The Clearing. You’ve known about the place for months. A friend of a friend mentioned it at a party, half-laughing, as if she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. A spot in the woods outside town. Girls go there, she said, and men know to look for them. It’s not official. It’s not like there’s a signup sheet. You just go and wait for the worst to happen.
You laughed too. Called it a ghost story that suburban kids make up because they don’t have anything real to be afraid of.
Still, it stuck with you.
You went home that night and searched for it. Found a forum, then another, then a rabbit hole of firsthand accounts that made your face hot and your panties wet. Girls describing what happened to them in that clearing. How they walked in nervous and walked out ruined. That they didn’t see faces and didn’t exchange names. Hands just grabbed them from behind before they even heard footsteps.
At this point you’ve read every account at least twice. Some of them you’ve read while touching yourself, cumming with your hand over your mouth, imagining it was you on your knees in the dirt with a stranger’s cock down your throat.
You’d never go yourself. You’re not the kind of girl who does things like that. You’re careful. Cautious. Always double-checking that you locked the door. Texting your friends when you get home safe. You don’t walk into the woods alone and wait to be taken by men you’ve never met.
Even if you can’t stop thinking about it.
About going somewhere and giving up control completely. Skipping all of the awkward "so what are you into?" conversations, and getting straight to someone grabbing you by the throat. Being used so thoroughly until there’s nothing left of you but raw sensation.
You finally go.
Just to have a look and see if it’s real. To satiate your curiosity. And you can always turn around and run if things get out of hand. That’s what you tell yourself.
You park at the trailhead as the sun starts to drop. The directions from the forum are specific, and you’ve read so many stories you basically know the way by heart. The woods are quiet. Golden light filtering through the leaves.
As you get closer to the point of no return, you remind yourself yet again that you could go back. You could go home and make dinner and watch porn and touch yourself to the fantasy instead of the reality. Just stay the girl you’ve always been.
But all those tiny reassurances feel hollow compared to the excitement of finally being here. Of a world opening up to you as the tree line thins out.
You step into the clearing.
It’s smaller than you imagined. A rough circle of grass surrounded by trees, private and enclosed. Late sunlight slants through the branches. It’s almost peaceful.
You stand in the center and wait.
Nothing happens. Five minutes. Ten. You start to feel foolish. The whole thing was probably made up. Some elaborate fiction for lonely people to jerk off to. You’re about to leave when you hear it.
Footstep behind you. Not on the trail, they’re coming through the trees.
You freeze, a scared doe that’s forgotten how to run, standing perfectly still, fists clenched at your sides, heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
The footsteps stop. He’s close. You can feel him there, just behind you.
"You came here on purpose?"
You nod. It’s all you can manage in the moment.
"You know what happens to girls who come here."
Another nod. Your legs are shaking.
A hand fists in your hair. Yanks your head back. You gasp, and then his mouth is at your ear.
"Then get on your knees."
You drop. Leaves and twigs pressing into your skin through your jeans. He keeps his grip on your hair, keeps your head pulled back at that sharp angle, and you still haven’t seen his face. Not that you’d look if you could. Even you know better than to make a mistake like that.
"Hands behind your back"
You comply. He lets go of your hair long enough to grab your wrists, and you hear a zip tie ratchet tight around them. Your pulse spikes. It’s actually happening. You’re in the woods with a stranger and your hands are bound and you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties.
He comes around in front of you. You keep your eyes down. See his boots, his jeans, his hand working his belt open. He’s stroking himself slowly, already hard, and you watch as his cock dangles in front of your face.
"I own you until I cum. So open up, slut."
You open your mouth. He feeds himself in without ceremony, one hand gripping the back of your head, pushing deep enough that you gag. He holds you there. Your eyes water. Your throat spasms. Saliva pools around his shaft and drips down your chin.
"Breathe through your nose."
You try. It’s hard to think. His cock is thick and hot and alive in your mouth and all you can do is take it, let him use your throat.
He fucks your face with no tenderness at all. Long strokes that make you choke, that leave you gasping each time he pulls back. You’re drooling. Crying a little. Your arms ache from being pinned behind you. You wonder if he’ll ever finish. If you’ll be trapped here forever.
When he finally pulls out you gasp for air, chest heaving, and he’s already hauling you up by the arm, spinning you around, bending you over a fallen oak. Your cheek presses into rough bark. His hands yank your jeans down, your underwear, and then his fingers are sliding through the wet mess between your legs.
"Soaked," he says. Almost to himself. "Knew you would be. You sluts always are."
He pushes two fingers inside you. You cry out, hips jerking, cunt clenching around the intrusion. He fingers you roughly, carelessly, like he’s testing your limits. Finding out how much you can take.
"It’s usually the eager whores like you that end up here."
He says it with a laugh as his fingers withdraw and then the head of his cock is pressing against you, pushing in, stretching you open around him. He bottoms out in one long stroke and starts fucking you like you’re nothing, like your only purpose is to be a warm place for him to empty himself.
Your bound hands chafe against your lower back. The bark bites into your cheek and breasts. He’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust, and you’re making sounds you’ve never heard yourself make. Animal sounds. Desperate, wordless begging.
You cum without warning, your whole body seizing around him. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps pounding into you through the spasms, through the second orgasm that builds right on top of the first.
"One more," he says. "Give me one more and I’ll fill you up."
You shake your head. You can’t. You’re too sensitive and raw and broken.
"Yes you can."
His hand snakes around, finds your clit, starts rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The pleasure is almost painful. Too much. You’re crying now, really crying, tears and snot and drool smearing all over
"Come on. Give me what I want. Be a good whore."
The third orgasm rips through as if it had claws, and you feel him slam deep and hold there, feel his cock pump ropes inside you, feel the hot rush of him filling you up just like he promised.
He pulls out slowly. You feel his cum leak down your thigh. He cuts the zip tie, and your arms fall to your sides, numb and tingling.
You hear his belt buckle, his footsteps retreating back into the trees. And then you’re alone in the clearing, bent over with your jeans around your knees and your cunt full of a stranger’s cum.
Your mind is quiet for the first time. Like someone reached into your head and turned off the noise that’s been buzzing there for years.
You pull up your jeans slowly. Wipe your face with the back of your hand. Your legs are unsteady as you make your way back to the trail, back to your car and the rest of the world.
You sit in the driver’s seat for a long time without starting the engine. Your body throbs. Your wrists are marked. You can still taste him in the back of your throat.
You’ll come back. You know that now. You’ll come back next week, or the week after, and wait in that clearing for whoever shows up to use you.
was chatting with this tgirl on [my country's grindr alternative] and she asked if i was into girls and i was like "i am in theory but i'm aro and also sex and even kissing scares me bc i have no experience" and she was like "that's ok, is it ok if i send you some nsfw things?" and i was like "yes" and she proceeds to send me a series of nudes including one with "for [my name] ♡" written across her chest and she was like "if you don't have any experience you can practice on my body~ 💕" and now i'm like WHEW blushing and kicking my feet and trying not to get hard and squirming and getting hard anyways
i looove how horny trans guys are. its sooooooo nice trans man 2nd puberty horniness is like god's gift to trans girls :>
Every trans guy who wants his second puberty to be taken advantage of deserves a trans girl that lives teasing horny boys and dry humping. It's just science
it's so important that you pin that pretty trans girl facedown on the bed, grinding your packer into her ass and reaching around to feel her up, groping her budding tits so she gasps at every twinge of soreness, tracing out the shape of her pretty little dick from over her skirt until she's whimpering and begging
but like for serious do boys like it when you kiss and worship their top scars. i've never had the chance to ask but god damn i love you i love trans people. as a devout atheist i get the wonderful privilege of deciding my virtues myself and being so beautifully, visibly queer is fucking holy. your body is a temple - a work of divine architecture - and i'm in awe at every brick you lay and the mortar that runs between.
it is vital that you bite that trans girl in ways that make her squirm and melt and moan in ways she didn't realize she could. i want a boy to give me so many hickeys that instead of seeing my neck and going "wow you had sex last night" people ask if i was in an accident.
they've gotta make degradation porn that doesn't immediately devolve into just being misogyny. tell me that i'm just a sex toy, that my holes were meant to be filled with cum and used for others' pleasures, that i should just lay still and take it because this is how i'm most useful, and fucking leave "women" as a class out of it you're being fucking weird
sometimes I like dressing fem but not in a "I want to be perceived as a woman" way, rather a "I want someone to pull my hair while calling me a faggot before bending me over the nearest surface and railing me until I'm beyond words that aren't please oh god or more" way
