Guest Site by: George S Mycroft
Running around naked and free as kid:
The factory had long since ceased its honest business, had fallen into disuse, and had then been converted into a personal house, owned by a neighborhood surgeon of some repute as I remember.
His wife was an artist and, at her behest, a studio with big northlights had been adapted in part of the structure.
This was no windmill, though, but a water mill, and its new owners had retained the mill race as a distinctive and agreeable attribute, flowing alongside and then under their new dwelling.
Running around Naked and Free in the Gardens
Below the house, with its becurtained french windows gazing blankly over the formal gardens nearby, the diverted waters fell in a merry cascade under the balustrade of a patio, into a holding pond surrounded by lawns, before meandering their way back with their mom-flow, the nearby river.
The entire house and gardens lay quietly at the conclusion of a very long drive between some fields and, although situated on the outskirts of a little market town whose modern, developing housing estates had encroached to the edge of its domain, it still kept the quiet and privacy that has been much beloved by the wildlife of the area.
The river formed one border to the entire property, with wild, http://nudenudist.com/tube/nudism/russian-family-nudism.php and often waterlogged land beyond. Wild rabbits, ducks, hedgehogs and the occasional fox seen and enjoyed those green lawns of the old mill, skirting their way around the ever-present earthen domes of molehills, which lay like brownish, bulging pustules on the yards’ overgrown faces.
It was old now and in need of some tender, loving care; a slightly careworn house with drooping, rotting outbuildings and an old fashioned, draughty cottage which we there fore leased for a song.
On the other hand, the lack of human habitation had allowed nature to re-colonise the area, as she always does. Young birds chirped and then flew from nests buried under the old pantile roofs of the stables, wild flowers grew where more formal flowerbeds had once held sway, and the previously pristine roses were straggly and tortuously intertwined, with many shoots of the wild ancestors happily in evidence.
It was a quiet, happy, tranquil, secret area afterward and an utter delight to dwell alongside – which fairly compensated for the bungalow’s less-than-perfect interior and draughty doors and windows. Moving in during late winter, those polar jets were all too rapidly uncovered and endured, but the coming of spring brought undreamed-of delights.
The dawning day and the birds’ morning chorus used to wake me early. Stealing nude from below warm and snuggly sheets and blankets, the night-cooled air of your house nipped every tactile point on my air-clad skin and heralded a speedy awakening!
Going silently downstairs, missing those inevitable squeaky steps, I padded barefoot through the living-room, smelling the dead coals’ odor from last night’s open fire. A quick double-creak of the wooden back door and I stood naked at the outer limits of what became a most memorable and pleasurable, routine experience.
My first task was to silently stand and utilize all my senses to consume every aspect of this new day. I listened intently, finding distant sounds from houses and roads close by, but divorced from this secret world, for they were as though intruding from another measurement. They only impinged on one’s aural perceptions.
Afterward that delicious, damp, practically-fecund odor of just dawning day.
I breathed it in deeply and savored its musty flavors its earthiness, sensing its chill flooding into my welcoming lungs. Cool zephyrs caressed their way over my tightened skin as my eyes took in every aspect of the courtyard and the garden before me.
Fully alarmed to my setting, I then trotted forwards towards the old mill, reveling in my physical independence and my nakedness in the cool air, sensing the small pebbles of the drive on the balls of my feet sending sharp reminders of my barefooted-ness rocketing to my brain.
My eyes scanned the drive as I moved forward, alert for any indications of unwanted business on the driveway to the home, an early morning walker perchance, who might see me going pink-skinned and clothes-free away from your cottage.
Reaching the security of the hedgerow at the far side of the drive, my feet fell upon the wet grass of the garden path — and I was off!!
It was a very big garden, mainly laid out to lawn, open and broad and uncut, and it was here, unseen by the outside world, that I ran in absolute and complete nude liberty as fast as my legs would carry me, feeling the cool earth pounding beneath my feet and the trickling droplets of heel-kicked dew hitting my bare butt and coursing their way down my backside and legs.
I ran and I ran and I ran, the chill atmosphere now flood into my gasping lungs, legs flashing freely, over the ornamental bridge at the far end of the holding pond, past the trees and out of sight of your house, in my own own green-and-silver, flashing world, until I espied the ending of the garden and, with a mental yell of absolute joy, I threw myself length-ways into that dew-bedecked, grassy paradise and rolled over and over and over in absolute sensuous delight until I was saturated, spent, cooled and joyfully happy.
It was absolute and entire sensation, a total aliveness; pure, delightful, enveloping, sensory contact — and, god, it felt good!!
Memories Of Being Young Nude and Free was published by – Young Naturists and Naturists America
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Guest Site by: George S Mycroft