Hard Rain

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Darkness envelopes your safe haven, strong winds buffet the camper van, trees creak and moan in the distance, heavy rains lashing against thin metal.

An inner excitement grips you, knowing natures forces are flinging themselves in a frenzy of swirling gusts and darkening deluge.

You feel content, a confidence spreading through you, knowing you’re secure, at peace, protected and dry, while the outside is bedlam, an asylum of maddening sounds, sometimes howling, a monsoon monster of mother nature in full force.

You look at your trusted fox fur blanket and delight in the opportunity to have this moment alone with your senses, hardwired to the frantic activity that beats against the thin but sufficiently substantial shell of your hippy-vintage camper.

Fully dressed you kick off your boots and curl into a fetal form, pulling the fake fox fur around you, so only your face is exposed.

You watch the rivulets of water forming and running across the glass window beside you. The wind blowing streams, and you marvel at the droplets as they skate, join hands and separate.

Warming quickly, you begin to weigh the want to remove your jeans. Sure, you don’t want to disturb the warmth and comfort you’ve created, but their confinement is preventing you slipping further into your daydreaming state, and you’d welcome the indulgence.

You smile, thinking how, if the weather was clearer and kinder, you’d likely not be nearly as relaxed. Your independence compromised, fearing someone might be outside.

But in these conditions, not a chance, you know you won’t see another soul till day break, and you can’t even be certain this battering won’t still be raging when the sun rises, pathetically appealing for an amnesty.

Working your hands down inside the fur, you release the top button of your jeans. The toned skin of your underfed waist sends tender signals of satisfied thanks to your corpus callosum, acknowledging just how good your body feels whenever it’s free.

You squirm, your legs wriggling to free yourself of the denim that hugs you. You push and hook with your feet to work the reluctant material off over your heavy socks, leaving the woolens on to keep your feet snug inside.

Finally breaking free, now it’s the smooth skin of your thighs and calves that take their turn to squeal their delights, hard walked and muscles aching, a fatigue betrayed by their feminine beauty.

And possessed, it would seem of a respective longing to both breathe the night air, as well as comfort and caress one another.

You sense a loving conversation between them as each elegantly long limb lovingly embraces the other, and the sensual suggestion of the Siberian fox fur gently caresses their now naked needs.

You pull your knees up toward you, returning to the fetal form you’ve favored since forever, and whenever succumbing to your undiagnosed addiction for maladaptive daydreaming.

Instantly finding comfort as you again acknowledge how safe and secure you feel in this tin can cocoon, and in yourself.

The rain continues to dance upon the glass, and the sound is loud against the roof and yet this drumming, tinkling tambourine tells you nature is your guardian and her forces are your protector.

Your back and shoulders begin to voice their appeals, disturbing your daydreaming, asking for some relief from the under-wires that cruelly cut into your delicate chest, wouldn’t this be more than most welcome?

You huff with the resignation that yes, this is true, and you contort your arms to release the man-made contraption that binds your bosom and mutes or masks the arousal of your dark nipples.

True, their confidence does seem to pull the gaze and distract the focus of many simple men, and while you don’t mind in the least catching the eye of the good ones, sadly you have to navigate the bad ones too.

Thankful to be alone, you unthread the straps from your shoulders, and with a movement to rival the great Houdini you escape from the straight jacket of your modesty and redacted sexuality, slipping the bra out through the sleeves of your sloppy-Joe pullover, dropping it to the floor with a disdain and contempt that says you really don’t care if you never meet again.

Free at last, your breasts relax, blood and air circulate with healing purpose, reaching their tender undersides and beginning to work on the repairs needed to recover from the marks and indentations left by the constant grip and pull of the elastic.

There’s a perennial tenderness to your delicate shoulders, they seem to gently cry out with an innocent, childlike wish, aching to have the temporarily reddened, twin-tram lines kissed better.

They equally delight with feeling the warm air, the freedom and the comfort now gained from the loose fit of your soft pullover.

You pause, thinking isn’t it funny, how you can feel this centered and secure, comfortable and present. This curious amalgamation of security, freedom, and isolation, alone and illegal bahis yet with all of nature fully in attendance.

You search your mind and scan your senses for any remaining and as yet undeclared tensions, any needs unattended, asking what more could you do that might provide a greater state of grace?

Your uncensored self-consciousness grows as you become aware of how easily you could pleasure yourself in this setting and in so doing make the moment indelible by association.

And whereby any future ecstasy would forever echo and reverberate with the physical memory of this incredible moment of shelter and security.

An internal dialog begins with how you could, but maybe you shouldn’t, because… because…

You search for why not, protesting at societies strictures, asking why shouldn’t I, why?

You wrestle to find a compromise, half-agreeing as you reach for where you know your overnight bag holds a small secret, and you concede to reason, saying you won’t abandon your senses and take unnecessary risks when you’re this remote and alone.

But you also acknowledge how you can’t now relax if you deny yourself the opportunity to own this wonderful freedom, and heaven knows, the mind once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.

Paradox be damned. You settle on the idea, and shuffling beneath the faux fur you extend your arm to tease out a small black box stowed within your nearby bag.

From inside the box you retrieve a smooth, swirling, curving, silicon black probe, sculpted and shaped to comfortably fit in the palm of your hand.

A work of some luxury, with a casing and construction edged in real gold, and at the nub, a small swollen thumb extends away from the curving phallus, providing a curious and teasing adjunct to the flawless flow of the overall form.

The rain persists with its percussion and occasionally you feel the camper sway a little, as one second the wind leans in and pressures the body, pushing the weight against the springs of the suspension.

And then in the next, it relaxes, releasing its invisible weight, fooling the inertia inherent in the camper’s bulk, and allowing the frame to gently reestablish its grounded center with a slow shimmy that soothes you inside; a rhythmic motion as might mimic the gentle sway of a child’s cot, or garden hammock.

Laying on your side and in your favored fetal form, you very gently raise your knee and allow your thighs to release their caress of one another. You tell yourself, reassuringly, it won’t matter to lay quietly with the trusted, comfortable and comforting feeling of this smooth silicon sculpture nuzzled neatly between your closed thighs.

Gradually you lay the form against the soft cotton of your undies, allowing time for your vulva to affirm how the smooth shape could most comfortably and snugly come to rest.

You look to the window and see the condensation beginning to bloom at the corners of the pane, and you delight in the trails of rainfall that continue their relentless dance against the surfaces.

Lowering your thigh, gently closing over, as carefully you slide your hand away, leaving your warm toned limbs to reunite with the smooth silicon body which now rests and relaxes, thigh-wedged a glove-like cupping.

And there, in the creases, clinging to the curves of your most beautiful intersection, where the perfectly hand-drawn inside-line of your otherwise endless thighs, finally indents, you allow this one small secret to be tenderly smuggled. A stow away from this intemperate storm.

Laying fetal beneath the faux fur blanket, swaddled inside your long black, relaxed pullover, your feet warm within their woolen socks and your cotton panties protecting your dignity, you feel yourself sigh as you sense the smooth silicon stowed and nudging against the intimate swell of your arousal.

The opinion of others has you wrestling with the morality of this moment, and scrambling for guidance. Usually you would have to find a time when your bedroom was secure and the house silent before you would dare to play any such games, solitaire.

And even then you’d be mindful, never fully in the moment, distracted, however irrational, always some nagging semblance of your senses compromised and on guard, just in case the front door were to open, or the phone to ring.

Consciously pausing, you recognize how unusually calm you are, no sign of the concerted effort and labor typically required to reconcile your mind and body and achieve such a relaxed state as you now find yourself in.

There’s no signal, no wifi, there’s no one nearby; no neighbor, no one who might see you or hear you, no one could ever disturb or claim witness to your indulgence.

How unique this moment, when there’s no one knows you’re here, the sky blackened, moodily brewing, blustering with wind and heavy rain.

Your eyes close as you thumb the button between your thighs. You sense the freedom, where usually there were lengthy illegal bahis siteleri minutes of mental unreadiness, requiring you to coax yourself to relax, and then open yourself to feel, channeling your senses away from the peripheral and external, and focusing them inward instead.

Finding the myriad of nerves networking the length of your spine and connecting your cerebral cortex to your clitoris, where physical contact and harmonic vibration trigger an opening inside your mind.

One that’s metaphorically paralleled with the physical opening to your body. Allowing the free flow of intergalactic energies to channel their nurturing energies, pouring wave after wave of loving acceptance, forgiveness, approval, confidence and arousal through you.

In harmony with the rain, beating against the window, you sense the lips of your labia slickening with every gentle rocking movement. Aimless senses trapeze across the surface of your body, paying compliment to every inch of your unyielding energy.

You slip your thumb under the cotton that tugs at the tip of your hip, and gently peel at the panty, shuddering slightly as the tender smooth skin there sighs with the relief.

Your insides weeping with feelings of deliverance, and you become aware once more of how primitive and primal your body’s needs, and how she resents the coverings and incarcerations our modernity mandates we obey.

The warm air circulating beneath the faux fox fur finds contact with a slick nectar the cotton had trapped when it had clung too tightly under the pull of the elastic.

Released, just a little, the chemistry of this exotic labial lubricant sends instant and immediate messages demanding greater freedom and abandonment.

The revolution has begun, your government is to be overthrown, you are no longer in charge, your body demands her liberation. Carbon, water, the essential blocks of universal life, where every cell within you now resonates to reunite with a higher power, one that created each and every element.

Your mind wrestles to release its cognitive grip, to let go, to trust your body and hand you over to this invisible and universal power.

Outside, thunder rumbles, and the trees “hushhhh” as they sway more passionately, sashaying back and forth. You feel them yielding to natures powerful suck and blow, the wind carrying the sound of each heavenly boom of thunder.

The storm hides high up in the swirling black ink of the swirling throng of cloud that covers the night, and the sound of Valhalla cries out audible, yet muffled, and where every low sonic-bass boom resonates inside you.

You adjust yourself and wriggle free of your knickers, realizing your last sighs of giving a shit are now spent, any last protest dying inside your mind as you receive one last telegram from the front line of your now broken government: “You are free to surrender, stop. There’s no one can hear you, stop. Let go, stop. Let it all go. Stop”

Pushing the smooth slender silicon shaft firmer against your soaking labia, her lips parting without hesitation, simply soaked with anticipation, you apply the gentlest pressure, nudging the memory of your hymen and slowly accepting any sense of restraint has fully dissolved.

The silken shaft slides gently into your vagina, softly stroking the tight wet walls that cling lovingly, welcoming and trusting every inch of your progress, freely allowing the smooth, firm shaft, to slide unencumbered deeper and ever deeper.

Instinctively you thumb the small golden button, and the swollen black silicon thumb that extends outwards from the nub of the shaft suddenly shudders with power and purpose.

You let out a mournful groan as you guide the captured agitator toward your clitoral hood. Your delicate fingers deftly helping smooth the way as you begin to rhythmically release ever deeper groans.

The hidden extremity of your clitoral coaxial, connects quivering electrical pleasures to your re-commissioned cortex.

Outside, lightning forks across the billowing mass of condensing cloud and an electric neon blue light explodes and refracts through the translucent droplets of water, their vapors shed, cling and beat against the window.

Their intensity snatches you momentarily back into a state of awareness, of suddenly knowing where you are, and in an equally lightning fast moment your critical mind finds an unfair way to find blame, or fault, in you, rather than side against nature’s rude intrusion.

You criticize your clitoris for not being larger, more prominent, blaming your god given modesty for the ease with which your approach to unlocking her ecstasy has been interrupted.

The truth, however, is you are perfectly and deliberately designed this way, your clitoral contact every inch as well equipped in creation as any other, however where some may claim good fortune by having a more obvious protrusion, yours sits deeper and requires more skill and cunning to coax and control.

And why would canlı bahis siteleri this not be true you are a fox after all.

The strength and beauty of your body, that beguiles so many good and strong men, is not a simple toy for their base or animal pleasure, far from it; you are divinely guided and connected to a fabric of feminine feeling that requires the utmost care and consideration.

You possess a far deeper and greater secret, where in simple terms it is only through your cortex where there is any possibility to experience a deeper, longer, truer connection with the heavens and the pagan gods of creation.

Yes, it might seem harder, but the rewards are exponential, and frankly anything that doesn’t require greater skill and patience can never hope to attain a greater value in reward.

Gently your fingers slide, glide and guide the shaft until tenderly the thumb powerfully discharges millions of minute and intensely focused vibrations all around your quivering clitoral hood.

You groan openly, willingly, tensing the muscles in your pelvis and tightening your buttocks to intensify the concentration. You feel amazing, your body working with such abandon, the wetness between your legs seemingly endless.

A deep comfort, a higher intensity of sensations as you begin to feel flashes, shock waves pulsing, first inside, around your labia, tight, bright bursts of sporadic shrapnel exploding there, then begins a salvo of bigger shocks, as the artillery of your arousal fires deeper into your pelvis, unloading an endless supply of ammunition, all the way up your spine.

You groan and shudder, you want to work the shaft in and out and feel the penetration, but you don’t want to sacrifice the intensity of the vibrations hammering at your beautiful clitoris.

Momentarily you realize you have the freedom to groan out loud, and as you let go, so you add to the ferocity with which these explosions are growing, working their way toward your chest and the pounding in your heart.

You’re on your back now, hips raised supporting your weight with your shoulders, your feet digging in to enable you to arch your pelvis, to create greater contact, grinding and working, grasping the silicon with both hands and guiding the intensity to mirror your own.

Your breasts are swollen, nipples extended, hardened, gorged, urging, wanting. The lightning flashes as the thunder rumbles and the rain beats against the metalwork.

The trees swish and “shushhhh” their leaf laden boughs, bending and yielding as your limbs push and pull for more.

There’s a flash inside you, you know it, this energy will be unstoppable, and with an almost atomic power you moan loud gripped by your total release as the lightening inside your cortex flashes and explodes with euphoria and victory.

Emotions visually taking flight like fireflies, dancing vapor trails in a silver-blue kaleidoscope of spectral color that holds you in awe.

You begin to relax the muscles in your pelvis, celebrating the armistice of your orgasm, and as you lower your hips to relieve the muscles in your thighs and calves, the wildly shaking thumb makes clean contact with your aching clitoris and the pleasure sends your body thrusting upward, as if shocked back from the other side of your living world by a lifesaving defibrillator.

You buck with frantic, epileptic spasms, thrusting out your arm to steady yourself, your hot spreading palm slapping the cold wet condensation that’s formed inside the window.

You moan, with tears welling, as you wrestle with accepting you could be worthy of such beauty and magnificence, this second shock wave possessing you and consuming your every synapse with a mantra of messages repeating total love and acceptance.

The gods of creation are thankful for your trust and giving, and they return their feelings to you with endlessly loving affirmations.

You ease down to the bed and gently turn to the side; you see the shape of your open hand print and the condensated water droplets that dance their broken light show on the outside of the glass, reminding you of the champagne bubbles that once danced for you in a luxury hotel.

Unabated, the swollen black thumb continues to hammer at the air, but you’ve loosened your grip and the shaft has slid slightly away, allowing your still trembling clitoris and vulva to dissipate their fervor.

Thankfully, the tender inside of your thighs return to embrace one another and you rub gently at the outside of your firm thigh, much as an equestrian might rub the neck of her thoroughbred, reassuring and thanking the muscles that work so hard for their participation in the race now run.

Comforted and secure, you pull the faux Siberian fox fur further around you, before gently finding the secret button that powers down the silicone stow away, and you lay with the shaft still resting against your perfect pussy, allowing them time to love and let go of one another.

Consciousness comes calling, and you become aware of what you have just achieved, the unfettered freedom and the depth of connection.

Your eyes take a moment to look around the inside of your cabin, and you thank this vintage camper for its haven.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

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