Back again so soon.
I know it’s my turn as there is nothing else left for you to cut down. Nothing else left for you to use that chain saw you’re carrying in your right hand on. Nothing else in this bare patch of woodland for you to desecrate.
Only last year, this ground was awash with the purple haze of blossoming cherry trees. People came for miles around to run through us, between us and shelter under us. By night, we would see clandestine meetings between lovers, hands grasping at clothes as lips became intertwined in passionate embrace.
I loved those couples, his hand exposing her bare skin to the sky, caressing her tender bosom as I showered them with purple blossom. She would slide down his body, slowly kissing every inch of the bare-chested warrior. His trousers were a trivial obstacle, his underwear even less so, as her luscious tongue swept up and down his erect shaft. And then, as they sought to consummate their love, she would straddle his wood: firm and hard like my branches, but bringing her undeniable pleasure as she rode him to a guttural climax.
Romantic and passionate. Beautiful and gorgeous. Young lovers.
But now, we have just your visitors. Scores of visitors each day for my branches to bear witness to. Only this morning, a tatty-clothed girl, no older than the eldest ring on my trunk, sat on the stump opposite and slid a brown dildo under her skirt.
There was no romantic intent, just a rainbow-haired woman hiking her skirt to her waist to unveil a splattering of pink between her mass of curls to the world. She sighed and groaned, twisted the smooth object into her cunt as I watched, unable to twist away in the wind.
And the question, if a woman orgasms in a wood but there is no-one there to hear it, does she make a sound, was answered. I heard it. I heard every single whimper and mew, slurp and cry as her body convulsed into a climax. She gave her new toy a kiss, patted the stump with mumbled thanks and ambled back into the distance, glassy eyed.
She wasn’t the worst one today. The joss stick burning couple who lit several strips of cinnamon incense at the base of my trunk were far worse. Adding fire next to a tree: do these people have no sensitivity? I imagined a fiery death, perishing like the trees over yonder in the valley, their cries drowned by the cracking of wood as the flames licked higher and higher.
But they were oblivious to the danger I faced, she took a new whip with an ornamental wooden handle and tied the naked man over the stump. Then she whipped him: stoutly slamming the weapon with all the power of a Force Nine gale. And how he wailed. Screaming and crying as the incense burnt around us, filling my leaves with the smell of sweet cinnamon.
He pulled against his binds, thrashing and crying as she punished him. Her muscles glowed under the moonlight, his posterior redder than Sequoia.
So you are here to take me now. I guess my friends’ wood wasn’t enough for your burgeoning business: natural wooden sex toys for the principled hippie. So I must die too. It’s life, it’s nature. I existed to provide, and I will die in the knowledge that dozens of people will get pleasure from my wood. I will live on in their bedrooms, my memory will be a happy one.
But do you have to encourage them to use it for the first time on my grave?
Somewhat insensitive, don’t you think?
The featured image comes from Mark Tighe and is used under a CC-license