I am the Wood Nymph.
Gavin, the love of my life, the man I lovingly call "Bigfoot," has told you his side of the story. Now let me tell you mine.
I'm twenty years old. For the first ten years of my life, I was raised in a very liberal family. We were nudists, and spent every summer at one resort or another, in the company of other nudists. We also went bare around the house, so nudity was commonplace and entirely normal for me. In fact, I was out of clothes more than in them, especially before I started school.
My parents encouraged me in music, buying me a violin when I was six and making sure I practiced (not really a problem, as I loved the sound I was getting from it and how I was able to use it as a second voice). So my childhood was a happy one, up to the time when I was nine.
That's when my parents' marriage fell apart. My dad had fallen in love with somebody he'd met at his job. I remember the long talk he had with me about it, and how he explained things to me. Yes, he still loved Mom, but he felt they'd married too young. He'd changed, and she hadn't, and there was this new woman who gave him what Mom couldn't. He also said that I had nothing to do with the break-up, and that he still loved me and would make sure I was happy. I said I understood, and gave him a hug. And that was that.
After the divorce, I ended up with Mom. That was OK. She needed me more than Dad did. It was a long time before she started dating again, but she finally remarried a couple of years ago.
There were some changes in the household after the divorce. We moved back to Mom's hometown, so she could be near her family, so I had to leave all my friends and make new ones. Mom gave up nudism, and made me dress all the time, too. It turned out that the "naturism" thing had been Dad's idea, and she had never been too keen on it. When they divorced, I think she blamed it partly on their differences about nudity; she was raised in a house where one went naked only when bathing, and nightgowns or pajamas were required even on the hottest summer nights. I still slept in the nude, with her grudging consent. And I went naked around the house when Mom wasn't home, but I kept it a secret from her.
The stress of the divorce had made me a very rebellious kid. The two people who really saved my sanity then were my Aunt Jane and my Uncle George. Jane was Mom's sister. They loved the outdoors -- camping and hiking. They'd go up into the Sierras for weeks at a time, backpacking in the high country. They weren't nudists, and even brought swimsuits for when they bathed in the lakes and rivers, even though there was nobody but us for miles around. But they taught me everything they knew about surviving in the woods. I learned how to blaze trails, forage for food, make fire without matches, and stalk game. They were childless, and I became the child they never would have. I think that they really wanted a surrogate son; Uncle George gave me a copy of the "Boy Scout Handbook" that dated from the late twenties, a book that had everything a kid needed to know about woodsmanship, and that book became my constant companion. I wished I were a boy, so that I could join the Boy Scouts and find other kindred spirits.
Uncle George also gave me a present that changed my life: a camera.
I found out that I had a talent for photography in general, and wildlife photography in particular. Due to my training in woodscraft, I could get close to animals and patiently wait for them to come into camera range. These were the days just before digital cameras became common, so my first camera was a single lens reflex film camera that accepted a variety of lenses, from macro to telephoto, and I learned to use them all. I'd come out of the woods with thirty or forty rolls of exposed film, and we'd have them developed and scanned into digital format, which I'd then use with PhotoShop to crop and alter them as I pleased.
I went with them up to the hills every summer, and also for Christmas or Easter vacation, when I could. When I was sixteen, I made my first photo sale, and my name started going around. I got an agent, who told me she could probably sell everything I gave her. And she was right. By the time I graduated from high school, I was making almost as much money as my Mom, who waitressed at a diner. I could afford to buy the best digital cameras now, and a Winnebago "Minnie Winnie" that I could drive into the woods and use as a base of operations. And that's where I first spotted Bigfoot.
Bigfoot, of course, is my soulmate Gavin. I don't use the word "husband" here, although we're legally married now. "Husband" just doesn't describe it. But I knew from the moment I first saw him that he was my soulmate.
It happened like this. Our town is about thirty miles away from a huge National Forest, and I got up there as often as I could. I couldn't park the Winnie anywhere there legally for more than a couple of weeks, but there was some private land adjoining it that belonged to my grandfather. I asked for permission to park there over the summer, and he said, "Sure. Just don't make fires, and don't mess up the place." Then he forgot about me.
I drove the Winnie up there that weekend and set up a base camp. I'd hauled in enough food and drinking water to last me two months, and there was a stream nearby to supply me with washing and laundry water. I dug a privy and covered the Winnie with camouflage netting. This was more to protect my privacy than anything else, because I'd heard of hunters who might spot it from the national forest and wonder what a lone girl was doing camping there.
At this point I should mention something else. That summer was really the first time I had extensive amounts of time to myself. And I learned a lot about myself in that solitude. The first thing was that I was a horny bitch, as horny as they come.
I found that I needed at least three orgasms a day. The first came when I woke up. My fingers were in my slit before my eyes were even open. After I wanked, I made breakfast in the nude, and then washed up and dressed. When that was done, I went out to do my field work, usually packing a lunch. The first thing I did when I got home was shuck my clothing, throw myself on the bed, and wank myself again. Then I'd make dinner, eat, and wank myself a third time, this one slow and teasing. I'd put clamps on my nipple and pussy and pull on them, I'd fuck myself with a dildo, and I'd lick the dildo clean, savoring each drop of my pussy juice. I can't say I was unfamiliar with my clit before, but this was the summer I really made friends with her! I couldn't get enough. Sometimes, in my field work, I'd drop my shorts and panties and wank myself right there in the field, leaning against a tree and letting the sun shine on my pussy. I stopped shaving my pussy and armpits, and just let the hair grow. My legs were never very hairy, so I could get by without shaving them as well.
Once the base camp was set up, I took my camera and headed into the forest. I took care not to be seen, but soon found that there was nobody around to see me. This part of the forest was completely inaccessible by road, except for the private road on my grandfather's property, and nobody could use that but my family. I prowled that part of the forest for a month, getting to know every part of it. And then, one day, I came across a cabin in the woods, where no cabin should have been.
I crept up to it. It was empty, but didn't look unoccupied. In front of the cabin was a fire pit, and the fire was dead out, but still smelled of a recent burn. A stack of firewood was heaped nearby, and it was freshly split. The door was closed, but there was a single window next to the door, and I could look in. I saw a bed there, and a little kitchen consisting of a camp stove and a basin. The basin had water in it. I saw a bookshelf, and by using the telephoto lens I could actually read the titles on the book spines: textbooks on law enforcement and forestry, Thoreau's "Walden," some poetry by Yeats, and some history books. And something that took by breath away -- an early copy of the Boy Scout Handbook, identical to mine!
My mind was awhirl. I had to know who lived here, who read those books. I crept back into the woods, turned around, and shot a half-dozen pictures of the cabin. And then I resumed my search for animals and landscapes to photograph.
Jane and George had taught me how to stalk animals, and I used every bit of that knowledge to find the mysterious camper. And a week or so later, I finally saw him. The moon was full, and I left the camper long before sunrise and assumed a position nearby where I could watch the cabin door with my telephoto lens. At sunrise, a young bearded man opened the door and stood outside. He was naked, except for a pair of sandals. He walked about fifty yards from the cabin to a thicket of trees, and pissed on the ground. Then he came back, and I got a good glimpse of him from the front. And I recognized him!
It was Gavin, a boy I'd gone to school with. I'd had a crush on him since the day I'd watched him at a football game. He played defense, and a hastily thrown pass had come his way. He raced in, intercepted it as if it had been intended for him, and was halfway to the goal line before anybody realized it. It was the play that changed the momentum of the game, and he was now the school hero. But that made totally out of the question that he develop a relationship with me, since all the junior and senior girls were throwing themselves at him, and I was a mere freshman.
And now here he was, a grown man. And a fine looking one, too. Tall, well tanned, with long blond hair and a three-week-old beard. He wasn't muscular, but he didn't have an ounce of fat on him. I couldn't help staring at his dick, semi-erect, sticking out of a profusion of crotch hair that obscured his balls. But what captured my attention the most were his eyes, a brilliant, fierce blue that glanced around and saw everything. Everything but me.
My stomach was screaming for breakfast, but I stayed there until he finished his breakfast. Then he reappeared, wearing a loincloth and hiking sandals and carrying a compound bow, a quiver of arrows, and a hunting knife. He padded off into the woods, and I followed discreetly. He was following a trail he knew well, and it wasn't long before I noticed the blazes that marked it. I knew that, wherever he was going, he probably didn't want company, so I went back to my Winnie and had breakfast. And then I masturbated and imagined that it was his fingers on my twat, and not mine. I was still a virgin, and his cock was the first one I'd seen since my days as a child nudist. My imagination was running riot, and then my fingers were plunging inside of me, and I came with a fury I didn't know I possessed. I lay there on my bed, trembling, for half an hour, and then I got up shakily, dressed, and picked up my camera.
Now that I knew he was there, I kept my eye open for similar blazes, and got to know them all. Many of them led to a little lake (scarcely more than a pond, actually), and I took to watching there from a distance. Like many large predators, he was a creature of habit, and I found that he would invariably come to the lake every day for a swim at mid-afternoon.
And he'd do more than swim. He would sunbathe on the bank in the nude, and he'd often stand on the water's edge and masturbate. I'd never seen a man do this before, and it made me horny as hell. Sometimes, while he'd do it, I'd put my hand into my panties and wank off, imagining that his cum was falling on me. That would invariably get me off, too. And that's when my obsession with him really began.
I had to have a shot of that. So I set up a blind near the lake, within easy range of my telephoto lens. If he stood where he usually did, he would be in profile, with his erect dick silhouetted against the sky.
And I waited there, every day for a week. I got dozens of shot, but the one I really wanted ... the one of him cumming eluded me for days. Then it happened.
If you've done wildlife photography, you know that you can do everything right and still not get the shot. It depends a lot on luck, and that day I had it in spades. I was in position, camera at the ready, and the sun at just the right angle. When he shot his sperm into the air, it arced high and caught the sun, and my camera caught it exactly at the top of its arc. Then it fell, splashing into the lake, where I knew it was about waist-deep. I was trembling with excitement as I checked the display of the camera. I had it! I had the shot!
I printed it out that night and wanked to it. I imagined that I was in that lake, with the cum splashing onto my tits. That was my fantasy whenever I masturbated now, and it would never fail to bring me to an orgasm that left me weak and shaking, far more intense than anything I'd experienced before.
I took a few more pictures of him that summer, stealing through the woods, hunting with his bow, swimming in the lake. He wasn't easy to track, and so I started calling him "Bigfoot" after that elusive denizen of the forests of the Pacific Northwest. He never even knew I was there. I also shot thousands of pictures of wildlife and scenery, enough so that I could cull the best hundred or so and have a decent exhibition and, with the picture sales, enough income to support me for at least another year.
At the end of the summer, I moved the Winnie back into town. I enrolled at the junior college, and took some photography classes, and it was apparent that they had nothing they could teach me. I'd progressed far, far beyond that. I parked my Winnie in my mother's back yard and lived in it there. Mom really didn't have a use for me; her new husband made it clear that while I was tolerated there, I wasn't really welcome. He didn't want to be even a surrogate father for a teen-aged girl. But I stayed friendly with my mom, and she would give me a bottle of wine now and then.
That fall, I took time over Thanksgiving break and drove to Yosemite. I met a ranger there, got a crush on him, and gave him my cherry. The sex was good, but it wasn't what I could do on my own, and it turned out that the guy was too possessive and controlling for me. He thought that it was only proper that I should throw my career away and join him, rather than the other way around. So after Christmas, I dropped him. I fucked a few other men after that, and the sex was pretty good, but I have to admit that I often fantasized that it was Gavin who was screwing me. It always made the sex hotter. The only problem was that after I came down, I was forced to admit that it wasn't him, after all, and it made me sad.
So I continued stalking him, this time indirectly. I tried to learn everything I could about him. I found out that he was an Eagle Scout, that he used to be in the high school chess club, that he'd volunteered his time at the local veterinary clinic, and that he wrote letters to the local paper pleading for more funds for the state park system. I read about how his father, a state trooper, had died in an auto accident a few years back. And there was a story about how he'd driven to the state capital, along with a few other local Christians, to help repair a vandalized mosque.
But I learned the most from a hairdresser in the same salon that I went to. His name came up in conversation when I was having my hair cut.
"You look familiar," she said. "Did you go to Taft High?"
"Yes, I did. I graduated last year."
"Oh, you were three classes behind me. You probably didn't know any of the people I knew."
I took a chance. "What seniors did I know in my freshman year? Well, there was a guy named Gavin, in the chess club..."
"Gavin? I knew him. In fact, I was his girlfriend for a while. Nice guy. Jock. Football player."
"Really? What kind of a guy was he? I really never talked to him."
"Oh, he was a sweetheart. I should have kept him. When we broke up, it was my fault. Totally."
"What happened?" I asked.
"I got stupid and made out with his best friend. Just to make him jealous. I was drunk, I was stupid. And then I was too proud to apologize and take the blame for it. I made like his friend was responsible for it. That was a lie, and he knew it."
"That's too bad."
"I'll say. He really respected me; he wasn't just trying to get into my pants. He was the only guy I ever met that was really a keeper. And I let him get away. Let that be a lesson to you, sister."
"I will." And it was a lesson for me, more than she ever dreamed.
That winter, I held an exhibition of my work at the community center. It went over well, and while it didn't really give my career a boost, it got a lot of publicity for the center. I had to stand there and make small talk for three hours, which I hated to do. I was sipping non-alcoholic cider (although wine was being served, I was still too young for it), chatting with some aspiring photographers, when I noticed a man looking hard at one of the pictures. My heart skipped a beat. It was Gavin, and he was looking at the picture I'd taken of his cabin.