Naed & Wet in the Autumn

by Buck Maelstrom, Sc.D. and Miss Manners With a Whip

In the crisp dawn of a late September Saturday, several small planes took off from the local airport for short trips over the forest. The leaves had begun to turn, and patches of gold and crimson appeared in the green forest stretched out below. It was a perfect day to fly, clear and bright. Visibility was perfect, and there was little risk of any aviation problem.

She was naked. No, there had been no wardrobe malfunctions. Julianne's clothes, much like her inhibitions, dropped like autumn leaves, revealing flesh as ripe and sweet as a peach pie fresh from the oven. As she stood, naked in the swirling leaves, a warm September shower coated her lightly tanned skin with tiny droplets of water. As the sunlight swiftly returned, the little droplets glistened in the crisp fall air.

Julianne stood, basking in the sensual pleasure of the warm sun. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her firm body evidence of the merits of aerobic exercise and low-fat diet. A teasing wind tossed the golden hair uplifted from her head.

Against her will, Julianne began to imagine a fit, hunky fellow licking the tiny droplets of water from her slender, shapely legs. In her imagination, he had entered the yard wearing an A-2 leather bomber jacket. It was unzipped. The jacket, not his jeans (her mind was not in the gutter). Yes, in her imagination, he was wearing faded jeans as well. And aviator sunglasses. There were tiny wrinkles from squinting at the corners of his eyes, and his face was tanned.

As she stood, tiny streaks of water descending her slender body, the mental image would not leave her. She could almost see the fantasy guy. In her mind's eye, he was kneeling, kissing her knees, and then looking up, catching her eye, and lowering his head to kiss the raindrops from her lower thighs. She envisioned his dark hair, falling in disarray over his eyes, as his passionate kisses ascended to her upper thighs. She could see him pause, almost as if consciously teasing her, and kiss the soft flesh right next to the front of her thong.

Oh, what a daydream. She did not want it to end. The pilot looked up at her. His eyes, direct and bold, seemed to see right through her. It was as if he sensed her passionate nature. And he seemed to be prolonging the process deliberately. His kisses fell on her upper thighs, but not on her thong itself. With a flash of anger, Julianne almost resented being teased.

Her mind was losing control. She began to think ahead. She knew what the stranger in her fantasy could not, that her lasering treatments in May had rendered her form almost entirely smooth. Against her will, she began to think of his bronzed cheek, with several days of whisker growth, against her luscious smoothness. The mental images were almost too much. Julianne grasped for rationality and put them out of her mind.

Hearing the faint drone of a light plane overhead, Julianne looked up. Her eyes raked the clear sky. Nothing. It was just a random fantasy. She again reclined on the lounger, arranging her large white towel over it, basking in the sunshine.

Julianne could enjoy nude sunbathing in such perfect discretion because her back yard consisted of 4000 acres. No, she was not affluent, but she had purchased land looking out upon a national forest. Even though her present attire was not modest -- indeed, she wore nothing -- Julianne's salary as a teacher was modest. Should society place greater emphasis on education? Of course, that went without saying.

But quality of life was important too. Julianne had the privacy to sunbathe nude, and without any risk of incurring the wrath of school board members. Proximity to the forest enabled her to hike daily for exercise, and the supple curves of her body were a convincing testament to the toning effects of daily exercise.

Despite Julianne's intellectual pursuits, there was a flicker of sensuality in her startlingly blue eyes. Listening to her lecture, some of her older male students could almost imagine her panting with excitement on a hiking trail, her golden thighs glimmering in the sun.

On crisp autumn mornings, Julianne would enter her large, tiled shower. As the hot spray teased her slender form, she would begin to feel more alive, ready to face the day. And, being very healthy, she would begin to feel the first twinges of daily desire. She shivered with delight while putting on stockings and a garterbelt, especially while fastening the stockings to the garterbelt and imagining a hunky guy slowly kissing the tender, tan flesh at the tops of those stockings, his rough, whiskery kisses on her tender flesh.

On weekdays, Julianne slowly wriggled into a wispy little thong. The little bits of fabric, designed to tease both the wearer and the viewer, almost seemed to have been designed by a diabolical force. She knew from her boyfriends how much they enjoyed the visual tease of thongs. Julianne loved to lounge on a bed in her thong, with a boyfriend watching her, calculating how long it would take before a boyfriend would be unable to simply watch, how long before he gave up and had to kiss the fabric of the thong.

Of course, there was that morning when Julianne wore a Christmas thong. It was held together in the back by a tiny golden chain. The metal of the chain, cool and delicate, teased Julianne's lower back every time she moved.

When it was quiet enough in the classroom and she listened closely, Julianne could hear its faint jingle as she stooped to shelve books or pass out papers. The faint sound amused her all day and her students, sensing her mood without knowing its origin, responded to her cheery demeanor, so the day passed without incident.

It was when she began to write on the chalkboard that disaster struck. She stretched to reach the topmost part of the board to complete her timeline on the Anglo-Saxons' contribution to literature when she felt the tiny gold chain grow taut. The tension only reminded her of her festive lingerie and she extended her lithe muscles even farther, determined to finish writing "Bodicea". Turning to the class, she depicted, in glowing terms, the ecclesiastial histories of the Venerable Bede. Julianne grew excited, gesticulated fervently---and the chain broke.

Lost as she was in the 7th century monastery of Yarrow and admiration for the Bede's scholarship, she said the first phrase that came to mind, "Res ipsa loquitur", which had no relevance whatsoever. However, mustering the remnants of her composure, Julianne pretended it was an erudite introduction to a series of Gregorian chants. Punching the button on the CD player to begin the recording, she stepped calmly into the hall to assess the situation.

It was not as bad as she feared--the chain was not a load-bearing one, two more silken straps connected the fragile silk, and she categorized the incident as just short of a lingerie emergency. Acknowledging her own folly in wearing lingerie that might be termed "recreational" at work, Julianne still allowed her mind to drift to the pleasures she allowed herself at home.

Every morning, Julianne's eyes turned toward her bureau, where the second drawer contained her astonishingly comprehensive collection of sex toys. She looked at the toys, the gleaming ivory, the golden beads, and she felt that old, familiar weakness, the need to feel her first orgasm of the day, the wish to feel the delightful waves of pleasure sweep over her.

But there were so many choices. Should she employ a battery-operated vibrator to have a rapid orgasm and then march off to work? Many days, when she was weary and had no extra time to linger, that was the pragmatic decision. On weekends and vacations, though, she had the luxury of additional time. Then time's winged chariot was not hurrying near, and she could summon a boyfriend to serve as a toy selection and utilization assistant.

On a lazy Saturday morning, she would take a battery-operated vibrator, a bottle of scented oil, and a strand of tiny anal beads from one of the velvet trays. With almost agonizing slowness, she would massage oil all over her body. Looking at herself in the dressing mirror, she would see the oil gleaming on her engorged nipples, shining on her firm stomach, glistening on her shaven labia, shimmering on her well-shaped thighs. And, though it smacked of egotism, Julianne was somewhat seduced by the visual beauty of her own form.

Tilting the mirror in its maple frame, Julianne angled it toward the bed. There, she was able to see herself recline on the sheets, and she was able to appreciate the delicious nature of the view her male friends enjoyed. She was able to see her delicate, painted fingernails dance over her swollen nipples. And feel the thrills they provided at the same time. She saw her red fingernails slowly, slowly touch her tummy. Watched them slowly, slowly touch the smooth labia. Watching in the mirror, and feeling the sensations at the same time, never failed to excite her.

Using the oil, she would gently insert one of the tiny beads, gasping as the forbidden pleasure first hit. Then, flicking the switch of the vibrator, she would tease it over her nipples, her stomach, slowly moving herself toward the inevitable first orgasm. Adding a second bead brought Lisa to the brink of climax, but with years of experience she knew how to balance there, on the edge of orgasm, prolonging the delight. Finally, when she was unable to bear the wait, Julianne would add a third bead.

At that point, almost in a frenzy of need, Julianne knew that the merest touch on her clitoris would send her over the cliff. Slowly, in a tiny circular motion of an oiled index finger, she would caress her clitoris and trigger the orgasm. As she dissolved into orgasm, she would think of an erotic image to enhance her orgasm.

This particular morning, Julianne had done none of those things. Instead, she had elected to relax in her yard and enjoy the spectacular autumn weather. However, given her nudity, the gentle warmth of the autumn sun, and the fantasies whirling through her mind, Julianne's mind began to turn to her first orgasm of the day. But she was in no hurry. The location was pleasant, the weather was mild and inviting, the insects were gone for the year, and Julianne was enjoying the vivid detail in her fantasy of the aviator in his weathered bomber jacket.

On a mission to map the migration of falcons, Alan Andrews his friend George Johnston logged thousands of miles in a rattletrap Cessna. Their plan was to track falcons tagged with radio transmission devices. So they set off. They were quite a pair. George was a grizzled veteran of the Korean War, with a leathery face that made the Marlboro Man seem fresh and unlined. Alan was a professor, with a doctorate from the University of Texas.

But there was nothing professorial in Alan's appearance. He looked remarkably like Indiana Jones in his jeans, bomber jacket, and sunglasses. His rakish appearance contrasted with his professorial manner enough to attract the attention of most females with whom he came in contact, but he had not found a woman who sparked his own interest for more than a few days. The departmental colleagues at the university seemed dull and pedantic, and the women he met at parties seemed like vain, pampered poodles.

He longed to meet a kindred spirit with adventure in her soul and seduction in her mind. He flicked his eyes from the controls for a moment to enjoy the cobalt blue of the sky, and felt like a falcon himself, drifting on the updrafts, exhilarated by the open space around him and the green patchwork of forest below.

Alan and George had acquired a ton of data on the falcon migration, and since there appeared to be no immediate subjects to note, Alan decided to finish the foray with pure exuberance. With a nod of agreement from George, he dipped the plane, spun, and looped around once just to end the flight with a flourish and to see if he could still maneuver with the finesse he'd always shown. He could.

He turned the plane back toward the airport and resumed his planned flight, but something caught his eye on the ground below. He was low enough so that he could make out a form, but it was not the deer he'd first thought it was munching idly in the forest. No, it was far too pale to be a deer -- they were deep brown this time of year, with fur beginning to go a grayish color. And at second look, it was not quite in the forest, either.

Checking first to make sure he was still in his flight path, Alan peered below, then drew his breath in sharply. It was a human he was looking at. Not just a human, in fact, but a woman -- a woman indeed as naked as any deer in the forest and just as graceful, he thought fleetingly, as he watched her turn her rise to a sitting position and follow the plane with a hand shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. Well, that was something a pilot didn't see every day, and he wrenched his attention back to the plane without mentioning it to George.

As he landed, the weather turned, and after securing the Cessna and doing some quick paperwork, Alan stepped out of the hangar into a much cooler afternoon. Gray clouds had obscured the setting sun, and he could smell rain in the atmosphere. In her back yard, Julianne noticed much the same change. The golden sunlight turned to gray and when she inhaled the bouquet of autumn air, the hint of nutmeg she thought she smelled was overpowered by the pungent aroma of oak leaves.

Much too cool to be sunbathing nude, she thought, and reached for the flannel shirt she'd tossed over a bench. The fabric was worn; soft and thin as moth wings against her skin. Wrapping it around her tightly, Julianne went into the house to brew a cup of tea and when the rain came, she took it out to the front porch so she could listen to the beat of it on the roof.

Miles away, well, two miles, Alan maneuvered his leaky 1964 Triumph TR4 with no less expertise than he used in the Cessna. Rivulets poured down the windshield, and low places in the road were almost impassable. He thought of pulling over and waiting the storm out, but one look at the shoulder eliminated that thought. Muddy banks sloped deeply to a creek on one side, the same creek that was flooding the road, and on the other, nearly impenetrable woods came right up the pavement. He drove on, never exceeding 30 mph, desire to get out of the rain tempered by inherent caution.

As Julianne watched from the porch, she thought it would be merely a drenching autumn rain, enough to make the chrysanthemums around the mailbox bloom, not enough to wash debris into the flowerbeds. But the rain, at first gentle, increased in force till wind lashed the branches into dark whips and the gutters gurgled with constant torrents.

Just as she had decided she might be better inside, lightning struck very close, and she jumped a mile. She eyed the post oak near the porch and hoped it wouldn't come down on her roof. Probably the electricity would go out, but she was well-prepared with flashlights and oil lamp for emergencies. She checked the cell phone on the table beside her; it was working fine.

Just as she set it down, she saw two headlights coming down the gravel road that led from the highway to her house. Aware of her isolation, she felt slightly apprehensive. On the other hand, she had her cell phone, an ancient five iron leaning up against the wall, and her red belt in Tae Kwon Do in case she needed them.

The car, which she saw now was a vintage two-seater, stopped at a respectful distance from the house and the driver got out. She could see that it was a man, and when he explained that there were branches down across the bridge just beyond her road, and also in the direction from which he had come, she took pity on him. No doubt it was the lightning she had heard that caused the damage, and Julianne bade the stranger come up on the porch rather than waiting in the Triumph while she called the damage in.

As she put the phone down, having been blithely assured that no trucks could get out to clear the road till the storm passed, Julianne drew her breath in sharply at the sight of the stranger on her porch. Even drenched from the rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, even with his weathered aviator jacket splotched with water, the man was the living embodiment of her afternoon's fantasy. She became extremely self-conscious as she realized she was still wearing only the worn oversized flannel shirt and a brief pair of shorts. She was perfectly cool on the surface, Julianne was suddenly fired with intense feeling that she correctly interpreted as lust. She felt the soft flannel brush against her nipples and wondered if her facade of composure was crumbling.

She offered him a cup of hot tea, but he declined. She asked if he would prefer coffee. He replied that he did not usually drink coffee in the afternoon, but would do so given the rather dramatic drop in temperature. After using the Braun grinder, Julianne took a hot, steaming cup of fresh coffee out to the porch. He was standing, lost in thought, watching the rain pour down in the dim light.

As he turned, streaks of rainwater still moving down his scarred jacket, she caught the scent of the wet leather. As she extended the hot cup, he inhaled the odor of fresh coffee. A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes as he sipped the coffee and took his first long look at her. He saw the tan of her neck against the flannel shirt and suddenly a mental image of kissing it flitted across his mind. He tore his eyes away, not wanting to seem forward.

He turned to look at the hunter green Triumph, now sheltered under an open machine shed, as she picked up a deep red Polartec blanket from the Adirondack chair on the porch and wrapped it around her shoulders. The storm had brought a chill and he cupped his hands around the warm coffee cup.

As they stood there, on the narrow porch, the world outside seemed to close down. In the heavy rain and the gloom, they might have been the only two people in the world. As Julianne spoke with him, and learned of his odyssey, she thought it a grand adventure. And yet, as he sipped the coffee, she saw his tongue catch a tiny drip of coffee.

And suddenly an image crossed her mind of his tongue teasing her clitoris. As she felt a surge of lust, she inwardly cursed her decision not to have her usual morning orgasm. Perhaps that, plus the sensual experience of sunbathing nude, had combined to make this unexpected visitor seem more alluring?

He grasped the cup, sipped the coffee, and talked about his airplane. Julianne nodded, but she began to think of his chin, raspy with a hint of weekend beard, reposing on her tummy. She resisted the image, but against her will began wondering how his chin would feel if it ran down her tummy and over her shaven lips.

She flushed with the heat of the image, hoping that he would not notice. And then she noticed his broad, strong fingers surrounding the coffee cup. And wondered if he would gently -- oh so gently -- pinch a smooth, shaven lip. Before, of course, kissing it.

Summoning up discipline, Julianne shook off the enticing mental pictures. But she shivered nonetheless.

Despite the welcome heat of the coffee, he was still chilled from the rain, and when Julianne offered him the blanket, he had a better solution. "We'll share it," he said. As he shed his jacket and hung it on the back of a rocker, Julianne could hardly help but notice and admire the breadth of his shoulders. Alan adroitly wrapped the blanket around both himself and Julianne before she could demur.

It was indeed much better than holding coffee. The rain enhanced scents everywhere, and he could detect the pungent odor of oak leaves mixed with the fresh smell that came from Julianne's hair. It was somewhere between vanilla and lavender, with undertones of ylang-ylang, and a hint of something more exotic, maybe the oriental note of Shalimar. Perhaps it was just the combination of her silky hair, warm skin, and the intimacy that the pounding rain had created that made him so aware of her closeness.