Peat Moss had only known the pang of regret but once. And that particular experience had been an anomaly that startled him to his festering core. He had successfully pushed it back in his mind, shrouding it with more satisfying, grisly images. So, as he leaped and bounded up river following the scent of honeysuckle flowers, his mind was unfettered by remorse.
Still, the hidden memory hung in the air, just above his head. If it were a rain cloud it might have burst at any moment. Within that burst, the only glimmer of decency Peat Moss had ever known would be released, and there could be no amount of denial that would keep it from pouring down upon him....
Following his birth in the narrow hollow, Peat Moss had spent a good amount of time terrorizing the valley. He had nearly butchered, mangled and maimed every thing in sight, occasionally letting something flee so that it could be butchered, mangled or maimed on another day. He was intoxicated by his own rage and brute strength. Nothing could control it.
Then, one day, Peat Moss caught a glimpse of Buford Longpost. Buford was one of the few who refused to leave the valley. He was a woodsman, sawing and selling timber to any who needed it, and had made a name for himself among the valley folk. It was a name he was not going to give up without a fight. He spent most days felling the forest in anticipation of the return of life to the valley. Against his will, Peat Moss was immediately and inexplicably fascinated by the man. Buford was the strongest human Peat Moss had ever seen. His muscles shone bathed in sweat beneath the glare of the sun as he worked. Such strength on a human was dazzling to the Passion. Buford swung his axe so hardily that entire tree stumps were split in two with one mighty blow.
Peat Moss could not describe the feelings surging through him. He had no vocabulary for it nor any precedence for any such feelings before. It frightened him that he felt such strong emotion toward this man, and that fear frightened him all the more. He had never before known fear either. But he sat hidden by the trees in uncharacteristic awe and watched the lumberman whopping on wood the whole morning through.
At midday, Buford ate lunch and afterward stripped of his sweat-laden clothing, letting the sun’s rays stroke his naked flesh. Peat Moss felt his very first hint of sexual desire. This was a day, it seemed, profuse with firsts. Buford stretched out upon a fallen tree, his head resting on his arms and his feet crossed at the ankles. His penis towered high in the air, seeking attention. It wasn’t long before Buford’s hand obliged the virile organ. With his eyes closed, he carried a private fantasy to fulfillment. When finished, he turned on his stomach satisfied and quickly fell asleep.
Peat Moss was flustered by what he had seen and all the more intrigued by the strong man. His lustful Passion eyes ran along the napping form of the man. They took in every muscle and dimple until at last they came to a full stop on the woodsman’s muscular, perfectly rounded ass.
Buford didn’t stir from his rest as Peat Moss came finally out of hiding. Strangely, there was nothing for the lumberman to fear even if he had awoke. Peat Moss wanted nothing more than to touch him and hold him. These very thoughts disturbed the Passion even as he tried to beat them down. But it was of no use; he was completely awestruck by the woodsman. His large hands caressed and kneaded every curve on Buford’s physique. Seeing that this did not disturb the timber man, Peat Moss did something he had never done before: he kissed the bare skin of Buford’s broad back.
At the touch of lips to salty skin, Peat Moss felt his own penis stiffening, and something of his more familiar self regained control. He could contain his appetite no longer. He parted the large mounds of the woodsman’s muscular ass and sunk into him. Buford groaned, but it was not the kind of groan to which Peat Moss was accustomed. No, the woodsman sounded as if he didn’t mind. Indeed, as if it were expected. As if his dreams at that very moment were one and the same with the reality of what was happening.
Buford ground himself back into Peat Moss, taking what he could of the Passion’s ample member and causing the monster to thrust deeper. Peat Moss’ sexual energy could have easily and literally ripped the man apart, but curiously he did not wish for that. Something about this particular human had him under control. He found that he wanted to please him, not harm him, and that thought - the suddenness with which it came to him - was like a shock coursing from the woodsman’s body into his own. The force of it caused him to tumble backward, rending his massive penis from the lumberjack’s hole. This, of course, woke the lumberman quite forcefully from his sexual fantasy and he looked around in surprise. At sight of the behemoth Passion, Buford fell from the tree and staggered aback.
“Keep away! Stay back!” he shouted, his voice deep and resounding. His face shone with terror.
Peat Moss was all too familiar with that expression. However, seeing it on the woodsman’s face gave him an incomprehensible pang in his chest.
Peat Moss came toward the lumberjack. He would calm the man down, hold him. Then the woodsman would understand that they could be together; that he meant him - only him - no harm. They could fell flora and fauna as a mighty twosome. The river would run thick with blood and sawdust.
But Buford did not understand the approach, and suddenly lifted a large limb that lay near his feet, throwing it at the monster. Peat Moss swatted it away with ease and continued to advance. Buford pitched a stream of items at the Passion, all of them harmless. After a bit of this, Peat Moss began to think that the lumberjack was simply playing. After all, others who had caught sight of him immediately tried to escape. Yes. That was it. The woodsman was playing. They were having fun. Peat Moss grinned with delight and mischief at the realization he had a playmate, and lifted from the earth the large tree Buford had been resting upon.
Buford had no time to move before the tree fell on him, crushing him into the ground. At once, Peat Moss’ face fell. The human had not moved. Lifting the tree from the spot and peering down at the bloody mess of a man, the Passion howled. Why had the strong man not moved? The blast from the Passion’s breath cleared the spot of any living thing, and all the fallen trees and cut wood were turned to ash.
But his mourning period was brief. For as he howled, the bitter winds began to kick up and a Passion began to form of his grief. This distraction irritated the monster so that at once he reached through the swirling mass of creation before the new Passion had chance to fully form, and bit its head off with a single chomp of his powerful jaws.
He put grief behind him, locking away the memory of Buford Longpost, and remained the Passion born of Darkness who terrorized the valley.