When I agreed to spend the day in the woods, I imagined we’d have sex. Wanted sex. I pictured a sunny afternoon, dappled shade in a grassy clearing well away from footpaths or inquisitive eyes. I pictured a blanket spread on the ground, warmed by the sun, clothing carelessly flung aside. I pictured you lying warm between my legs, the smell of you, the gentle, seductive movements of our hips together, the consensually brutal thrusts of you inside me as we achieved our climax. I imagined us together, harsh breaths, barks and howls with no one around to hear. I pictured the animal qualities of our coupling, tod and vixen or he-wolf and bitch. Would I be your bitch? In that sense, yes, it was my aim.
What you didn’t tell me was that you owned the wood. Nineteen acres of beech and oak, purchased because there are tax breaks on the investment. And because it means you can play the games you like to play.
That’s why the centre of the clearing is baked earth. It’s why there are two thick upright timber poles set in the ground there. And the fact you like to play games is the reason I’m tied, naked, ankles spread and roped to the base of the poles and wrists splayed out, one attached to the top of each pole.
It’s dusk, and you’re not here. ‘Just wait for me,’ you said, that smirk playing on your lips because you knew I wasn’t going to be going anywhere until you released me. But it’s been a while. I know there are no dangerous beasts in the woods these days, but I imagine a dragon, a monster. Then I imagine a tribe of bikers coming to set up camp and don’t know whether to go with the horrified reaction of my brain or the darkly exquisite thrill I feel low in my belly.
My arms and legs are aching. This stretched position is fine for an hour, but the muscles in my arms have begun to give out and I’m slumped in the ropes, dangling helplessly. If you were here you’d appreciate how I look, nude and vulnerable in a forest clearing. A scene that must be timeless, or even beyond time, straight out of a fantasy…
What if? What if you’d gone back to the car and had an accident? What if you’re lying on the path, bleeding from having stumbled and hit your head on a rock? What if you’ve just decided to leave me here for the night? What if you’ve… But I hear footfalls behind me.
I watch as you put down the bag you’ve been carrying, circle the clearing to gather brushwood, pile it up to make a small fire. In the flickering half-light I see you lay out some implements, can’t make out what they are.
But I can smell paraffin.
When you approach me, a burning fire staff in your hand, I feel somersaults in my belly. We’ve played with ice, with knives, with electricity. You’ve told me you like fire but for me this is new, uncharted territory. You’ve removed your clothes, too. This feels like a pagan rite, like witchcraft. We’re not naked, but skyclad.
Skyclad or not, when you stand in front of me, taller than me, I feel your cock engorged, pressing into my belly. Your left hand caresses me, reaches up to the side of my neck, my hair, grasps a handful of hair and pulls my head back so I see only the now-dark sky.
‘Lick the flames!’
And the dark sky is alight. You’re holding the fire staff above my face, I can feel its heat. And you want me to put my tongue out of my mouth and into the flames?
Well, I do it. And I should have thought of this: heat rises, so while the base of the flame is hot, it’s bearable. A moist tongue flicking at it briefly isn’t going to burn.
‘Good bitch,’ he murmurs.
When you take the fire away I can barely see. My eyes can’t adjust that quickly. But I can feel. I feel the flames, moving swiftly up and down my body. Not too long in any one spot, just enough that I jump and fizzle inside as though they’re just reflections of the sexual heat contained in me.
Abruptly you turn and walks away. I feel bereft, your attention gone. I try to draw a mental connection to your cock, make it come back to me. I want to be limp and powerless in the ropes, your prisoner, with your cock pushing inside me, ferocious, predatory…
But then there’s more, bigger fire swirling and roaring. It takes seconds to work out what it is.
It’s the fire-flogger, strands of wicking fixed to a wooden handle, and if you doesn’t keep it spinning it will burn your hand. You move quickly behind me.
I feel your foot pushing at the back of my left knee, making it buckle. The same on my right. You’re making me hang in the ropes, my body weight taken on my wrists. Your hand on the back of my head pushes it forwards. I’m glad now I had the courage to get my hair restyled. A lesbian cut you called it, amused I’d had it done short at the back. I’m glad because long hair would be in the way right now.
I yelp at the pressure on my wrists and then scream as I hear the dull roar, the whoomph of the flogger reaching out for me. I feel its heat brush down my spine, see flame out of the corners of my eyes and jumping shadows on the ground in front of me. I feel its heat in split-second bursts on my skin, in my essence, my juices, my psyche.
It feels like I’m attracting the flames to me. It’s me that’s incendiary. And someone laughs manically, cackles or crackles as if possessed. As I am, in fact, by a shaman with the fire flogger.
It’s me, laughing….
When the flogger burns out you lay it to one side, carefully, and lay me down, carefully. You don’t untie my ankles. You release my wrists to lay me on the ground, resecure them to a log placed handily nearby. Your weight presses on me. Your engorged cock, earlier thrust against my belly, fits inside me hot and sweet and violent. When I look into your eyes, they’re tiny, deep glowing coals.
I come, howling and shaking. I come more times than I can count. I come until I no longer know who I am or where we are.
And afterwards, when your seed is in me, I look up to the sky and see flames dancing there, the afterimage of the flogger. And I know that we are made of stars and made through fire.
Liked it? Fulani hasn’t written other stories specifically about fireplay though there are some fire scenes in his novel. But you may enjoy others listed at the ‘Stories Available Now’ link at the top of the page. And remember, there are pics of Fulani doing firestuff available as mugs, mouse pads, T-shirts, iPad cases and a bunch of other products over at the Caffimages Zazzle Store! Be good and buy stuff because we get to share in the profits…