Bath of the Senses

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This story is not about sex, per se. It is about sensuality . . . sometimes a very different thing.

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I will never forget the day. It was one of those idyllic Fall days where the sun is so warm on your face you want to feel it on your entire body. I wanted to curl up like a cat in that warmth and let it seep into my soul. But cooler days had already come, and the leaves were a cacophony of hues in the trees around that mountain. We were certainly not above the treeline where we camped. On the contrary, we were surrounded by beautiful, large trees of all species. It was a fairly young forest, though, and there was a lot of undergrowth still flourishing.

Our tent was off to the side of the clearing so that we could take advantage of the afternoon shade. I was young, about 19, and single, and shared the tent with my parents. My brother was camped next to us, and we shared a fire for our cooking. We knew many of the people in the large campsite, and we all enjoyed catching up with them.

The previous evening my brother had shown me a shortcut path through the treeline behind our tents. Most of the group activities took place on the other side of that band of trees, so the shortcut was handy, but it was by no means a well-worn path. In fact, if you didn’t know it was there you’d miss it. When my brother found it, he tied a small red thread to one of the branches near the entrance.

The best feature of this small path, however, was the overlook. Partway along that little footpath through the thick trees was a small clearing, really just large enough for 2 or 3 lawn chairs. It was really more like an outcropping. One of those strange blips in the mountainside from which you could see almost 3 full directions around you. The trees opened up on those three sides, creating an expansive view that stretched over several mountain/valley ridges. I bet we could see for 100 miles in any direction on a clear night. We took our folks back there to watch the sunset that evening, and while we sat there in our peaceful seclusion, a fantasy grew in my head. The very next day I was able to live out that fantasy.

We had finished our breakfast and cleaned up the cooking gear and my parents announced they were going out to visit with friends. My brother was already gone, probably for the day. I knew what I’d be doing for the next hour or so. I had put a large pot of water on the fire and it was just about to boil. I carried that in one hand and a bucket of cool water in the other with my other supplies in a small pack on my back. I found the small red string on the branch and walked along our secret path to the clearing.

As I spread a large blanket on the ground I looked out across the valleys. From the position of the sun I estimated it was about 10 in the morning. The rich blue sky spread out over us all with only an occasional fluffy cloud. The sun streamed down, already warming my face as I straightened toward her. Days like that make me understand why people have worshiped nature. It was so delicious I could have eaten it with a spoon.

I removed the other items from my pack and placed them out around me near the edge of the blanket. I had my wash basin and wash cloth, my environmental-friendly soap and shampoo, clean clothes went to the tophill side of the blanket so I’d not risk getting them wet, and my towel was near there, too. Turning to face the warm sun again, I stretched out my arms to each side and stretched. Slowly I brought my hands to the hem of my t-shirt. I pulled it up languidly over my head, shivering a little when a light breeze hit my belly. I tugged the shirt off and tossed it behind me, not even looking where it landed. My fingers pulled through my long hair, using the breeze to help separate it and smooth it back off my forehead. I faced into the valley again, admiring the shadow that my own mountain was casting. A cloud shifted slightly above, moving the points of light across the orange, red and green muğla escort trees below me. I moved my hands to the elastic waist of my shorts and slowly lower it, down over my bare skin, keeping my eyes on the trees. Stepping out of my shorts, I also kicked my flip-flops back, uphill, to reside with my other discarded garments.

Standing there, nude, amidst such beauty, I closed my eyes for a moment in revery. I breathed deeply and slowly, pulling the scents within me. I could smell the crushed leaves beneath my blanket, the trees around me, the slightly tangy scent of what I imagined was some musky animal and the everpresent woodsmoke of our camp not far away. I don’t know how long I stood there, breathing in time with the forest around me. I heard some faint rustlings of critters in the leaves and branches, I heard birdsong, and occasionally I heard the distant sounds of the camp, rumbling along.

I raised my hands to my face, lightly pressing skin against skin. I then moved my fingers lightly down my throat, dipping them back around to the nape, then back to the front again, crossing them over one another. With my wrists lightly crossed, I moved my cool fingers down to the tops of my breasts. These breasts were pre-baby, perky, untouched. I remember running my unbent fingers over my nipples, already taut in the breezes. With my eyes still closed, I teased my nipples with my hands, feeling them bump each knuckle as my hands moved back and forth, crossing and uncrossing over my front. I pressed and slowly kneaded my flesh, enjoying how my breasts were just one or two fingers deep at the bottoms, lifting them off my ribs, squeezing them, circling the areolae. I allowed myself to play a bit, enjoying these sensations.

I lifted my right breast with my left hand and used my right fingers to flick my nipple. Quickly the tip of my middle finger flicked back and forth over the rubbery teat. Back and forth, back and forth, flicking with tip and nail, feeling the sensations gathering around my boob like metal shavings to a magnet. I groaned lightly as the tension built until I threw back my head and used both hands to squeeze my breast almost violently. Those gathered tensions and feelings spread their ripples across my skin instantly. My knees wobbled and I gasped in a huge breath of that fresh mountain air. I rearranged my hands and repeated the game on my left breast, this one ever so slightly smaller than the right. I had a very sheltered and conservative life while growing up, and it was only recently that I’d discovered the sheer joy of knowing one’s body. I let my mind celebrate this as the tension was building behind my left nipple. Tighter, higher, flicking my left fingers faster and faster over my buzzing tit my brain finally burst out of contemplation as I moaned again, squeezing my boob and groaning in earnest. I knelt down, then, holding a breast in each hand and looking out over the beauty before me. I could feel the moisture in the folds of my vulva, as the air caught it, sending a shiver over all my surfaces. I took a long, deep, calming breath.

I bent forward, then, and poured some water from each pot into my wash basin. Steam rose, warm and elusive in the sun, as I dampened my washcloth. Using a small amount of my castille lavender soap, I began to wash, starting with my face. Conserving both soap and water, I ran the steaming, rough cloth over my face, shoulders, breasts. The contrast between the heat of the washcloth and the instant cooling of the breeze had my skin fairly singing again within moments. Kneeling on my blanket, I rubbed my belly, humming a light tune. My singing caused me to breath deeply again, this time drinking in the lavendar scent of my steamy soap. The faint tint of pine and woodsmoke still clung to the background.

I rearranged my legs so that I was sitting, knees bent up in front of me. I took out my razor and used some of the soapy water to put a light, warm lather over my right rhodope-mugla.org leg, hip to ankle. With long, slow strokes I shaved, loving the feeling of smoothness as my left hand followed the razor up it’s paths. Carefully over my kneecap, gently down my upper thigh to the crux of my groin. I didn’t even consider shaving further in those days. My thick, long pubic hair, as yet untouched by a man, was completely untamed. There is something so very special about shaving one’s legs. It is both pragmatic and sensual, one sensation outweighing the other sporadically. Usually I focused on the utilitarian when bathing, but that one day was so very remarkable, I couldn’t help but marvel over all of the sensuous implications and titillations: the warm moistness of the washcloth, the twinge of the air, the slow scraping of the razor (so very able to draw blood, but yet not doing so), the loving self-touch of my other hand smoothing along behind…it was wondrous. I realized, perhaps for the first time in my life, that my legs, though not long (I’m only 5’1″), are quite shapely. This was during one of the periods in my life where personal fitness and personal time both had space and I was working out nearly every day. My hands smoothed over the bulge of my calf muscle and smoothed down the fit, almost ropey thigh muscles. There was some small padding to be found, but stretching my right leg out in front of me, I was able to actually admire my form. I would do my new, clean short dress justice when I was finally done, and that knowledge made me smile broadly as I administered a similar treatment to my left leg. Moistening, smoothing, shaving, feeling again, stretching out, all of these things felt equally delicious on the left side. I rinsed my razor, swishing it around in the basin before capping it and tucking it back into my bag.

I lifted the basin, then, and swirled the water around to rinse the sides, then tossed the water forward, down the hill, holding tight to the rim of the bowl. I needed to rise up to my knees again to get the leverage needed to pour clean water again. My mind flickered over the wonderment of having this idyllic moment for myself. I made this new mixture of water warmer, with less contribution from the unheated bucket. I sat back down with my knees bent up around the bowl, leaning into the steam and breathing deeply.

Dipping the washcloth into the hot water, I tested it with my fingers. Barely touchable, it was hotter than I’d meant to make it, but I knew that it would cool quickly now that it was away from the cast iron pot. I pulled the cloth out by the corner and let it drip onto my skin, over my knees, onto my belly, over my breasts. I’d always loved playing with water. The slow, very hot dripping was at once taunting and deliciously naughty. I imagined what I thought it would feel like to have a man’s hand touch me in those places. I’d let boys feel my knees and legs, of course, and once or twice even my breasts, and using those few memories I allowed my brain to take me to my oft-visited fantasies. I leaned back on one elbow and let the washcloth drip it’s heat onto my pubic hair. I lowered the cloth a bit and ran the corner of it over my thighs, my belly, my breasts, imagining a man’s hands touching me there, a man’s eyes gazing upon me.

I re-wet the cloth and pulled its dripping, steaming mess onto my crotch, still telling myself I was just washing. I gasped loudly with the intensity of the heat, groaning loudly when the water dripped down my buttocks, making me squirm. I reached down with my cloth and stroked between them, finding my anus with the rough cloth. Slowly, I brought that cloth up and over my hairs, squeezing my outer labia together to try to calm the tingling. I laid back on the hillside, bunching my discarded clothes behind my head, then, and let my knees fall apart. I spread the washcloth out flat over my crotch like a sheet and placed my hand firmly over it. It was almost protective, and I felt very safe there, holding myself.

I remember, clearly, looking up to the sky and how blue it was. All the clouds had disappeared and it was just a wide expanse of the richest, warmest blue I could recall ever seeing. My mind drifted, then, sliding slowly into a dream state as my body relaxed, and before I knew it the fingers of my right hand had found their way beneath the washcloth. I was pulling my fingertips through my bush slowly, up and down my slit at first, then all around, exploring the area fully. I ran the side of my hand along that fold where my groin meets my thigh, and liking the feel of that so well, I did the same on the left side with my left hand.

With both hands now in my crotch I allowed my daydreams to carry me as my fingers pulled at the longish hairs, petting and stroking together in a silent dance. One finger ventured between my labia, finding a great accumulation of moisture there, as well. I’d known already that I was aroused, but I smiled at this confirmation of my womanhood. I swirled my right index finger around in the hot, sensuous pool, letting my left hand stroke up my belly again to find my breast. All thoughts of bathing were now gone as I laid back and enjoyed my body in earnest. I painted my moisture onto my lower lips, smiling at the differences in heat and coolness this caused. It felt so good to stroke them that I brought up some of that moisture for my mouth. Painting this set of lips in an obvious mirroring of below, I flicked out my tongue to lick them and then I sucked my finger briefly before returning it to my honey pot.

No longer wanting to wait, I immediately found my clit, circling around it only a few times before rubbing it in earnest with my middle finger. I pinched my nipple with my left hand while I finally began to build towards a release. My whole right hand was jiggling, now, as my panting caught my attention. Breathing hard, I pinched and stroked and jiggled and groaned, my legs becoming stiff with anticipation. Short, guttural sounds came from my throat as my eyes closed from the intensity. So…close…so…very…close…now…now…now…oh…god…and suddenly my nerves exploded throughout my entire body, my legs thrust out from me straight down the hillside, brushing the dried grass off the edge of the blanket, my head pressed back hard into the ground, my left hand squeezing my boob in a long spasm of delight. I kept tweaking my clit between my thighs, slower now, but keeping that intense sensation going, enjoying the ride, loving the feel of my own power to please as much as the pleasure itself.

My first orgasm there ended, but I was still so taut with arousal that the slightest flick of my finger would bring me close again. I flicked a few times and orgasmed again…and again…enjoying this prolonged intensity and, yet, hungry for more than this could bring me. I wondered, again, what it would feel like for someone else to bring me this pleasure and that slight sadness of not knowing that shared feeling brought me back again to real time. I opened my eyes again to that blue, blue sky and noticed that a small wisp of almost-cloud had arrived above me. I smiled at it’s sweetness and sighed into the light breeze again.

I sat up, then, happy in a bittersweet way. I collected the washcloth from where it had slid, under my bottom, and began to actually wash. While I washed away the joyous moisture of my pleasure I realized there was moisture on my face. Reaching up with one hand I felt the tracks of tears. I looked out over the valley, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving for the day and hope for the future.

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I want to sincerely thank those few of you who are loyal readers of my stories. I very much enjoy writing, and every word you write in encouragement helps me write more. Leaving notes for the authors on this site is an essential part of encouraging us amateur writers to undertake that daunting challenge of allowing our thoughts to be perused. Thank you, all of you who take the time to vote, leave public comments, and send feedback.

Special thanks to my friend, obscured, for your editorial assistance.

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