Our yard was long and narrow, nestling between densely-packed homes in a leafy mid-American suburb. The front yards were pretty much identical, all with neatly trimmed borders, and a short path leading to each front door. The backyards of those with young families displayed gaudy selections of plastic children’s toys: trampolines, slides and pathetic little swings.
In the far corner of our backyard was a vast spreading cedar tree. Its branches spanned the full width of our meagre strip of scuffed turf and beyond, reaching across both adjacent yards and into the properties behind.
We had no plastic toys outside our house, just sturdy wooden wonders made from cedar. Their original beautiful orange tone had weathered to gold, evaporating in wafts of earthy vanilla during warm summer evenings. All the lumber had come from a massive branch removed a few years earlier from the tree, and later lovingly crafted by Pa.
He made a heavy swing seat for me, fashioned from the seasoned cedar, my name carved along its front. He attached it high in the tree’s canopy using thick soft rope, giving it a deep and long parabola. I could swing so high that at its apsis I could see into many other backyards, down the length of the street, and even into the upstairs windows of our neighbors.
I'm unsure how I first learnt my special trick; it just came naturally to me. While I whooshed downwards on my thrilling parabola, I'd learnt to squeeze my thighs together, creating a wonderful tingling flutter in my tummy. It felt best at the point of maximum G-force — at the swing’s vertex — when the fluttering changed to a pulsing tightening. I couldn't have described it this way then; after all, I was only 4-years-old.
When I’d grown a little older I mastered how to turn these sensations into wave after wave of throbbing pleasure, culminating in unstoppable contractions in my lower tummy that left me light-headed. Instinctively I decided I shouldn’t share details of my special trick with anyone else, even my mom, and kept it a secret.
By the time I was 13-years-old my cedar swing was simply a landscape-scale masturbation device, thrillingly in full view of my parents and even (and especially) the 15-year-old boy next door. They wouldn’t notice anything unusual in my flushing face, or the occasional moan that might involuntarily escape me, as I swung vigorously to and fro. My parents sometimes questioned my love of the swing, wondering why I continued to enjoy it at such an advanced age.
During adolescence I honed my techniques further. With sex education — formal and otherwise — came knowledge of insertion. Mom kept a bowl of decorative wooden fruits in a bowl on the antique elm sideboard. I found the banana was a perfect instrument for deep satisfaction. I’d surreptitiously take it from the bowl and disappear briefly to the bathroom. Pa’s jar of petroleum jelly — kept behind the mirror cabinet — made an ideal lube. Having already made sure I wore a dress or shorts, rather than jeans, I’d simply slip the wooden fruit past the gusset of my panties. I'd already be so wet, lube or no lube, the delicious fruit would slide up easily.
The walk from the bathroom to the yard however, was altogether a more difficult task. The tortuous route took me through the kitchen, where Mom spent most her time. My aching pussy swiveled around the pentagon sides of the wooden dildo as I walked, each step more stimulating than the last; ascending my own stairway to heaven. Sometimes I would gasp out loud, pausing breathlessly. “You OK?," she'd ask, Pa meanwhile barely looking up from his work.
I'd eventually reach my glorious swing at the yard’s end, but not always without incident; out there, in no-man’s land, with nowhere to hide. These were truly tortuous incidents. I remember once rolling to the ground just outside the back door (at least I made it that far), pretending to play with our spaniel, overcome by waves of pleasure as my pussy clenched the wooden fruit.
Once on the magic cedar seat, even the act of kicking my legs back and forth, as I leant the opposite way to start my swing, might tip me over the edge to my first (or another) orgasm.
Best of all, if I had been able to restrain myself, I would manage to get the swing at full tilt. Then the G-force, leaning body, kicking legs, and brazen public display fuelled my launch to the stratosphere. My insides would clench rhythmically on the perfect wooden dildo deep inside me, my clit pressed against its little hard stem. I could cum three — sometimes more — times in a row. I’d regain full consciousness by the time the swing returned to Earth, drifting slowly back and forth, coming to rest under the protective embrace of my cedar tree. The only evidence of my delicious flight a damp patch on the seat, my musky sex merging with the cedar’s sweetness.
This was a regular habit — I mean most days — until one momentous day when it all went too far. It was so good that...
I woke in hospital, my arm in plaster, with no memory of how I’d got there. Mom sprung to her feet, crying with relief, when I first came round. Later the doctor, a handsome twenty-something, asked if he could have a moment alone with me –– if Mom didn't mind. She gave me a puzzled look but left us to talk.
“I guess you'll be wanting this back," he said, pulling a long wooden object wrapped in a specimen bag from the hip pocket of his white coat. What followed was admittedly an awkward conversation, surreal in its brutal honesty, yet secretly rather thrilling.
To this day, the sweet smell of cedar brings a tingle to my insides. When we moved from the property I brought my precious swing seat with me. Now I keep it on the wall above our marital bed, and my husband and family are none the wiser.
"There’s something elemental about being naked or nude outdoors, and masturbating or having sex in nature. The touch of soil, bark, rock or even sand on parts of your skin where you don’t often feel it. There’s nothing like the warm glow of the sun, or a tickle of wind, on parts of your body usually hidden away. Think about it – sex in tune with nature is the most natural thing.
"I want to connect with readers who share my passion for environmental erotica, especially trees and sex, and I hope they enjoy reading the book as much as I did writing it."