by L. E. Thomas
She put her arms around the thick trunk that did not feel harsh to the touch on her bare skin, but somehow warm and tactile. “My chosen one,” the great oak rumbled with emotion and suddenly she felt imbued with passion, like any bride on her wedding night.
Her body filled with heat as she held her lover tight, rocking her hips against him. She felt at one with the heartbeat of the natural world as she sensed his response, a protuberance growing firm and thick against her belly.
The need grew and she could longer wait for consummation. She turned around instinctively, sliding down on his thick firmness, aching for him to fill her entirely. She felt the enormous strength of his power and his love. She was completely at one with the forest and the old ways as she writhed on her oaken bridegroom.
Her leafy handmaidens encouraged her, extending their tendrils to play on her pink, hardened nipples and stroking her softly between her thighs. The whispery leaves that crammed the mouth of her betrothed trailed across the sensitive skin of her neck and back, fuelling her desire. She could hear his breath rasping louder with every undulation.
She lost any sense of inhibition as she writhed and rocked and cried out in surprise and pleasure as her sensation of bliss reached the skies. Moments later, there was a clap of thunder that rocked the earth as she lovingly received his life-giving sap.
Overcome with spent passion, she was limp against the solid oak, at one with her new husband. As well as sharing her joy and fulfilment, she felt his too. But she also sensed his sadness, with the apprehension that after their longed-for coming together, he must let her go. She drifted off in his safe grasp, as he whispered words of love to her, his leaves caressing her face as if memorising her beauty.
Olivia awoke to crisp autumn sunshine, the storm but a memory. She was dressed again in her green gown, her cloak lying beside her. She looked at the great oak, which still dominated the sylvan glade. His spirit was now dormant, the eyes closed, revealing nothing. She rose, went to him and put her arms around the trunk, as far as she could reach. “My husband, my love,” she murmured in farewell, rubbing her cheek against the uneven bark.
Turning to pick up her cloak, she saw the forest’s leaves had fallen overnight in the storm. They clearly defined her path, laid out before her like a carpet fit for a queen. The bright golds and deep reds now seemed so much more glorious than any man-made dye.
As she made her way unerringly through the peaceful woods, she felt imbued with deep inner enlightenment. She was now sure of her future. This awareness had nothing to do with the busy London streets or what she had read in books or listened to in poems or ballads.
It was fated that she would return to London to the tavern named in honour of their line.
No doubt, her father would give out some story that they had travelled on ahead to London and her bridegroom would join her soon. Later, there would be some invented accident or illness that meant he would never arrive. She would be a respectable widow as far as anyone was concerned.
Those details were unimportant. All that mattered was that she would bear a son in full summer when the trees were at their tallest and most glorious and the crowning glory of the leaves was at its most verdant green.
When the time came, her son would marry and that union would produce a daughter and then Olivia would pass on her hidden knowledge. When the girl had grown to womanhood, she would be led by her father deep into a forest on Halloween night when the veil between the old order and the corporeal world was at its thinnest. On this sacred night, she would, in turn, be taken joyously as a bride by the next Green Man.
Olivia somehow realised that in centuries to come, as man heedlessly hacked down the beating heart of the woodland to build towns and roads, that a precious part of the spirit of nature would carry on, hidden in plain sight in the centre of a sprawling city.
With that thought, she hastened her step through the woods to greet her anxiously awaiting father.
THE END
ABOUT L.E. THOMAS
L.E. Thomas mainly writes historical stories with an erotic twist. A lifelong enjoyment of history and literature is a spur for her imagination when conjuring up these tales.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
