Whispers Beneath the Canopy

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Whispers Beneath the Canopy

The forest didn't just breathe—it beckoned.

I stepped into the hush of green, the air thick with the scent of pine and promise.

My skin, bare to the breeze, tingled with the thrill of exposure. There's something primal about walking nude through nature, as if shedding clothes also strips away the layers of civilization, leaving only instinct and desire.

Each step was a flirtation. 

The moss beneath my feet felt like velvet, the sun a lover tracing golden fingers down my spine. I wasn't alone—he followed, eyes dark with hunger, his breath catching as I moved ahead, hips swaying with deliberate provocation.

We didn't speak. Words would have shattered the spell.

Instead, we let the forest guide us. 

A fallen log became our altar. 

The wind, our witness. 

His hands, reverent and rough, explored me like sacred terrain. I arched into him, the rhythm of our bodies syncing with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a mourning dove.

It wasn't just sex—it was communion.

Afterward, we lay tangled in each other, the scent of earth and sweat mingling like incense. I watched the canopy above shift with the breeze, and I knew: this was freedom. This was the truth. 

This was the kind of love that doesn't ask for permission.

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