There are some mysteries that never are revealed. Some events that can only be put into the file marked "enigma" and consigned to the unknown.

I dipped into that strange, mysterious file one September day, when I was hiking. But I don't know the outcome, I don't know the answer to it all. But I do know it happened.

Let me however tell you about myself. I am an ordinary 32 year old woman who works long hours as a secretary and lives for the weekends. That's when I can get away from the city and the crowds and the pollution and go hiking in the great forests in our state. It's a simple pleasure, largely free, and certainly lonely.

But I guess that's why I do it. After my divorce three years ago, after the hassle from my supposed friends and my uncaring family, I prefer to have my own company. I know I won't complain or carp or argue with me. The forests absorb me in their quietness and make no demands of who I am - and they'll be there next week and the weekend after. Unchanging and welcoming in their grand, silent way.

Oh, my name is Jilly Walker. Convenient for someone who likes hiking, right? Yeah, I get that joke a lot.

So there I was I was walking through the forest above Silver Canyon, half watching the path, half gazing about at the view. The day was warm but with that slight crispness in the shadows that suggested fall wasn't too far off. Kind of the ideal day for hiking.

Kind of the type of day where you wish that you had a companion to share it all with. But that would mean someone who appreciated what you were doing, not someone who'd have their mind on their job or relationships, not someone who would chatter endlessly about TV shows or offer unwanted views on the environment or politics or want to gossip about people you've never met or don't care about.

Yeah, it may be lonely but it's better this way.

I paused on a ridge and took in the sight of the hills and the trees, the clouds drifting over. I was pretty content at that point and had no idea I was about to stumble on a mystery I couldn't solve.

Quite what made me turn one way on the ridge and not the other I'll never know. I wasn't worried about being lost: in my rucksack I have a map, survival rations, something to keep me dry and within me great patience. I've never found a path that didn't lead someplace.

I went left, not right, and soon saw the girl.

I don't know exactly how old she was. Twelve, maybe. I could have asked but that never seemed important.

The girl was naked, lying across an old felled tree, arms and legs spread wide thanks to the ropes at wrist and ankle that stretched her out. She lifted her head as I stepped into the small but open clearing, fixing her wide blue eyes on me. She looked pretty as far as I could tell under the wide gag she wore across her lower face. Red cloth, tied tight behind her head.

From the angle I was approaching I could see her hairless cunny, almost as if it was on offer. Her small breasts - little more than buds - were heaving gently. Not so much (I soon realized) in panic but more in a natural process of breathing in her strained position.

I got the feeling straight off that she didn't look either surprised or dismayed to see me.

Neither did she struggle or make any noises into her gag, apart from a small moan. Maybe I imagined that.

There are, in the history of my life, times where I have run screaming or stood horrified or simply stood with fists clenched and shouted. I didn't do any of those things. I just stood and stared at the girl and she stared back, until holding her head up was too much effort and she let it settle back so she could see the sky more than the trees - or me.

I talked about enigmas early on and I guess this is my enigma. Why did I just stand staring?

Finding a pre-teen girl, naked and bound, has to send some urgent signals to your mind. Yet I did nothing for a full three minutes, probably longer. I just stood and stared at this helpless, spread wide child.

I stared and heard, amid all that splendid silence, my heart thumping hard though I wasn't aware of breathing. I just stood, watching and waiting. Scared this vision would disappear should I blink.

The child had relaxed her head after a minute and was lying, simply waiting. Naked and exposed, knowing that I was looking at her. Even the secret place between her thin legs was in my gaze.

I could have done a lot of things then and there. Some of them sensible, some of them advisable. There were I guess only two things I shouldn't have done, and while I didn't the first one of abandoning her I was about to do the other one.

I moved over to her eventually, casting round to see if she really was alone. I had got the feeling as I entered this clearing that there was no one around. You get a strong sense of being watched by both animals or humans when you grow familiar with being out in the forests.

As I stepped over the pine needles and broken dry twigs I understood two things: this girl and I weren't being watched and that I was stepping carefully so as not to snap any twig and bring people running at the noise.

I stood over the girl, my shadow away from her. I could only think it wasn't my place to give her shelter from the sun, so I placed myself slightly to one side so I didn't cast a shadow over her naked body. I could see her face clearly where it had dropped back and she stared up at me, unblinking. Silently.

I studied her for a short while and then looked round once more. No shadows moved in the trees, no one lurched out with a knife or gun. No animal bounded towards me from the undergrowth. This girl and I were quite alone.

At this point I should tell you I already had a name for her. I had, as I stood looking at her at first, nicknamed her Lonesome. Yeah, romantic, I know. But she seemed like that to me: all alone, open and vulnerable, pale and fragile.

I put my rucksack down at my feet and crouched by her face. She looked at me in a resigned way. In return I smiled, comfortingly. I imagine nurses do that when terminal cases are brought in: the "real sorry I can't help much" look. Kindly but powerless to intervene.

I guess Lonesome understood.

Normally I hesitate to touch people I don't know well but for another mysterious reason I stroked Lonesome's hair. Long, silky brown hair. Clean, so I knew she was looked after. Her tresses felt nice under my fingers and I toyed with her hair. The girl didn't take her eyes off me as I did it and that encouraged me. She wasn't fighting or screaming (though I have no idea how effective the gag was - my limited college sex games experience told me that a gag has to be packed in tight to work) and didn't seem distressed.

I settled on my heels and ran my fingers over the girls face. She flinched slightly but not alarmingly, and my fingers brushed her face, tracing the shape of her cute nose. I imagine when she grows up she will be a real good looking woman. She was sure no ugly duckling. She wouldn't be Lonesome long, I figured.

My touch moved over the smooth, tight gag and I felt her cheeks. Puffed slightly, so the cloth was holding something in her mouth. Then I ran my fingers to her throat, so white and exposed, I felt suddenly how a tiger must feel, ready to rip the life from a quivering antelope. Indeed, the girl trembled a little, but again not in great distress.

Then I did something I never expected I'd ever do. I ran my fingertips down her chest to her small, budding breasts.

Quite why I don't know. A mystery.

Now I must tell you I am not gay. I have had several male friends who fucked me hard and I was married for four years. Difficult years but the sex was good, mostly. I hadn't, unlike some of my female college friends, ever looked at another woman. I wasn't gay, bi or bi-curious. I liked to be fucked hard and rough at times, but it was always a man on top of me, grinding and holding my arms out above me. One guy at college liked to bind and gag me when we screwed, but I always preferred to be free - or as free as being held down.

Now I was touching a bound, naked pre-teen female.

I was astonished at myself. Mostly because I should have been rescuing her, freeing her, calling for help, seeking to set her mind at rest. But I wasn't doing any of that. Quite out of any character I thought I had, I was toying with a helpless pre-teen. I'd helped lots of people out walking. People lost, people who'd hurt themselves, people needing assistance. I'd even helped injured animals I'd found.

But this was different. Someone who really needed all the help she could get and I wasn't lifting a finger. Well, I was, but only to tease and caress her.

I shivered as my fingers traced circles round those small bumps that had fallen a little back into her the way she lay. The girl looked at me, a question in her eyes. Was I not doing the right thing or was I not reacting as she expected?

Guess I'll never know. But I did smile again, reassuringly, and she looked less puzzled.

But I didn't stop circling those tender little boobs and I began to stroke up over them, catching her pale brown nipples, making them grow hard.

For the first time since I found her, I spoke. It was more of a whisper, and I am still amazed by what I said. 'These titties need to be seen to,' I said. I had no idea why I said it, or quite what I meant, but I didn't stop touching them or teasing those delightful, now stiff, nipples.

I also noted Lonesome lifted her upper body towards me just a fraction, as if this is what she expected. I was using both hands now, marveling at the way these young tits felt, how soft and appealing they were. How responsive they had been.

At this point I should explain I wasn't in an entirely mindless vacuum of preoccupation. I had been aware of lots of thoughts running through my head even if they did seem remote. I had wondered not only who was she and how she got there but also I had asked myself what should I do? I had glanced at the knots on her slender wrists and thought that the right thing to do was untie her. But the knots were well tied and a bizarre thought struck me. Lonesome didn't belong to me.

The rule of the outdoors is to leave things as you find them. I was going to do just that.

I had also thought I should unfasten her gag but again, she wasn't mine. She could breathe and wasn't crying or trying to speak for that matter. So if she was happy being silent then I was happy to let her stay that way.

Anyway, what conversation would we have? I was happy being in the forest in silence and so was she, apparently. Silence is golden and I wasn't going to spoil this by having her talk to me. Sure, I wondered about her but then, I had a name for her and her all to myself.

I mean, I love exploring and that was what I was doing now.

I stopped handling her young chest. Not because I was bored with it - for someone who had never touched a female in this way ever I was really taken with it - but because I was hungry. Sitting back, but still in view of the girl, I opened my rucksack to take out the sandwiches I had brought. I ate them slowly, aware she was watching me. But I made no move to offer her anything. I even said, as I finished the last one: 'I guess you're hungry too.' But I shrugged and closed the rucksack, save for taking out a bottle of fresh water I always carry.

Please understand I am not a cruel person by nature. But there seemed little point in sharing this with the child, especially as I would have to unfasten her gag. Perhaps later, if she was good, which I told her casually - though I had no idea what I meant by that.

However I did wonder how porous her gag was, so I leant over to her and dribbled a little water on to her gag. Most ran off, of course, but the cloth darkened as at least some seeped in and hopefully into her inner gag. That made me curious as to what was packed in her mouth. Rubber? Cloth? A stone from the forest floor?

No matter. She was silent and that suited me.

I resumed my handling of the girl's pubescent bust, speaking softly to her, describing what a delightful body she had. I didn't know if she spoke English as there had been no reaction to anything I said, though nothing I said needed a reaction I figured. She was told she had neat little tits, lovely smooth skin. That her gag suited her and made her look sweet.

But it was only when I said: 'Lonesome, I'm going to hurt you soon,' that she responded. Just a small twitch, like a current passing through her, told me she understood what I was saying.

I smiled at her. 'Good,' I said simply. Truthfully.

You should know that I have often thought about that fateful day and why I acted as I did. I haven't as yet come to a conclusion. They say masks hide the real you, well so too does the anonymity of the great outdoors. I was a stranger, and had encountered no one on my hike. There would be no descriptions of me, and we were at least five miles from the nearest highway and much further from the nearest house. We would be undiscovered here and I knew I could do what I wanted.

I think Lonesome knew I could do what I wanted too. She found that out when I slipped my hand down between her legs and touched her sex.

The child's body stiffened a little as I did so: I'm not sure still whether it was fear or excitement. Interestingly I had no intention of doing anything more than touching her cunny to show I could do whatever I pleased, but feeling her sex lips, feeling the slight swelling of her clit suddenly spurred me to do more.

For the first time in my life I slipped my fingers inside another female. It was easy and smooth and I didn't hesitate. Neither did I hesitate to work three fingers up into her while rubbing her clit with my thumb.

Behind her gag Lonesome moaned. She shifted herself slightly as if trying to give me more purchase or a better angle, but of course the way she was stretched out made that almost impossible. Nonetheless I appreciated her effort and grinned at her: she had her eyes closed and I knew she wanted this desperately. Slowly but firmly I worked my fingers in and out of her, pressing the ball of my thumb into her center of pleasure.

The child's breathing altered. Faster now and she was twitching and wriggling as I worked into her.

Then I stopped. As suddenly as I began.

Lonesome's pretty eyes flew open in a mix of anxiety and displeasure. I was watching her to gauge her reaction, that she really was enjoying what I was doing. She was, and hated that I had stopped before she came. But then that was life - it had been done to me many times by selfish men.

But had this been done to her before? If it had, was she like this so people could use her however they wanted?

I stood and looked down at the pre-teen. I was, despite taking my hand away, eager to carry on fingering her but I also wanted to make her suffer. I had to be amazed at how inside thirty minutes I had gone from a solitary hiker to a woman hell-bent on punishing a bound child. Yet it didn't worry me. I stepped away from the girl and picked up my rucksack as if I was making to leave.

'You want me stay and hurt you? Or you want me to go?'

Lonesome strained her head up and looked confused, as she should be. She was in no position to answer two questions. She shook her head urgently, which made me smile. 'Is that,' I asked 'that you want me to stay and hurt you?'

The girl nodded, eyes pleading.

I went to drop my rucksack but halted. 'You sure? I can hurt you real bad.'

Again the child nodded.

'Okay,' I said and finally put down the bag. Then I had an idea that both revolted me and sent a shiver of delight through me. I wanted to pee and now I knew where I was going to pee.

On her, of course.

Poor Lonesome probably had no idea what I was thinking as I shucked off my corduroy pants, but no doubt got the idea as my underpants came off before I straddled her head, looking down at her stretched body, knowing her face was staring up at my hairy twat. I wondered if she had ever seen one so close before, or one so mature for that matter.

'Hope you're still thirtsy, girl,' I laughed as a jet of hot, yellow piss erupted from me. I could hear it splashing on her face, heard a strange gurgled cry from her through the gag. Humiliation or pleasure? I hoped it was both but I'd settle for the former.

It was a long pee. I tend to keep it cooped up in me when I'm out walking. I might be alone out here but I prefer to still have some modesty. Or at least had. This was fun and I emptied my bladder over her head, no doubt soaking that lovely long hair.

When I eased off her I chuckled. Her face and hair was soaked, the red gag - patchy when I dribbled some drinking water on it - was now a uniform dark red. She was blinking away the acidic water from her eyes, though I couldn't tell if there were her tears mixed in with it all.

I thought about putting my pants back on but as we were alone out here I figured I would tease her with my cunt in some way. Even if it was only the fear of me peeing on her face again.

I sat between Lonesome's spread legs. For someone who isn't gay I can tell you it's really quite pleasant sitting between a young female's legs. I positioned myself so that I was leaning against the inside of her left leg, perfect so I could reach up to her hairless little slit with my left hand while my right (I always use my right hand for playing with myself) could reach down to my own open legs and finger myself.

I must have sat there for ten minutes, idly playing with her and myself. Fingering and rubbing, probing and stretching. Both me and her. I could feel her jerk at my first touch, and then slowly relax and begin to work herself as she did before, striving to get down on to my fingers. She twitched a damn sight more as I played with her cunt and her excitement slowly mounted.

I frigged myself faster but managed to keep my other hand to a gentle stroking. I guessed she could smell me, feel me trembling as my climax approached. It was, I admit freely, one of the best orgasms I've ever had. As I came with a loud gasp I kept my hand on her sex but not in her, not trying to arouse her more. I just wanted her to be aware of me, that I was doing what I wanted.

So I came, but did I let her come?

No, of course not. Keeping her on the edge was part of my plan for her. I had enjoyed my climax and now I gently resumed fingering her slit. But I could sense her desire for release growing and timing it perfectly, stopped just as she was on the brink. I laughed as I could hear her sobbing in frustration. Good job she was gagged or she'd be calling me names.

I sat still in the afterglow of my orgasm and let her rest for a few minutes too. Then I scoped up some pine needles from the ground by her feet. From where I sat it was simple job to rub them against her her soft inner thighs, against her pink-looking pussy, particularly against her still engorged clit, and I could tell she wasn't enjoying this attention. Her jerking was a lot more pronounced. Almost a writhing in her bonds.

I stopped that torture and stood up. I went to her chest and leaning over her began licking and sucking - and then biting - her small tits, Well, her nipples mostly, working them between my teeth. One of my front teeth is a fraction shorter than the others so I deliberately let the edge of this difference catch on her nipple.

I was pleased Lonesome's nipples were hard but excited though she may be she was moaning into her gag every time I sank my teeth into the flesh.

Presently I eased up and bent over her. I pushed my lips to her piss-stained gag in a mock kiss but in an instant I pulled back and scowled at the puzzled child. 'You taste foul,' I snorted. 'Your hair too! You smell like you've been in a trucker's rest room.'

I searched in my rucksack produced the camping knife I always take with me. It's a fearsome looking tool and I deliberately let the child see it so she'd feel scared. But I wasn't after one of the sharp blades: I wanted the small but tough scissors attachment and soon I began to cut her long, wet hair.

The girl looked shocked but, to her credit, didn't try to beg or plead. I'm sure the gag would have prevented me understanding the exact nature of her pleas but anyway, I wasn't going to stop.

I had never felt like this before: I was aroused and excited by what I was doing to this unfortunate child and as I clipped her hair back roughly into what would be anything but a neat style - fashionably spiky, I told her - I had to stop and frig myself again.

I also took the opportunity to call her names like "little whore" and "fuck-slut" as I cut her once beautiful tresses away. I fancied some small creature would find the hair one day and take it to line a nest or burrow, so I was doing nature a favor. Plus as her hair was short and spiky, it would dry quicker.

When I eventually finished - both cutting her hair off close to her scalp and finished cumming - I decided it was time to do more. Brutally cutting her hair was a perverted, humiliating thing to do and it had excited me enormously. The twelve year-old looked quite different with her short, unevenly cut hair.

But humiliation is one thing, punishment something else. I had resolved to beat Lonesome and had no trouble finding a suitable whip-like stick. At least I know my trees and the one I chose was young and green, which made it perfectly flexible. I demonstrated it by swishing it noisily in front of her, making her blink nervously.

I told her again I was going to hurt her - and it would be the best whipping she'd ever had. I'm not sure she would interpret "best whipping" the way I did, but it was of no consequence. I trailed the thin (and by now leafless) end of the switch over her belly, her small tits and of course across her pussy mound. She flinched at its touch and that pleased me.

Shamefully I have to admit I played with myself as I stroked Lonesome with the instrument of pain, enjoying the look of terror on the girl's face and the prospect of hearing her scream into her gag. I even resorted to the bad-mouth names again, this time calling her a cheap cunt among other things. I was excited again but I am no fool: Only later would I allow myself to climax fully when I had finished her punishment.

The switch cracked suddenly across the girl's tender little titties, making her yelp into her gag. She was probably ready for the whipping but unprepared for it to be so sudden. or so hard. The first crack had slashed across her small bust and left a vivid red weal across both bumps, just below her brown nipples.

She was sobbing at the pain. If she hadn't have been, I would have whipped her again - and harder - to make those tears fall. I lent over her face, tears running not down her cheeks but falling over her forehead where she angled her head back. 'Just be happy Lonesome, that you are watering the plants and trees in the forest,' I breathed. 'Nothing is wasted.'

I also told her I expected a lot more tears and I can't be sure but she seemed to nod agreement.

I resumed the thrashing. I soon struck a steady rhythm on her now twisting, heaving body and bright red weals appeared instantly across her tits, her belly and the inside of her thighs. She was screaming but her gag was more than up to the job: whoever had done this to the poor kid knew how to silence her.

With her yelps and screams and cries so well muffled I imagined the creatures of the forest would be hardly disturbed. Nonetheless I kept the strokes going, as evenly paced as I could - only varying the target area. Savage red marks were springing up across her torso and even her upper arms and front of her thighs suffered when I directed the slashes to them.

Even her rib cage, so prominent in the way she lay with arched back over the tree, showed all too obvious signs of my brutality.

After just a few minutes I had the satisfying sight of virtually every inch from Lonesome's knees to her throat were marked with red and purple stripes. I felt sorry for her as I beat her: had a kinder person than me come along she may have been spared this pain. But then, had a crueler person than I found her the results could have been fatal. All in all she should be grateful I had been so kind to her. So understanding.

I took a short rest, listening to her sob, watching her chest heaving, and then whispered to her that I was going to continue. I kissed her gagged lips, just to show her that I did care about her, that I wasn't senselessly cruel. I didn't even mind the taste of my pee on her gag, which shows how much I cared. I also stroked her short, spiky hair which was almost dry though I hoped her tears would keep it damp.

Please don't misunderstand me: I wasn't getting soft and I sure didn't want her to think that. I didn't imagine I loved her though I adored her helplessness, her vulnerability. However I was determined to hurt her more and I set about whipping over her already tortured body.

She was screaming now at every cut and I slowed up, delaying the time between strokes. This may have looked cruel but I was trying to be kind in my own way. I would wait for a scream to subside into a sob and then stroke an injured part gently with the the switch, or even stroke her on her little hairless cunny. I hadn't whipped her there as I felt she would faint but also I wanted to keep her guessing that the next one might be there. I also wanted to arouse her a little: I even heard her low sobs check, as if a surge of pleasure was catching her unawares.

I regret I didn't whip her more that day, but I am glad I remembered to make her open her hands flat and then whip each palm a few times. I held her fingers so she wouldn't close her fist as I beat her hand, and I was rewarded with a huge feeing of pleasure and a desire to finger myself once more as she screamed anew.

It was, despite all this pleasure, almost time for me to go. I wished I had discovered Lonesome earlier in the day but that couldn't be helped. It was time for me to reward her with an orgasm.

I knelt between her slender, whip marked legs and despite my total lack of experience, the fact that I had never remotely imagined I could do this, I carefully nuzzled her slit. A jolt went through her pained body as my tongue brushed her cunt lips and homed in on her clit. I put my hands on her thighs - not to ease them apart as they were fully stretched - but to feel the raised marks from her recent thrashing. I also wanted to feel the heat in them.

I could sense Lonesome moaning in submissive pleasure, her body pulsing with the faint tremble of excitement to come. Of course, I had denied her an orgasm twice before but she couldn't know it would be third time lucky. She would hope of course that this wasn't another tease, another prelude to more pain and humiliation.

But Lonesome had been a good girl and frankly, I realized that I needed the taste of her sex on my tongue. I lapped at her cunny eagerly. Shamefully, almost, as if it would give me a sustenance unavailable anywhere else. But this was both her reward and my pleasure, too.

There was more twitching, more struggling, more moans from her arched, strained little body. I pushed my tongue in and out, fucking her slick hole, aware of the mounting excitement in her. My heart was thumping hard again and my own cunt on fire. Without any hesitation I played with my own clit as I licked hers, determined to try to climax at the same moment as she did.

Three minutes later, we did. I felt a surge in her, a sudden outpouring of her juices and my sore twat spurted too. I groaned in ecstasy and dismay it was over, but the after-glow took several minutes to dissipate and I licked at Lonesome's slit gently and reverentially as I returned to the here and now.

Eventually I stood and looked down at the girl. There was a glow about her face, a look of deep satisfaction in her eyes amid the still glistening tears. I got dressed - and she watched me with what I took to be sadness - but I didn't put my underpants on. As a farewell gesture I draped them over her face. I figured whoever left her like this deserved to see that a woman had abused the child.

I fondled her red-raw small tits one last time, patted her spike-haired head and left her with a simple: 'Bye, Lonesome.' I think she grunted something from behind her gag, beneath the plain yellow pants with white lace trim that lay over her face.

I didn't see anyone as I walked down the trail to where my car was, and two hours later I was home.

---

I went back the next day. But although I found the clearing and the log, there was no Lonesome stretched out as the day before. Most of her cropped hair had gone but there was, to my delight, a length of rope coiled close to where her wrist had been bound. I took it as my souvenir, knowing that she probably had my pants as her souvenir.

I returned the following week but there was no sign of her. Probably even less than before: all her hair was gone now. The weather was changing and there was sharp chill in the wind: no one would leave a child bound out here now. I was a little sad that I wouldn't be able to whip her again and I had even brought my own lengths of cord to tie her in different ways.

But things move on. By next spring I knew the clearing would have changed, maybe even a new fallen tree as the winter took its toll, fresh growth in the spring as the new replaced the old. Nothing of my adventure would remain. Nature's like that: it changes and hides.

That would have been that but for two events which may or may not be related.

I had spent the intervening time searching the media for news of a child abandoned in the forest, or any strange stories possibly relating to my incident. But I found nothing. However as I drove away from my third and final visit to the place I passed a car with a family in. Nothing remarkable: a boy and a girl in the back, mom and dad in front. But the girl had something which reminded me of Lonesome.

She had three things to make me think it might be her. A red bandana at her neck, short cropped hair (but neater than I'd managed with Lonseome) and a wistful look, like she remembered something personal.

It was just a glance, but I was pretty sure it was her.

They were gone and there was no opportunity to turn the car and follow. But if I did, what would I have gained? A child screaming to her parents that here was the woman who assaulted her, the bitch who left he whip marks on her. If she still had my pants, there's be no difficulty for the cops matching them to me.

All I could do was let it all go.

Then quite a few years later, something else emerged.

My experience with Lonesome had of course changed me. My life was never going to be the same again. Sure, it took time and effort but I managed to make contact with a group who enjoyed punishing children. Mostly their own, or relatives' offspring, but sometimes strangers. I understood, better than anyone, how equally dangerous and arousing tying up a reluctant child can be.

Once this group accepted me, I had similar though rarely as uplifting experiences as I did with Lonesome. But I got to beat bound children, and that still gives me the greatest rush ever. Seeing that look of helpless terror as they watch you lift her whip hand, that momentary pause while you savor the sight of the naked, innocent child about to be beaten.

Just like with Lonesome.

It was through this group I eventually heard rumors of a legend - a story of a girl who had once been tied up in the mountains and left. It had been done to her several times, but one day the girl had been assaulted by a strange woman and whipped. The story was added to, colored in. People claimed they knew who had done this, or it was them or they'd been there. But none of them knew it was me, and I doubted they would believe it was me.

I heard the story a few times, and each time it was different. Location, time and outcome were never the same. The mysterious whipper had several descriptions but none matched me.

I could have said something, but I stayed quiet. None of them would accept I had done that to a girl I called Lonesome simply because the real story didn't match the lurid, slightly unreal details of the embroidered story.

The only thing all the stories agreed on was the girl had short hair. Spiky short, they said, which she never allowed to grow long again and kept a pair of panties this stranger left behind. Oh yes, and her name was Carla. Or Carol. Or Coral, depending on which version you believed.

But she'll always be Lonesome to me.

Of course, as I hadn't told anyone ever about me and the child, then the story had to come from someplace close to Lonesome. Maybe the man who tied her originally, or a friend of his who learned of the incident.

But I like to think it was Lonesome herself. Perhaps she had turned out like me, and now was doing what I was doing to other children.

Given that she had experience of what hurt, she would be inflicting the best pain, the harshest whippings on some bound and gagged girl or boy.

Perhaps she would take the child up into the forest and tie them over a fallen tree, gag them with something good to stifle their pleas and screams, and begin slashing them with something she'd found among the trees. She'd cut their hair, torture the kid's nipples and cunt or cock and subject her little punishment object to the same humiliations I'd heaped on her.

So I guess in my own way I'm still looking for her. And if I ever find her I'll take her up into the forest to the clearing and tie her face down this time so I can get to whip her back and ass.

Sure, she wouldn't be a child anymore though she'd still be young enough for me to hurt. I liked that idea, me whipping her again. Maybe whipping her while she whipped some stretched out little girl. Maybe only one gag, to share between the bound child and Lonesome, me pausing in the whipping to remove the gag from one and tie it tight in the other's mouth.

And the ungagged one's cries will echo through the silent, unmoving trees.