Briefly opening your eyes, you see the fading embers of the day soak the forest, a halo glow of auburn and purples, bruise and bleed their way through the open branches of the tall trees.

The throng of thirty deer encircle your ritual and sacrifice as you mercifully command the pagan majesty of your woodsman, dignifying him with seduced surrender, a humble servant to his total lust for your glory.

And there, beyond the ancient herd-circle, you see the silhouette of the bucking Stag, his chosen Doe extending herself, open, unveiling, wantonly generous, yet possessed of her own independent strength, beauty and benevolence, displaying a deference, allowing and affording him her grace and splendor.

You close your eyes, the smooth anatomy of the acorn hammering ever harder, squeezed beneath the slender grip of your cupped hand. Your other hand planted, elbow, forearm and wrist, fingers splayed, flattened against the ground, clawing passionately at the earth.

Your woodsman, with a fist of your hair pulled back and hard, wound tight in the firm grip of his axe worn hand.

He takes the slight weight of your upper body, your shoulders splaying, chest stretching forward, your hips sinking rearward, body concave, self-assured, craving, confident, urging, yielding.

Once more you close your eyes and connect with the forest, voyeur, looking out through the hazel hue of the Doe’s sweet eyes, where see your own sensual silhouette combining with the masculine might of this virile man, your bodies now conjoined, complete with the grace and beauty of your own stunning outline.

Two perfect forms melding as one as you shudder, his muscles convulsing in unison with your own, a singular metabolism, an interwoven nervous system, spasms of deep, hard obsession, shocking through you both.

You release a deep earthy groan, urging him: “Deux deviennent une! Deux deviennent une! Tu es à moi! Tu es à moi!” you cry out, gasping.

Moaning your desperate pleasure, pleading, projecting out into the dusk, begging the forest to return the love you have always felt for her.

Waves of deep contentment flood your cortex with color, flowering fauna and flora blooming, exploding inside your bursting mind, while the stroking hard cock of your woodsman rhythmically rides into you, over and over, until your chosen man is bursting inside.

Greedily, he’s pushing forward, sinking his love and desire deeper into the hollow of your thoroughly wanted body. Rocked harder, clutching the acorn, you splay both hands out into the soft ground, your fingers clawing at the earth, massaging the land.

You feel his fist grip and relax, your hair falling freely around your neck and shoulders, you tip your head forward and follow the descending beat of your heart as the pulse winds down from its hammering to a heavy throb.

You feel his heavy, hickory hardened cock, soften, subdued inside you, soaking, stoked in the heat and fervor of your incredible tempest.

Slowly you sense the woodsman rising to his feet and carefully you collect your and compose your light headiness before beginning to ascend.

He holds you steady and you allow his capable, hard worked arms to cradle you, his deep soft voice soothing as he speaks: “These are your woods my Fox, and I am forever your woodsman.”

You say nothing with words, your body seeming to melt against him, until you’re no longer confident you could stand without him holding you.

“These Deer, they watched you as a child. They have waited for you to return, asking the trees if they have seen you in all the years since last you were here.”

The last of the light fading, the woodland closing in darkness. You hold a tight and anxious breath, as you dare to ask: “And how will we find our way now that the light is almost gone?”

“We’ll follow the deer” says the woodsman, his words soothing, simple and uncompromisingly assured. Until there’s nothing to fear, is the only mantra you can hear.