Elemental Lovers

A feral, holy, fully alive erotic nature story aka Feral Lit

Elemental Lovers

Some people have a deep connection to the elements. This connection runs so deep that when they are in that element, they are at peace and happy. At one with their world, that element fuels their presence.

The elements of this planet are sentient. The work from Masaru Emoto shows us that water responds to us. While water might have distinctive properties of imprintation, air, fire, and earth also have their own ways of responding to us. Each one holds a particular intelligence. A rhythm. A way of loving.

And sometimes, the elements choose us back.

Lightning Pinkcloud is medicine with dirt under her fingernails and blood on her lips.

A living sacrament, not brewed in temples but born in the suburbs and raised by cats. She leans into the wild land and listens to her instinct. She wears only what the Earth offers—wool, leather, fur, cotton sun-bleached and hand-mended. Her scent is woodsmoke, palo santo, sage, and skin. She wishes she smelt like tobacco. She eats the whole elk—bone marrow, liver, heart—grateful for every bite, offering thanks with each chew.

Past lovers don’t speak of her.

Not even in whispers.

There’s a stillness around her memory, like smoke rising from a long-cold fire.

But if you’ve known her, you’ll recognize it in another—the way their eyes soften for a half-second, the way their breath catches when the wind shifts.

She touched something too raw, too holy to name, too alive to explain.

They must go on with their lives with their new partners. And never reveal the indelible impact she made; that deep, wordless reverence—like a secret sacrament sealed into their bones.

She splits you open with tenderness and wildness, shows you the ghosts you carry, the hunger you buried, the ache beneath your armor.

And when she leaves, you are not who you were.

You are something truer.

Not everyone is ready for that kind of intimacy…integration…presence…acceptance.

She saw parts of them no one else may ever see in their lives. She let them be wild. And their most feral parts of soul didn’t scare her.

Women either want to braid her hair or banish her from their lives. She understands. Not everyone is ready for medicine with a pulse. Not everyone can meet the mirror and not flinch.

But those who do—those who stay through the storm—walk away remade…they never forget her. It’s like she’s an actual force of nature.

She wants you to know about a man who was a beautiful lover. Every experience with him was the best of her life, only by a little, but the best nonetheless. But compared to most men she’d been with, he was exceptional. At a time when her heart was broken, this man became her lover—not because he sought to mend her, but because he reminded her of her wholeness. He recognized her strength, celebrated her beauty, and spoke to her with the kind of unhurried truth that only emerges from a life lived close to something eternal.

He asked for her advice as much as he offered his open eared heart. He never offered advice without asking. And on a whim, he told her that her tasty bits were making his cock twitch and her eyes opened wide, in surprise. She hadn’t really noticed him in that light before.

There was something in his quiet confidence, his self-assured competence that drew her in like iron to a magnet.

They floated down the river for weeks. His kind eyes smiled and his eye wrinkles wrinkled as he settled into the oneness of the current. This was his happy place. His home. She got to witness a love story greater than hers and his. She watched him love the river and watched the river love him back. Not metaphorically, not poetically—literally. They were lovers. And Lightning was the blessed witness.

He didn’t fight her. He didn’t struggle. He went with the flow. Rarely caught in eddies, he could read the water like a Southern Baptist reads scripture. Each morning, he contemplated her movement. Each night he slept on the boat so he could feel her breath and undulations. She rocked his world gently—and sometimes harshly—all through the night. And he never tried to tame her. He surrendered.

Lightning knew the boaters’ fantasy.

One day, she told him with a glint in her eye that he’d been rowing really hard and deserved a blow job.

He screeched that raft into the next eddy and locked eyes with her as his strong arms reached for her rib cage. Sliding his hands under her PDF, she unbuckled and threw it on the floor. Her breasts popped out, areolas saluting the March sun and chilly air. His deft hands moved precisely and assuredly from her knees to her thighs as he leaned in for a sip of her invisible nipple honey. He gave them each attention because he paid attention. His mechanic-strong hands pushed and rubbed everything from outside of her wool bike shorts. Pulling them down, he moved his fingers on her clit - dipping back into the source for wetness until she couldn’t stand it anymore. He pleasured her until she came. Then he pushed his strong fingers inside her once she was dripping wet and gave her a second glimpse of the divine. She bent forward and traced her tongue around the head of his cock round and round, a swollen pattern of slowness. She served up the wettest mouth and devoured that dick with every bit of service in her. She surrendered so she could let his cock slip all the way inside her throat. He told her he’d never been with a woman who loved it this much. The rest of them always seemed like they were either ashamed or just wanted to get it over with. Not Lightning. She loved his cock. It was big in both her hands. What will she do with all of this clay slipping through her fingers? All she could do was dream of what it would feel like inside her. She imagined the pressure inside her as all her mouth watered in response. The whole time she sucked, slurped, and licked him, the eddy was circling the boat round and round, a holding pattern of sweetness. And the moment he climaxed, the river spit them back into her flow just as Lightning spit his offering to the river goddess. They laughed.

The river loves him more than any woman ever can.

That moment lives in her like a poem. Not because of the sex—though the sex was exquisite—but because she finally understood what it looks like when a human is fully in partnership with a force of nature. It wasn’t performance. It wasn’t domination. It was a mutual, reverent, fluid intimacy. The kind that leaves no separation between self and world.

Water, when allowed, will soften your sharp edges and carry your grief. She knows how to hold you through the body’s trembling, the tears, the sighs, the laughter you didn’t know you’d been holding back for years.

This is the essence of somatic unwinding. Yawning, crying, shaking, laughing, orgasming—these aren’t symptoms to be managed. They’re doorways. They are the body’s ancient languages for releasing pain, pattern, memory. They are nature moving through us. And when we allow them, the dam breaks. Our nervous system reorganizes. Our soul returns to the body. We remember we are part of the Earth, not separate from it.

We stop gripping. We start flowing.

The river taught her this. And so did he. And so did the grief she carried in her chest like a stone until it melted in the current.

A select few are being invited, every day, to return to the elements as kin and teachers. And when they begin to unwind the trauma from their bodies—not just through talk, but through movement, through breath, through surrender—they become more capable of real connection. Within. With each other. With the land.

The nervous system that has space for grief also has space for joy. And it is only a spacious nervous system that can hold community.

There is a force calling people who know how to surrender to their own bodies and to the Earth. That force needs people who laugh with the wind and cry with the ocean and let fire burn their old stories to ash.

Job Description: Lovers of the elements who are not afraid to be changed by them.

Role and responsibility: Love something other than human more than you love humans.

So ask yourself: Have you received the invitation?

Which element loves you most?

Where do you feel most like yourself—not the polished version, but the feral, holy, fully alive one?

Where does your body soften? Where does your breath deepen? Where does your soul feel seen?

Find that place.

Go there often.

Make love to it.

Let it change you.

Let it unwind you.

Let it bring you home.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.