Every night, when the moon is high and the rest of the world is tucked away in their beds dreaming of normal things, I slip out of my house. I don't bother with clothes. I never do. The first step out the back door is always a ritual—a cool breeze on my bare skin, the damp grass under my bare feet, the primal thrill of being utterly exposed. This is my real home. The woods behind my house are my church, and I am its most devoted, and most depraved, worshipper.

There's a path only I know, winding deeper into the darkness where the moonlight struggles to pierce the canopy. The feeling of the bark scraping against my back as I lean against a tree, the rough, splintery texture a stark contrast to the softness of my own skin, sends a jolt of electricity through me. I'm not just walking; I'm presenting myself to the night. To whatever might be watching.

I imagine the eyes on me. The nocturnal creatures—the owls, the foxes, the skunks—are my silent congregation. I wonder what they think of this hairless ape, strolling through their domain without fur or claw, completely vulnerable. Sometimes, I'll stop and stand perfectly still, my arms outstretched, and offer myself to them. A sacrifice of flesh to the wild. I think about being taken, not by a person, but by the forest itself. Vines wrapping around my ankles and wrists, holding me down. A snuffling creature discovering me, its wet nose probing, its curiosity turning to something else. These thoughts make me hard, make my breath catch in my throat.

My favorite spot is a small, secluded clearing. The earth there is soft and damp, and I'll lie down in it, spreading my limbs wide. I can feel the life of the forest teeming beneath me, in the soil. I'll run my hands over my body, pinching my nipples until they ache, digging my nails into my thighs. I'm not seeking pleasure; I'm seeking punishment. Purification. I masturbate, but it's not an act of gentle release. It's frantic, desperate, almost violent. I'll fuck my own fist, grunting like an animal, my eyes scanning the darkness around me, half-hoping, half-dreading that I'll see a pair of human eyes watching me. The thought of being discovered, seen in this state of raw, primal depravity, is what pushes me over the edge every time. The orgasm isn't a relief; it's an expulsion. A giving of myself back to the earth.

Afterward, I don't move for a long time. I lie there, cooling, my chest heaving, covered in dirt, sweat, and my own mess. I feel stained, but in the right way. Tainted by the night, by the soil, by my own filthy thoughts. When I finally walk back, I'm not the same person who left my house. I'm the creature from the woods, just borrowing a human shape for a few daylight hours, waiting for the moon to call me home again.