Beneath the Cedar’s Veil: A Lover’s Secret Under the Canopy
Where Passion Meets Ancient Roots and the Western Red Cedar Whispers of Eternal Desire
There’s something about the forest. The way the air thickens, heavy with damp earth and secrets untold. The way the shadows cling, reluctant to let go of the light, as if knowing what they hide is too delicious to reveal too soon. It’s here, beneath the towering Western Red Cedar, that lovers meet, their bodies pulled together by something primal, something raw.
The cedar, ancient and knowing, watches over them, its branches draping like the softest, silkiest fabric. The lovers lean against the trunk, their hands grazing the rough bark, its texture sending shivers through them—because the cedar, like a lover, is not always gentle. Sometimes, it wants to leave a mark. This tree has seen centuries of lovers come and go, their fleeting moments leaving whispers in the wind, and tonight is no different.
As their bodies press closer, the cedar stands witness, a towering monument to desire. Its roots plunge deep into the earth, steady and strong, grounding everything in its path. The lovers, caught in the intoxicating scent of cedar wood, feel the pull of that same depth—something deep, unshakable, that makes the earth tremble beneath their feet. The tree doesn’t just hold them; it cradles them, shields them from the outside world, offering a space where desire can bloom unchecked, where lust can grow wild and untamed.
But the cedar is not just any tree. Oh no, this is the Western Red Cedar, revered by the Coast Salish people as the "Tree of Life." It’s been stripped bare, its bark used to weave garments that cling to skin like the touch of a lover’s fingers—tight, hot, and intimate. Its wood, soft yet sturdy, has carried warriors across oceans, held bodies in its warm embrace, and now, it holds these two, their breath mingling with the scent of the forest, the cedar’s oils teasing their senses like a lover’s teasing kiss.
For over a thousand years, this tree has been a part of life on Vancouver Island. Its branches have seen shelter built beneath them, homes constructed from its very body. The cedar has a way of making you feel safe, but not in the way a locked door might. No, this is the kind of safety where vulnerability is stripped away, where bodies and hearts are laid bare, where the sweat and sighs of passion become part of the earth beneath.
Their hands run along the bark, fingers tracing ancient lines carved deep into the wood, like tracing the curves of a lover’s body. There’s a rhythm to it, the slow, patient caress of something old and timeless, a rhythm that matches the beat of their hearts as they lose themselves in the moment. The cedar’s roots, deep and entwined with the earth, mirror the way their bodies entwine, slowly at first, but with a growing hunger that can’t be denied.
The cedar’s oils seep into the air around them, a heady scent that clings to their skin, mixing with the salt of their sweat, the warmth of their closeness. The oils, revered for their preservative properties, are what make the cedar so resistant to decay. It’s the kind of scent that lingers, the kind that stays with you long after you’ve left the forest, much like the memory of a lover’s touch lingers on your skin, in your thoughts, in your dreams.
But the lovers are not alone in their embrace. They are joined by the cedar itself, its towering presence a silent participant in their dance of desire. It sways slightly in the breeze, not enough to disturb them, but just enough to remind them that it’s there—watching, knowing, enduring. The cedar has seen countless lovers before them, felt their bodies press against its trunk, heard their whispered promises, their moans carried away by the wind. And still, it stands.
There is something deeply erotic about the cedar’s resilience. It does not bend easily; it does not break. It stands tall, unyielding, even in the face of the strongest storms. There is something about that kind of strength, that kind of endurance, that speaks to the deepest parts of us, the parts that crave something lasting, something real. The cedar, like the lovers, knows that true passion is not a flash in the pan, but a slow burn—a fire that simmers deep, hot, and steady, refusing to be extinguished.
As the lovers move beneath the cedar’s canopy, their breath coming faster, their hearts pounding in sync with the pulse of the forest, they become part of something greater, something timeless. The cedar has stood for centuries, and will stand for centuries more, long after their passion has faded into memory. But for now, in this moment, they are as eternal as the tree itself, their desire rooted deep in the earth, their bodies swaying with the rhythm of the wind, the cedar’s touch a silent reminder of the power of nature, of lust, of life itself.
When they finally pull away, their bodies spent, the cedar remains, tall and proud, its branches swaying gently as if in approval. It has seen this before, and it will see it again. The lovers may part, but the cedar’s roots run deep, entwining with the earth, with history, with the very essence of life. It is a lover in its own right—strong, steady, enduring. A lover that does not fade, does not wither, does not forget.
And as the lovers walk away, the cedar’s scent clinging to their skin, they know they will be back. Because like the cedar, some things are simply irresistible.
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