Gently your woodsman holds you, motionless, barely brushing, but always nudging, the opening of your vulva, soaking with the smooth velvet head of hardness.

Slowly he eases his erotic grip of your hair, his hand uncurling, gradually opening. His other hand relaxing, unclamping his possessive grip from the meat of your hip.

His shoulder drops as he reaches down scooping the forest floor with his open hand. Glancing down you see a smooth acorn, resting in his upturned palm, it’s easily the size of a quails egg, and the biggest Oak seed you’ve ever seen. “Ce est pour vous.” he offers tenderly, his voice deep and warm, reassuring and wanting, soothing.

Delicately, cautiously and curiously, you retrieve the smooth olive green acorn from his open hand and feel its girth and weight, surprised by how heavy, and so smooth.

On contact with your fingers, as if responding to your touch, you sense an immediate and intimate tingling coming from it’s glossy, clean surface, and instinctively you gently reach between your thighs to trace the sensitive tip against your luscious labia.

The acorn quivers in your hand, brightly vibrating, causing primal impulses to ignite within you, muscles shudder, blood vessels shiver, oscillating and agitated, energized with heavenly messages of deep arousal.

Revived, you push back on the heavy, hard cock that hungers to serve you from behind. “Oh mon dieu! Oh mon dieu!” You begin groaning, filled with a fresh wanting, a rhythm building: aching, taking, having, owning.

Can his manhood really have grown so hard since pausing? You feel the cudgel of his cock slowly slide inside and you shudder at the sheer rigidity, his flesh and bone so hard, as if hewn from lathe turned Hickory.

Slowly building, your woodsman rides you with even strokes, riding harder, through deep, smooth thrusts, reaching deeper, hardening, penetrating and possessing.

His pulse, his beating rhythm, driving into you, easing you forward, your hands pushing into the earth to help you absorb more of him, his first reforming, firm and tight, pulling back, stretching you, reigning in your thick hair, unbridled sensations igniting your scalp.

Synapses screaming, crying pleasures, intense vibrato sensations, jangling nerves tingling along the length of your spine, a chorus converging at the deep root of your clitoral tendril, buried deep, way beneath the thumping fuck of his cock, so hungry, so hard and heavy, hurting for you.

His longing and desire so deep, yet controlled, swollen stiff, stroking, pushing, further and further in, over and over, working you, riding you, giving you, taking you, the full fantasy of the forest feasting on you…

“Plus dur! Plus rapide!” your voice rising, demanding, gasping, grasping as the acorn jumps, gyrating, jingling, jangling, hammering her harmonies against your clitoris, her energy in ecstasy, for the love of his hard fucking.

“Tu es belle! Tu es belle!” his voice aching with desperate conviction. You close your eyes and see yourself through the gaze of his deep, dark brown cornea; you see the cello curve of your hips and waist, the slender, aching, arching curve of your beautiful back, the sensual rise and fall of your seductive shoulders…

From behind his eyes you look down and marvel at the veined thickness of his inglorious cock, swollen, shining, his shaft gliding and sliding, slipping in and out of your tight, fit body. Disappearing over and over and over…