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.
Thankfully 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 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.