Thoughts while bound to a tree
11 January 1998
Birds wheel above me in the sky. Their cries reach me still somehow from
their places way on high. I listen carefully, as each one tells me how it
is free, able to travel to all places and be bound by none. I feel the
breeze caress my cheek, rustle my hair. The scents it brings to me mingle
with that of the leather I wear, and my sweat.
The sun too, it torments me, and the clouds. The sun is warm, not hot - but
cruel, nevertheless with its sense of inevitability. While I am here it
shall touch me as it pleases, leaving only at the momentary whim of a cloud
- another beast that torments me. The sun heats me and makes me realize more
and more with each passing second where I am, who I have chosen to be. The
clouds each whisper to me, "how is it that you move more slowly than we?"
The answer to that is simple: I do not move at all. Like a pure aspect of
nature I have become un-moving except to grow... and I grow only in my head,
a place I am slow to realize has been unaffected by my physical entrapment.
Unaffected! It is to laugh! It is unaffected only in that my mind races all
the more: can I free myself, will I be freed soon? Will she free me soon?
That is the real question.
"Ahh", I hear you whisper to yourself, sweet reader, "That is what he has
not told us yet!" It is indeed. She has placed me here, she has tied me to a
tree in the middle of… how should I know? She kept me blindfolded all the
way... and gagged with her own sweet panties. I think I can still taste them
on my lips. A small piece of cotton is caught in my teeth. She has placed me
here, she has tied me to a tree so that all I may see is clouds and birds
and... and... a world that will grow and live despite the fiercest torment we
may undergo or put ourselves through.
That must surely be the true secret, dear reader - and I shall make you as
guilty of its proof as the greatest of the birds I curse, standing tied to a
tree on this summer's day. The world will go on and on. You may die, you
may be born and you may grow or shake to the core with anger, love, hate or
lust. The world will go on and if it is someone else who is undergoing any
of these things, then it is you who will go on, irrespective, irregardless.
Oh, heartless reader, how you torment me too!
"Ha ahh!", the world will say. "I do not care what it is you go through. I
will be here anyway! You may ask why and you will not receive an answer,
never - not a one!" But I shall answer for the world. I shall tell you, my
inquisitive accomplice, exactly why it is that the world revolves regardless
of what happens to us. Why we may hear of disaster or bad portent and still
go about our lives thinking of homework or employers or taxes or… lovers.
We do so because we have to. Because we want to, because we love to. We do
so because if we did not, we would die and because anyone who does not has
already died. This applies to a lusted lover tied to a tree as much as it
does to a tree in a paddock on a warm summer's day and equally so again to a
titillated reader hoping for erotic images... or an amorphous ball of water
particles pushed through the atmosphere by changing air pressures or a
stream of light energy hopelessly propelled from its source (home, mother)
to a unknown destination, where maybe it will find itself crashing on the
tightly leather bound form of… m.
For I am still here, still tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere, no
matter how hard I try and blame you for it.
She tied me well, planted a deep and soft last kiss on my lips before she
left. My feet touch the ground, but that is no relief. I may move all ten
fingers, one at a time or all at once! That is no relief. I can feel the
intrusive plug filling me so wholly as well... greased, it slides around (how
is there room for it to do that?) but will not come out, slowly irritating
and reminding with every blessed second, yet that is no relief. My penis,
helplessly entrapped in a harness, is certainly without release. For some
reason I cannot even think of coming, not if she is not here…
"You may not come.. not until I return,… not until I have given you
permission", were her penultimate words to me. "I love you my sweet", were
her last words to me, the ones that sealed my fate and have now sealed yours
too, dear reader. It is love that we all seek: movement is only a means to
and end, a way to reach a place of love, a place of belonging to something
you would lay your life down for before giving up.
It is what I have sought here, even as I reveal this to you. It is what I
have found, tied to a tree of all places, feeling a trickle of sweat run
down my forehead, another under the leather covering my chest, another
somehow making its way down my leg and a further one tickling me between the
cheeks of my ass.
Will she release me soon? I can see her! She comes over to slowly release
the straps and I fall against her, exhausted, placated and yet more
desperate and more deserving (read horny) than I have ever been before. Look
at the trial I have undergone for you my mistress! I have undergone hours,
days, years of being tied to the tree - all for you, all to show you my
love. Does it give you the same pleasure it gives me? Gently she lays me to
the ground, releases my penis from its bonds, allows me to kiss her breast,
smell her sweat and heat, remove her heels and hose with my teeth. Then she
takes my penis in her mouth and gently brings me off or rides me like a
stallion proudly stamping in the rodeo... oh, yes!
Except she doesn't. She hasn't returned yet. I do not know when she shall
return and, truth to tell, I do not care - this is my trial, this is my
statement. I will exist and persist whether she comes and releases me or no.
I will always stand here as monument to human devotion!
The birds, though, seem to move slowly today, or is it that the clouds have
More sweat creeps along the lines of my scalp. Perhaps it is an ant? Oh, I
do not like that thought - even the littlest of creatures are free to roam
about where they will…while I, muscles straining, bulging, as tautly as
they may, can do naught but groan against my bonds, hapless.
An ant, I ponder. The tree's bark is rough against my leather-encased body.
If I manage it right, I can just... ohh, much better! I can scratch my back on
the tree. By this curious circumstance I make my first friend out here. A
tree who in my mind I compliment with a form as mighty (and beautifully
phallic) as I would have mine on these pages. It stands at least hundreds of
meters tall... has stood rooted to this place for a thousand years and of its
many inhabitants, I take pride of place as being the first to be bound there
by my lover.
For now this tree is my lover. It holds me jealously against it and pushes
the butt plug in again and again and again. Its will is slow and ponderous,
powerful and magnificent. The tree would take decades to enslave me as it
would wish. I would fall... or grow... into the tree so achingly slowly. It
would envelope me whole in time, an all consuming lover. I wonder, if that
happened, would there remain only my still-erect penis emerging from the
tree (if it weren't harnessed as it is) and would there, from time to time,
come someone to bring me off? A softly stroking hand or hot sweet mouth,… or
you could talk to me slowly and passionately inside the tree and then whip
my penis till I came. Would you do that for me perhaps, kind and