A lizard skitters across a branch as I zoom past, its tail flicking in annoyance at being disturbed. More birds scatter, their squawks echoing through the trees like they're gossiping about the naked girl flying through their neighborhood.
I wonder if this is what freedom feels like. Not the idea of freedom I write about in my stories where my heroines are free because they've surrendered to someone stronger. But actual freedom. The kind where you're moving through space with nothing holding you back except physics and good engineering.
Except I'm not free, am I? I'm strapped into a harness, following instructions on a card, performing for cameras I can't see and a man who's probably watching every second of this.
And I don't care.
I actually don't care because this feels too good to ruin with overthinking.
The cable starts to angle differently and I realize I'm slowing down. The trees thin out slightly, opening into a clearing I can see approaching. My speed drops from exhilarating, to manageable, to gentle, and then I'm gliding the last few feet like I've done this a thousand times before.
My feet touch ground and I stumble slightly, catching myself with a hand on the cable above me.
Perfect landing.
I did it. I actually did it, and I didn't die, and it wasincredible.
I'm breathing hard, my chest heaving, and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my entire body. My hands shake as I start unclipping the harness, fumbling with the carabiners because my fingers won't cooperate.
Then I hear it.
Voices. Soft. Distant. Maybe twenty feet away?
I freeze with one leg still in the harness, listening.
"...stunning, isn't she?"
Male voice. Cultured accent, maybe British?
"Absolutely exquisite." Different voice, also male. American, deeper.
My heart stops beating for a full second.
People. There are people here. Watching me.
I yank my leg free from the harness and spin around, scanning the trees, but I can't see anyone. The jungle is too thick, too layered with ferns, and vines, and shadows.
But they're there.
They can see me and I can't see them, and they just called me stunning.
My pussy clenches so hard I gasp.
Oh God.
Oh God, this is actually happening. This is real. There are strangers watching me right now, looking at my naked body, and they think I'm exquisite.
Heat floods through me, starting low in my belly and spreading outward until my skin feels like it's burning. My nipples are so hard they ache and the wetness between my legs intensifies to the point where I can feel it starting to slide down my inner thighs.
I should be mortified. I should be covering myself, hiding, demanding to know who they are and what they're doing here.
Instead I'm standing here with my thighs pressed together, trying desperately not to touch myself because I'm so close to coming I might actually do it without any stimulation at all.
This is what I wrote about. All those stories where my heroines are displayed, examined, watched by men they can't see. Where their bodies are evaluated and discussed like they're objects on display.
I'm living it right now.
And it's so much more intense than I ever imagined it would be.
