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AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wrote this fantasy for a friend of mine from an X-Files chat room somewhere back in 1999-2001–we have since lost touch. She gave me a few elements to put into the story and this is what I created. In Part 1 she experiences the beauty and power of nature and takes advantage of its erotic potential. In Part 2 she meets the man of her dreams. If you’re out there “Nicole”, please drop by and say hi.
NICOLE’S FANTASY, Part 1
The storm hit in the early evening and the prediction of snow was all the skiers talked about. The huge dinner was served in the main dining hall in front of a fireplace that took up more than half of the long side of the room. Delicate was not a word to describe the food. What, did they think we were all lumberjacks? But a hearty stew and the best pumpernickel bread on the planet made a delicious meal to digest in front of the roaring fire while the wind pulled and pushed ineffectually against the giant timbers of the lodge. Not being much of a skier, the prospect of an interesting conversation dwindles as the diners bunch up in little groups or leave for their rooms. The meal, fire, and wind lull you to an early bed under a downy quilt whose geometric pattern and creator are described on a plaque next to the mirror in your room.
You awaken in the pitch of night to silence. The storm must have moved on to help skiers elsewhere. You get out of bed to use the bathroom and then come back and pull the quilt around your shoulders. Parting the heavy curtains to look outside you see a half moon presiding over a multitude of snowcapped trees. The little firs and the big ancient pine trees all have a new white coat. Now you know what you’re going to do tomorrow! You want to be the first to walk through the new snow–the first to see the forest’s new clothes before they are soiled and melt away. You set your alarm to get a early start and crawl back in bed under the quilt for a couple more hours of sleep.
You slap the alarm off and jump out of bed with enthusiasm. Your hiking shorts and short-sleeved shirt are not going to be nearly warm enough, but you are prepared for cold weather with mittens, earmuffs, a scarf and an insulated coverall that fits over even your boots because it has zippers down each leg. It’s too early for a real breakfast in the dining room but they have hot coffee and cider available twenty four hours a day. You fill your little thermos canteen with hot cider and check your trail rations–plenty for a day’s hike. With a quick look at the topographic map hanging on the wall in the lobby, you can see where the road is and the few manmade places nearby. You figure out the most direct course away from civilization and step outside to get your bearings. The chill is harsh on your lungs and face at first but you know it will only get warmer as you hike along and the sun comes up.
There are too many tall trees around to see the actual sunrise, but the low moon still shines in the west and the remnants of the storm are lit from beneath by the rising sun. The lodge is beginning to really stir now as the anxious skiers go about their preparations. Heading straight back into the forest the noises quickly fade away and only the occasional car can be heard. The way is flat at first but the underbrush is thick and little light reaches you. Slow progress is soon rewarded as you approach the really big trees which rise straight up for ten, maybe fifteen meters before the first unbroken branches jut straight out from the trunk to touch the tips of the branches of its nearest neighbors. The trunks are pillars holding up a grey-white roof; the branches are rafters adorned with dark needles that spread to hold the pillows of snow. You wish you could climb up there and see it up close.
Here, the underbrush is more sparse and full of deer paths. As you enter this natural cathedral you slow your istanbul escort pace in reverence. Clouds of your breath rise up like offerings and disappear. There is no wind here so you take off your earmuffs and listen. If you hadn’t been wearing your earmuffs you would have sworn it was silent but now you hear the faint rustle of the trees talking to lofty breezes. Puffs of snow occasionally drop from the great heights to scatter like dust on the underbrush. A bird silently glides through the maze of trunks with minimal wing beats and unknown purpose. You pull off a mitten and scoop up a handful of virgin snow. What doesn’t fall away sticks to your warm hand and loses its form to become fluid once again. Civilized noises intrude on your reverie and you hike determinedly away to see what’s over the next hill.
Climbing the hill is hard work even with less underbrush to contend with. The powdery snow slips under your feet stealing a few centimeters away from every stride. A rabbit skitters away from just in front of you, demonstrating how good his camouflage is. There are rabbit tracks in two directions and, now that you look, there are little bird tracks as well. You stop to rest on a rock outcropping and look back the way you came. The sun illuminates the tops of the trees and shines through in the thinner places. The white snow high on the branches has an orange tint to it and softens the light so there are almost no shadows. If there weren’t so many trees blocking your view, you are sure that you would be standing above the tops of those trees you first met within earshot of the lodge. You take off your mittens and put them in your pack with the earmuffs and the scarf. The snow glistens now, looking less dry and powdery. Drips can now be heard hitting the ground and you are occasionally kissed on the top of your head by the big trees who may or may not know you are there.
You push off once again and aim for the ridge looming ahead. Hopefully, you will be able to see out from the top, but it doesn’t seem likely that the trees will accommodate a human’s desire for a view. Every tree is different and yet they seem the same as you trudge upward. There’s not even a place to lay down and make a snow angel as every square meter of ground is claimed by animal, vegetable, or mineral. At last the ground levels out for a few meters and you can tell you have reached the top of the ridge separating two valleys. At this height, the strong winds of the storm have sculpted the snow on every surface. The trees here are somewhat shorter and fatter and the world looks as if it was tipped up at an angle, frosted like a cake, and then set back down again. Drifts climb up the same side of every tree as if reaching for the pine cones held tauntingly in wooden hands above. Around the backside there is barely any snow and the thick carpet of brown pine needles shows through. Little holes show the passage of rodents using the carpet for cover. A movement catches your eye and you see a reddish-brown hawk land silently on one of the lower, broken-off branch stumps high on a nearby tree. You try to still your breathing and stare in admiration at his soft plumage puffed up against the cold and sharp hunting weapons. Maybe he’s hoping you will flush out dinner for him, but with two flaps of his great wings he disappears into the forest.
As you descend into the valley the going is a bit steep and you watch the ground carefully for slippery spots. Eventually you notice a new sound above the sparse drips that hit the ground–you stop to look around and listen carefully. The tops of the trees look different: less heavy with snow but still weighed down by something. More sun is filtering down now and a musical rattle can be heard with the slightest breeze, like someone dipping their hand into a bowl of small beads. avcılar escort You squint at the canopy and realize that the snow is coated with ice and the roof seems more solid than ever before. You take a dozen more steps down the hillside and now your feet crunch loudly as they break through the icy surface to the softer snow and needles beneath. Strangely, this makes the footing less treacherous as your feet punch through, so you continue down into the valley marveling at the sun glinting off the ice. Again you wish you could climb up to the top of a tree and see it.
The rattling sound is everywhere now with each breath of wind. The ground is starting to level out here and you can walk with ease although you feel hot with the exertion. You may have only hiked a few kilometers, but climbing up and down the valleys in slippery snow made the journey much more taxing. You come to a place where the sun shines brightly down upon a tree that must have fallen in the storm, leaving a tear in the canopy. The tree looks even bigger on the ground than those that are still standing. You walk along the length to the top of the tree and gasp in amazement. The branches are sticking almost straight out of the trunk and the longest ones reach a couple meters above your head. Every inch of bark, cone, and needle is coated in a thin layer of ice that is clearer than glass. The sun reflects and refracts in a million microscopic rainbows wherever it touches. An enchanted bower of a dryad wouldn’t look as beautiful as this.
You gently sweep your hand across the deep green needles all wearing gloves of glass and hear the familiar rattle. The chill of the ice reminds you of the body heat you’ve built up inside your overalls and you decide that you can be more comfortable without them. You unzip the legs and the front, sliding it off your arms and stepping out of them. The cold, still air feels good on your skin as long as the sun is out. But why stop there? No, it’s silly–but then again, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity–looking intently you see nothing but trees and underbrush in all directions; listening intently you hear nothing but iced droplets hitting the ground and the faint rustle of frozen nature.
What the hell. You quickly unbutton your shirt and unclasp your bra and lay them over a low branch. Your shorts and panties slip over your boots and join them. Feeling cold air on places usually well hidden makes you tingle and shiver with pleasure. Slowly you walk in-between the fans of branches toward the trunk of the tree, letting the sharp needles blunted by ice sheathes caress your skin. Your skin responds with that quickening that you love so well. You are almost completely surrounded by them as you sway gently back and forth against their ice-feather touch. You twirl slowly in their embrace with your arms held overhead, your body is now the wind that moves the needles to produce their music. Like the fringe of a tasseled curtain they catch, slide, and fall away from your arms, your breasts, your hips, leaving behind tiny trails of ice water. Your hands glide over your body, warming the places that need a reassuring touch, pulling wet ice-needles over the places that want a thrill, teasing your clit, slipping in and out, in and out. You bend down and your buttocks brush against another frond, but it doesn’t even startle you, your hot skin now craves the cold caresses. You close your eyes and push your head slowly through a needle-fringed break in the branches, letting the sensation wash over your cheeks, ears, hair and neck. When you open your eyes you are wearing an emerald collar fit for an ancient queen of Egypt. A deep involuntary breath pulls the chill air inside you, tasting of frost and a hint of pine sap. It meets the upwelling heat from your loins that your fingers have kindled. The onrushing orgasm pushes you şirinevler escort back into the branches behind you but you stop before falling down. Bent almost double, the full icy touch on the back of your calves, thighs, and butt are like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Ice melts on your skin as your fingers are squeezed so tightly you can’t move them for long shuddering moments.
Finally, your breathing becomes shallower and you straighten up and run your hands lovingly over your body from ankles to scalp, brushing off the little rivulets of water that are starting to run down into your boots. Your skin is still hot and now dry again and you want to feel more new textures with every part of your body. You move to the trunk of the tree where the upraised branches fan out like a peacock’s tail, catching the sunlight from behind and holding the ghosts of rainbows that disappear if you look at them. The rough bark of the tree is coated like the rest, maybe even a bit thicker. You lean over and let your neck and breasts touch the frozen bark, then slide upward to paint yourself with its face. You step over and duck under a few of the limbs to find a place where the trunk and branches form a glass saddle, just the right height, and you throw one leg over to straddle the trunk, feet on the ground. You lean back to feel the cold pole of a branch on your butt and lower back. Leaning forward you can embrace two more branches. You put your hands down on the tree trunk to slightly melt the ice and remove any sharp points that may be there and then transfer the icy water on your hands to your labia and clit.
Cold meets warmth and the sensations electrify your skin. You collect some more water this way and then grab your breasts to bend the hard nipples and let them spring back, then slide away to warmer parts of your body. Then you lower yourself to the tree and welcome the ice with your thighs and labia. With little thrusts you rub your clit and vagina on the protruding bark, backing off when the cold gets too intense. With each touch you can stay in contact a little longer and the ice becomes unbelievably slippery. Grasping the branches in front you arch your back to stroke your clit on the frozen bark and slide back until your arse makes contact with the other branch. You recoil at first, but again, with each attempt you can last a little longer. Rough and smooth at the same time, it seems to scratch an itch you didn’t even know you had. Your thrusts become more intense, of such free abandon you never thought yourself capable. Your belly touches the slick trunk, then your chest as you slide down and up the icy branch. Animal grunts escape your lips as you find a spot that strokes your clit perfectly. Every part of your body feels like a clenched muscle, gripping, squeezing, solid to the touch, waiting for blessed release. With a cry, your legs and arms grip the tree in a crushing hug and all movement ceases except for the contractions that squeeze the last gram of strength from your loins. Panting with delight you rest there on top of the tree trunk, knowing that parts of you are probably quite numb for one reason or another, but who cares?
You don’t want to become yourself again. Slowly, slowly the music of your world expands to include more than just the one glorious chord of pleasure. The dripping from the trees, the flap of a bird’s wing, the crackling of ice melting in the sun. You push away thoughts of who might have heard, or how far the hike back is, or how you would explain frostbite there if it came to that. There is more cold here than you have heat so you lift yourself off the tree and walk back through the branches and needles to get your clothes. You are reluctant to insulate yourself from the touch of nature, the clean, pure ice given form by the fallen tree. Not since you were an innocent child had you felt such freedom and joy or gone naked in the world. Thankfully, the feeling is still there. Without shame or hurry or even glances at the surrounding trees, you put each piece of clothing on and feel the warmth of the sun in the fabric. The warmth is welcome but they don’t seem to belong on your body–nudity is now the natural state again.
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