Birders are a fascinating breed, those oft-bespectacled early risers, out to catch a glimpse of whatever variety of fowl tickles the fancy that day, or week, or season.
Conservative though he may seem, the birder has been known to captivate the careful observer with his particular habits. So, I indulged my own curiosities this weekend and headed into the woods at the break of dawn, armed with my trusty binoculars and notepad, and a backpack full of assorted accessories ready for the right moment. After all, the Lady was once a Girl Scout, and she has never forgotten exactly how to be prepared.
6:00 a.m. I have arrived to the hiking grounds, deciding on the trail that leads toward the river. A note near the park headquarters indicates that the birder has arrived, has already seen a pileated woodpecker.
6:15 a.m. I have sighted the birder walking quickly beyond the meadow, entering another part of the forest. Through binoculars, I watch as he stops, looks around, then looks down before walking a little farther. He hesitates once more before moving on. I follow. The birder is molting, I believe, as he removes a jacket and stretches for a few moments.
6:25 a.m. The birder has disappeared. I followed into the dark forest, but he is nowhere to be seen, although I clearly saw him enter at this point, and there is no clear path he could have taken to elude me. Perhaps he can fly. I walk on.
6:30 a.m. As I have walked on the path, it occurs to me that I have not seen a single other person here, much less a pileated woodpecker. Birders, as I said earlier, are indeed a curious breed, and I wonder at my own curiosity to have wandered here to follow so damned early in the morning.
6:35 a.m. I am still on the path, noting the appearance of thorn bushes–berries perhaps, but none yet at this point. A creek is ahead, and I realize that it is time to stop and pull the blanket and thermos out of the bag, and simply wait.
6:45 a.m. Coffee is good. The morning is lovely, still dewy now and chilly, but not cold. Stirred by the scent of the pines, I long for company, bird-related or not, but settle instead for my own hands brushing my nipples, which harden as I feel my pussy clench, moistening, noting conveniently that the woods are the perfect place of course for a proper fucking, if only a fuck were anywhere on this horizon.
6:50 a.m. Birder be damned, the woods are wonderful, and Girl Scouts always travel with dildos as well as condom, because a ready penis is not always available, but silicone will never let you down. I have unzipped my shorts, fingers stunned by the intensity of the hot wetness beneath my own panties. My fingers quickly find my greedy clit, and I cry out at my own lust, feeling the urgent desire for cock, any cock, now, ramming me by its own power or by my own. In the still of the early morning, I take my shorts entirely off, my red lace panties down to my ankles as I fuck myself with the dildo, ecstatic, the mist in the woods, the sheer joy of masturbation here in my own secret forest, my own
7:00 a.m. I hear a rustling in the trees, and oh my fuck, a groan perhaps. Compromised as I am by my own desire, I quickly pull out the blessed dildo and quickly pull up my panties, find my shorts. I was about to come, damn it.
7:10 a.m. I have walked on through the woods, now quite disheveled and horny, frustrated by the interruption that was evidently not an interruption other than my own fear of being caught, my own wondering if perhaps I should finish the job now, or simply walk on, try to see the pileated woodpecker that drumdrumdrumdrums loudly somewhere–I have spotted him for a moment only once on this walk. A dragonfly–yes, a dragonfly. Swallows swooping in the meadow as I cross over it, wanting, wanting.
7:30 a.m. The river: a heron stands still in a shallow part, waiting, hoping, praying. I wait there, too, wanting.
8:30 a.m. In the parking lot, I see the birder. So there he is.
“Did you see anything,” I call to him as I open my car door.
“I did find the pileated woodpecker,” I say, as he walks over, now standing quite close to me.
“There are all sorts of surprising creatures in the woods today. I took a few notes,” the birder pulled a worn notebook from his backpack, opened the page:
I look at the notebook, drawings of all sorts for pages back, words, numbers. The heron, yes. A snake. Oh. Scanning for filth, I am, and I find none, sadly.
“Yes, well, I never saw the snake,” I said, then blushing.
The birder has not shaved this morning. He stands over me, grinning and not saying a word as I feel myself turn red, as my pussy starts to throb. He reaches to push his glasses up his nose, and looks baffled as I hand back the notebook.
Birders are, as I said, curious creatures. I turn to open the door, ready to go home for a bath and other grooming that has presented itself as necessary this morning.
The birder is now behind me, closer, reaching around to open the door. I wonder briefly if he is completely sane, but change my opinion as he traces my wrist, runs his hand down my hip, and smacks me firmly on the ass.
“It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.”
“Oh, how was I fooling anyone?” I answer.
“Letting anyone think that you are more interested in pileated woodpeckers than in.. snakes.”
His cock is hard and pressed into my hip now as he growls. I arch my back, let him run his hands down down down–yes! His beard scratches my neck as he kisses my ear, then bites it, his cock throbbing as I gasp and sigh.
A car pulls up. Hikers.
The birder straightens up and tears a page from his notebook, scrawls an address.
“9:30,” he says.
to be continued…