of life itself.
“Feel it.” His voice vibrating through her. “You are Rywedawt.”
The vines holding her wrists tightened as he began to move in a slow, relentless rhythm, fucking her with the patient power of the river breaking granite. She felt the sap spilling out of her and pooling beneath her ass-cheeks. Her perception expanded further—no longer just Rhiannon; she was the deer birthing in the thicket, the frantic coupling of the squirrels overhead. Her body bucked against the wooden cock, using the little freedom she had to bury it deeper inside herself. A greenbriar vine snaked up and began to circle her throbbing clit, the tiny spikes the final, perfect catalyst.
She came with a silent scream, her body quaking as her consciousness shattered, exploding outward to merge with the thrumming life of the forest. For a moment, she was the forest, feeling the sun on a million leaves and the roots drinking deep from the earth.
Limp, panting, but fully returned to her body, Rhiannon was certain it was over. But the Green Man remained, his amber eyes glowing and unreadable. He withdrew his wooden phallus, now slick with her juices and his own syrup.
She felt empty.
“The tribute is not complete,” he rumbled. “You have known the sun. Now you will know the soil.”
The vines binding her ankles shifted. They pulled her legs wider, lifting her hips from the mossy, sticky seat. More tendrils, thinner and more numerous, emerged from the forest floor: roots, tipped with nodules that glistened with moisture.
They swarmed her. One thick, strong root pressed against her slick, well-used cunt, gliding in with ease. It was different from the wooden dick—pliable, textured, and moving in a way that made her gasp. It began a slow, grinding rhythm that seemed to churn her insides, but it wasn’t alone.
Another, thinner root probed lower, circling the tight pucker of her ass. Rhiannon whimpered. No, she tried to say, but her body betrayed her, pushing back against the tip.
“Yes.” As if he had heard her thoughts. “The season has you in every way.”
The root was insistent, inexorable. It burned as it entered her, stretching her—painful, but fulfilling. Her cheeks glowed with second-hand shame. She should resist, she should hate this, but her heart and mind both rejoiced at this coupling, at the way she was being used.
The roots began to move in opposition, one retreating while the other advanced. It was overwhelming; the double pistoning made it difficult to breathe. She was being fucked by all of nature. She’d never felt so alive.
The dual penetration sent shockwaves through her, building unbearable pressure. The Green Man knelt, his carved face close to hers, and extended a single, branch-like finger to her clit. He didn’t rub; he simply pressed, and the pressure in her core detonated.
This orgasm was a seismic event that shook her soul. She convulsed, impaled between living roots, an animal howl tearing from her throat as she felt the essence of the earth itself flood her womb.
Rhiannon slept that night naked, unashamed, seated on her throne the forest had created for her. The vines and the ancient oak ensured her comfort and her safety as she slumbered. Animals watched from beyond the treeline but were gone before morning twilight.
Slowly, Rhiannon resurfaced from a deep, dreamless sleep. She marvelled at her body, covered in the proof of the night, but not even an insect had approached her. She ached, a satisfying soreness in her muscles, a throbbing between her legs.
Rising from her seat, she reached for her clothing. Her wrists felt tender. Looking down, she saw the marks were not rope burns. Faint green patterns, like filigree tattoos of leaves and vines, spiralled around her wrists and up her forearms. The Green Man’s mark.
She stood, the forest humming with a new energy. After dressing, she set about building her camp. She belonged to the forest now; it welcomed her as one of its own.