My charity today is The Wilderness Society. There are certainly different charities in urgent need, but I’m indulging in a nature-based organization in memory of someone who used to hike with me and loved the wild places.
“Since 1935, The Wilderness Society has led the effort to permanently protect nearly 112 million acres of wilderness in 44 states. We have been at the forefront of nearly every major public lands victory.”
As for the story I’m including, I thought I’d never find a good one I hadn’t used for previous Charity Sundays, but then I remembered a short, not at all good, piece I wrote many years ago. At least it takes place in a semi-wildermess area. I think it was published first in the long-gone magazine On Our Backs, and reprinted in now out-of-print Hard Road, Easy Rider, the second anthology I ever edited.
You know the drill, right? I donate one dollar for every hit on my blog, and two dollars for every comment.
So here goes.
The Earth Goddess Bites
Roby's trapped wrist ached, but her ass tingled. Vulnerability was new to her, at least from the receiving end, and fear mingled with a sensation strangely like pleasure. Was this how her usual games felt from the other side? This, though, was no game, and damn it, she wanted out. What was taking Gwen so long?
The narrow passage angled upward from a larger cave. Roby crouched awkwardly in the only position that didn't put pressure on her trapped wrist. Her numbed fingers couldn't grasp the flint arrowheads that her light had revealed in a crevice, back when she had a light, before the stones shifted.
When crunches on gravel came at last she was panicked enough to think of bears, and flexed her knees, heavy boots ready to lash out. Then fingers of brightness from the flashlight Gwen had taken brushed along her body to where her arm disappeared into the stone-filled niche.
"You doing okay, Roby?"
"Fine." She did her best to keep her voice steady. "Find anything useful in the bike?
"No, but my cell phone got just a slight signaI so I called the ranger station. A rescue team might be here in an hour or two. They can maybe work something between the rocks to cut the band of that expensive macho watch you wear. With that loosened, your hand will probably slip right out."
Roby made a sound between a curse and a groan.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I may chew my arm off before they get here! Or..."
"Nothing. Never mind." She stifled the wild urge to tell Gwen to ride back to the campsite and gather up all the rope they'd brought, which was considerable. Not enough to reach, though, even if Gwen untied all the clever knots that had turned a coil of braided nylon into a complex sling worthy of a first-class dungeon. But reason couldn't prevent a fevered vision of the powerful Bird, hitched to a towline, growling and roaring and pulling inexorably until Rory's body burst forth from the earth, leaving the traitorous hand behind.
Rory felt betrayed by her whole mind and body. All right, she felt downright stupid. As a sculptor, she was supposed to understand stone, to read its grain, its faults, its balance, and to shape it to her will. She should have known the rocks would shift at the slightest disturbance. Now the same hand that could wield a mallet against a chisel with precision, searching out the hidden shapes begging for release from within solid stone , was immobilized. By stone. And the same hand that could thrust rhythmically into a woman's deep, secret places, making her beg for more, more, harder, until release burst forth in raw, wild cries, was trapped. In the deep, secret places of the earth.
"A fitting punishment," Gwen had said, before going to call for help. "The earth goddess has teeth!"
It might, Rory reflected, have been a mistake to make Gwen beg quite so hard and for quite so long last night. She'd consented to having wrists and ankles tied to the tent posts, but the tent had barely survived, and her pleading had become edged with fury. So damned hot, though!
"Hey, any ranger small enough to crawl in here will have to be a woman," Gwen said in mock comfort. "In uniform. With a knife. Look on the bright side." She wriggled her way up beside Rory and offered a drink from a bendable straw stuck into her canteen. "Still, you could be famous as a one-handed sculptor. And fucker. Not only that, the legions of girls who knew you before could make pilgrimages to leave damp underwear at the tomb of your legendary fist."
Yes, no question, Rory had definitely shot her mouth off too carelessly last night. Blame it on the local microbrew. Not that Gwen hadn't, ultimately, appreciated the hell out of that very fist, and in a number of innovative ways.
There'd been the sling, of course, but Rory had even permitted some games with Firebird, more than she'd ever allowed any other women. Two nights ago, by firelight, Gwen had balanced bare-assed atop the sensual curve of the motorcycle’s golden tank, wrists fastened to the handlebars, while the engine's idle shuddering pulsed through flesh and bone. Rory, in the saddle, had held her arm rigid while Gwen slid down the gleaming slope onto her, wrenched herself inches back upward with straining arms, slid again, moaning and writhing and, ultimately, screaming into the vast, dark sky. The memory made Rory's hips twitch.
"What's the matter?" Gwen asked, too innocently. "I hope you don't have to take a piss!"
"Oh, God!" The sudden urge was as brutal as it was inevitable.
"Sorry I mentioned it," Gwen said, clearly not penitent at all. "let me get your pants down a little, just in case."
Rory, driven by desperation, raised herself enough to let her jeans slide past her hips toward her knees. Now her legs were nearly as immobilized by denim as her hand was by stone. Her bare ass tingled with vulnerability.
"Maybe some distraction will help," Gwen said coolly; but there was nothing cool about her touch as she stroked Rory's exposed flesh. The savage urgency shifted a few vital centimeters until cunt and clit, rather than bladder, were begging for relief.
"Oh shit!" Rory gasped.
"Nope, can't have that," Gwen said. "Piss would be bad enough." She withdrew her hand. Rory stifled a whimper. She never begged. She commanded. This hardly seemed like the right time, though. After a few unseen, indecipherable movements, the hand--or something--was back, nudging at Rory's asshole.
"Hey!" Then, as her jerking body put pressure on her trapped wrist, she yelled, "Ow! Damn!"
"Hold absolutely still," Gwen ordered. Rory couldn't argue with that. It'd be like cutting off her nose to spite her face, as her grandmother used to say. Damn, she didn't want to think about cutting things off!
The thought vanished as strokes far from soothing traveled from Rory's cunt to her asshole, spreading heat and wetness. She was distracted, all right. She felt utterly defenseless, somehow forgetting that her knees and booted feet could still be potent weapons. A fierce urge to shrink away was countered by one just as intense to press closer. She didn't move.
The familiar snap of a latex glove resounded off the tunnel walls. "I thought you didn't find anything useful," Rory grunted.
"Just your own emergency kit you keep in your saddlebags," Gwen said complacently, "and a little something I had stashed in my own, Big Bad Bear, looking for a den." She grinned wickedly as she held the butt plug in the faint light for Rory to see. Rory opened her mouth, couldn't think of anything to say, and shut up.
Gwen probed Rory's back door again, twisted the toy slightly, and went a little deeper. Rory managed to brace her knees enough to lift her ass higher--and then the plug was in, filling her, and she couldn't think at all. Gwen's fingers were slipping in and out of her cunt, deeper and faster, playing against the insistent, maddening pressure in her asshole.
Rory scarcely noticed Gwen's other hand reaching past her head, back and forth, until something brushed her cheekbone. Something wet, and pungent. In the dim rays of the flashlight she saw the tip of the drinking straw probe into a chink between the imprisoning stones, withdraw, disappear back toward her crotch, and reappear, coated with thick, glistening moisture. Gwen's musky scent mingled with her own.
"Come on," Gwen urged, "let's see just how slippery you can get!" Her pumping hand went on and on, slurping in and out, teasing but never quite hitting the spot.
"Please, damn it!" Rory forgot that she never begged. "Please!" Her voice was raw. Finally, after an agonizing minute, Gwen used both hands, one to steady and press against the butt plug and the fingers of the other to thrust fiercely into Rory's cunt, while the thumb challenged her straining clit. Waves of pressure built from front, back, and deep inside, meeting in a roaring tsunami that crashed over her in a torrent of liquid heat.
It was a while before Rory even noticed that her trapped hand had slipped free, streaked with thick cunt-juice. The fingers were scraped and nearly numb, but when she flexed them they moved. She edged back into the wider part of the cave.
Then she saw the tube in Gwen's breast pocket. "You had lube all along!" she said accusingly.
"Just in case," Gwen admitted. "From your own saddlebag. Guess you didn't think of it. Didn't need it, anyway, except for Big Bad Bear. We made plenty between us. Besides, shouldn't an offering to appease the earth goddess be all-natural?"
Rory's uninjured left hand thrust ruthlessly down into Gwen's pants. "The goddess must be on my side again," she muttered against Gwen's wide grin. “She's just granted me the gift of ambidexterity. And this one's a virgin, just for you."
For the other Charity Sunday Blogs this time, go to https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com