The Joy Of Nudity Pt 05

"Vanity dies on nature trails." (

We Dream of Travel

blog)

We had only gone a short distance and were cresting the frontal dune to reach the foreshore when Olivia halted our progress. Neither she nor James nor Rob said a word, but my concupiscent consort gave me a wink and a nod which took the place of speech. With a shrug and a practised pout, I pulled down my shorts and took off my top and handed them to my man, who stowed them in my backpack. I resented Rob's audacity in telling me to strip down while he remained fully clothed; but I had to admit that it felt pleasant to be walking on the sand in just my canary-yellow string bikini. The temperature was rising, the sun was beating down with growing intensity, and what little breeze there had been when we began the day had petered out.

We continued our trek, and it was not long before we went to the next stage. We had re-entered the dune field and were walking along a narrow, meandering path through sedge and spinifex grasses. Olivia stopped once more. She took a swallow from her water bottle and then drew off her top. I marvelled at the skill with which she unhooked it while keeping on her rucksack and without help from James. After that her thong came off.

This time I took my cue without prodding from my man. I had to detach my pack to remove my top. I then hesitated, reluctant to go all the way, but Olivia's example gave me strength of will. There was no fuss; neither of us made our stripping a performance. It was so matter-of-fact that at first it didn't even feel erotic, certainly less than how it had been the previous night. On the beach it felt almost natural, except that James and Rob were still in their clothes. And when we started walking again, my nudity felt quite liberating.

My pack wasn't heavy. Besides my discarded clothes it carried the usual items, water bottle, phone, tube of sunscreen, and so on. We had distributed our lunch items amongst us. The pack's harness was well-padded, as on all good kit, so this wasn't a problem for unprotected shoulders. More of a dilemma could have been itching and abrasion on raw skin from the "airmesh" lining on the back panel. Fortunately (or rather, prudently) the pack had a foam-cushioned frame. On the other hand, the hip belt dug into my flesh, which I dealt with by inserting my gloves between the belt and my skin. (These I carry in my pack for when I'm using trekking poles.) The other part which needed attention was the chest strap. I've always worn it "underboob", for no particular reason, though never against bare skin. But my breasts were now unprotected against its riding up to chafe them; so I decided it was not necessary because the hike wasn't strenuous. Therefore, after a futile attempt at properly adjusting it, I undid the buckle; and it was a wonderful sensation to have my boobs swinging free.

Hiking is generally a low-impact activity, but unsupported breasts won't keep still over uneven ground. Yet it was a delicious thrill to feel mine, small as they are, gently bouncing and jiggling to the rhythm of my steps. The backpack's shoulder straps hindered the sway a little, but compensated for that by compressing the sides of my boobs so they poked out a little, which had a nice augmenting effect. Of course, Olivia's impressive orbs needed no assistance, but mine can always do with some enhancement.

To my delight, I saw that Olivia was putting on more of a show. She'd hitched her own pack high on her back, and swung her hips as she walked, more so than normal or even natural. Her bare derrière wiggled provocatively for the three of us to gaze upon in awe. Even I felt the spark of arousal, and her mood was infectious. Yet when I tried to do likewise, I fear I just looked drunk. Still, it was a delight to see how much the woman revelled in her nudity. Her nipples remained erect for the entire time we hiked. It was reassuring to me that the nudist experience doesn't have to become stale.

In any case, for the next six hours I walked in just my cap and hiking boots with nothing in between (no counting my pack) but sunscreen and repellant.

The trek itself was not particularly difficult. We stayed off the dry sand when and where possible. At various stages, to avoid large rock formations too steep and slippery to tackle, we veered inland to follow a narrow path over dunes covered in chest-high coastal heath -- a scrubby, salt-scalded but vibrant panoply of scarlet epacris, pink boronia, white-blossomed myrtle, green and gold acacia and banksia, blue-green eucalyptus. It's a fragile environment but the plants are hardy and their leaves can be razor-sharp and prickly. In the densest parts, an occasional errant branch or frond intruded onto the path and swished my arms, legs and torso, causing minor lacerations -- more irritating than painful.

I felt defenceless against the environment, but it was exhilarating and intoxicating, to be so totally exposed. I paused to apply extra dollops of insect repellent and sunblock lotion over my tenderest bits. But perspiration didn't bother me. With no fabric to soak the sweat and stay damp, my skin dried and my body cooled quickly. Still, it felt funny to have rivulets trickle down my belly and into the soft folds between my thighs, crystallizing as tiny silver beads on the tufts of my pubic hair.

I should confess here to some vanity. I always trim my pubes, where the hair is darker than on my head, but I've never been a fan of going completely smooth. Olivia's fleece was more luxuriant, but she's honey-blonde at both ends so it didn't really show. Of course, as good as I was feeling, I was also hoping that we would not encounter any other hikers or beachgoers. It was fairly remote stretch of coastline, and for the first few hours at least our privacy was maintained. We did eventually come upon people on the trail, and I was glad that I had at last tidied up the shrubbery.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch in the dunes. It was healthy light fare -- pita bread, cheese, black bean and hummus dips, fruit, assorted nuts and a bottle of wine. The boys sat on a log but its rough bark deterred Olivia and me. The simple solution would have been to pad our seat with my discarded shorts and top, but Olivia opted to sit on the raw sand. I followed and the men gallantly joined us. It was warm and gritty, but sensuous under my bare bottom and thighs; and the overall experience was so stimulating that I felt more intensely sexy than I had all day.

Aside from the cerebral pleasure of being naked, the sunlight plus a rising, cool breeze on parts of one's body not normally subjected to the elements creates a wonderful feeling of healthy, unrestrained, sensual bliss. I almost pitied the men. They could have stripped down as well, but that wasn't the name of this game. They were now committed to the one-sided nudity which kept them covered.

That's when I took a flight of fancy.

As a teenager, I fell in love with nineteenth-century French impressionist art. One painting intrigued me so much that I had a full-size poster (the original is very big) hanging on my bedroom wall. It was by Édouard Manet.

Luncheon on the Grass

shows two fashionably clothed gentlemen enjoying the eponymous repast in a verdant grove with a woman who is

au naturel

. Despite the one-sided nudity, indeed by virtue of it, she has emancipated herself to be on equal terms with her male companions. The woman gazes confidently out of the frame towards the viewer, and her ambiguous expression could be challenging you for intruding upon this intimate scene, or serenely accepting your presence.

I had always imagined myself in that tableau, and now here I was. But unlike the woman in the painting, I felt a little unease, because at any moment strangers could come over the crest of the dunes.

For now, however, the beach and hinterland were deserted. It was only in the early afternoon that we came upon other people. We had finished our lunch and were about to head inland when we met half a dozen young guys and girls. We stopped to chat, and none of them could resist staring at Olivia and me. I think what discomposed them was not just our nudity but how casual we were about it, as well as the fact that our husbands were fully clothed. The women seemed a little embarrassed... yet aroused.

To be honest, though, I had to restrain my hands which kept creeping towards my crotch. Olivia, on the other hand, was unabashedly proud of her state. She received most of the attention, which I didn't begrudge. As well as being more outgoing, she's much more voluptuous, and with her imperious posture she made being stark naked a display of

haute couture

. She thrust out her chest and pelvis, and I'm not sure she even realized she was doing it. She was old enough, almost, to be her new fans' mother, but her near-perfect body and sublime self-confidence mesmerized them.

My emotion was ambivalence. But I was glad that Rob and James weren't sharing our nudity. That would have made us just four naturists strolling along the beach. The CMNF was a statement of my femininity and an expression of my pride. I felt goosebumps rising on my skin and the familiar tingle within me. My nipples were now hard and erect, and the funny thing is that the slight embarrassment this caused made me more aroused. It was a vicious, or rather a virtuous circle of stimulation.

As we parted, I saw glints in the eyes of the three young men. They exchanged meaningful glances, and I wondered how long it would be before their girlfriends got the message. However, this could have been in my mind. Later, towards the end of our hike, we came upon an elderly couple with whom Olivia and James exchanged greetings. It now surprised me not at all fazed by the sight of Olivia.

Once we'd completed a full circuit and returned to the house, the sun was low in the sky. Olivia and I had been hiking in the nude for most of the day. Naturally we stayed that way overnight.

***

I didn't know what could have topped being denuded in the dunes, but the following day's escapade came close. There is a town in the hinterland about an hour's drive from Olivia's house, a small rural community with a reputation for "alternative" culture. It has cleaned up its image as a haven for drop-outs, drugs and dreadlockers, but remains a cosmopolitan magnet for hippies, grungies, goths, punks, freaks, ferals, stoners, utopians, escapists, anarchists, trend-setters, new-agers, sea-changers, tree-huggers and backpackers. Each Sunday they host a fête which is a typical combination of country fair, fun carnival and arts-music festival. It is self-consciously non-conformist with a rather pretentious name, Microcosm, and a somewhat fatuous motto, "Escape reality, leave attitude behind." Nevertheless, it's a convivial celebration and outré showcase of the exotic, the eccentric and the experimental, of unconventional and nonmainstream ideas, philosophies and lifestyles. There are art and craft exhibits and workshops, performance and visual art displays, food and drink stands, fruit and vegetable stalls, trash-and-treasure markets.

Once a month the Microcosm is adults-only, with an emphasis on hedonism and erotica. It's not quite anything-goes, but the permissive and transgressive themes are not for the buttoned-down and the faint-hearted. We happened to be there on the right weekend, which I'm sure was no coincidence.

We set out at around eight o'clock, with Olivia once more driving. This time there were no inhibitions or reservations. She and I were stark naked from the outset, except for sandals and Olivia's pink choker. And as I was discovering, you never get used to the delicious tickle of the car's upholstery against your skin. And the reason is that it's not just the physical sensation which is so seductive. It's the thrill that comes with the danger of imminent exposure, the fact that for any number of reasons your journey might be interrupted and you may be caught

au naturel

on the roadside -- a hazard your husband does not have to deal with because he's a man, because he's wearing clothes.

When we arrived at the site, the first thing I noticed was that there were quite a few naked bodies including male, but mostly female. I saw just one penis. There were, of course, shirtless men as well as many topless women, but even if you believe they're equivalent, that ratio was more than counterbalanced by the female nudity.

My impression has always been that women are more comfortable being nude in public than men. (I know I am generalizing but I think I'm right.) It may be an ego/status issue, or simply that we ladies are conditioned to showing more skin. My barely-there bikinis are a case in point. There is also a social/cultural stigma attached to male full-frontal nudity; or it's a sexist double standard masquerading as a taboo. In any case, no one seemed to care about the difference.

There were some unwritten rules, such as consensual displays only, no overt lewdness, no unwanted physical contact, no taking photos without the permission of the subject. They were hardly unique to this sort of event.

Among the sundry entertainments was young woman fire dancer who juggled flaming torches while bare-breasted. She wouldn't want to miss a beat was all I could think. She didn't.

We spent much of our time in the flea-market section, browsing rather than buying. James and Rob dutifully trudged along behind their womenfolk. Rob's attitude to just-looking is "What's the point?" I tell him that it's like perusing brochures, catalogues or websites but with the benefit of physical exercise. It's sight-seeing, you're enjoying the scenery. It's relaxation, it's escapism, it's dreaming. You are gathering information and inspiration without the pressure or the regret of actual purchase.

Perhaps it's a female thing. Of course Olivia and I were doing it nude; but in the open-minded milieu of the fair I never felt self-conscious wearing just my Chaco strappy sandals and Bali Harvest raffia sun visor, plus a Pierre Cardin cross-body purse slung from my left shoulder. We did get looked at, usually but not always via furtive glances. Olivia attracted most of the attention, exchanging nods and occasional words of greeting with several passers-by, who showed no surprise at our state of undress. And the focus being on her was fine by me.

In fact, I could almost have forgotten my nudity. However, one end of the marketplace was devoted to fetish-oriented displays and merchandise. James seemed to know where he was headed when he veered into one of the alleyways and halted in front of a booth devoted to bondage accoutrements. He picked out a slim, black leather collar, with a buckle at the back and a ring on the front to which was attached a braided leather strap. It was Olivia who paid the vendor while James handed the ensemble to Rob. Without a word spoken I turned away from my man. He tenderly brushed my hair aside as he put the collar about my neck and fastened it to a snug fit. Her tenderly stroked my shoulders and then brusquely spun me around to face him once more. My leash dangled to my knees, and Rob took hold of the end, which was fashioned into a hand loop. With it he gave my collar a couple of playful tugs, and I retaliated feebly with a silent glare.

Meanwhile, James selected a strap similar to mine, which Olivia also purchased. Instead of attaching it to her collar, he reached down to between her thighs, and clipped it to the small gold rings that pierced her labia. The ease with which he performed this action and her placid acceptance convinced me that this was not the first time.

Thereafter our husbands led us around the grounds on our tethers; and even in this liberated, highly sexualized environment, we drew a few more stares, especially Olivia.

I had dabbled in bondage, even pre-Rob, though never in public. It was pleasant to be naked with my man fully clothed, but humiliating to be collared and leashed. The tethers gave our husbands a much greater degree of control over us. Whenever we paused at a dress or jewellery stall, the guys were at first patient; but if we tarried we received a gentle warning pull, followed up if necessary by a sharp jerk to get us moving again. For me this meant just a little tension on the leather around my throat, whereas Olivia several times stifled a yelp. It was the first time that I had seen her in any way disconcerted; but her subtle smile and the occasional wink when our eyes met told the real story.

The most embarrassing part (so far) was that I was becoming aroused, and betrayed by my raised nipples. I pulled my visor down over my forehead to shade my flushed cheeks. The nudity might be rationalized as non-erotic naturism, but my tether provided a different perspective, and the main basis of my shame was that it excited me, even if the physical response was mostly a reflex. Furthermore, I could see that Rob was titillated as well, and I resented the unfairness that he had trousers to conceal his stimulation. Yet that asymmetry turned me on as well! The psyche is a funny thing.

Indeed, my mind was abuzz with odd, discordant thoughts. I also begrudged, irrationally, that Rob was playing it so outwardly cool. That conveyed the impression to everyone around us that this was an everyday thing for us, and for some reason I didn't want people to believe that.

As well, while the one-sided nudity was a source of pride for me, I disliked the idea that people would think that I thought of myself as his pet, or his property. On the other hand, Olivia, who was just as proud, strong and assertive as yours truly, felt a different sort of pride. It takes strength to submit when submission does not seem to be ingrained in your nature. Nevertheless, I was left wondering... Which persona was the real Olivia? Can you play-act at being submissive and not actually be submissive? Where is the line between the game and the lifestyle? Do they alternate, do they overlap?

Yes, these thoughts were swirling about inside my brain as we prowled the grounds.

We bought lunch, salad baguettes, and Rob insisted on paying. We ate at one of the picnic tables. People thoughtfully didn't linger at these so we didn't have to wait long for one to become available. I also didn't want to stay long because the seats were of rough-hewn timber and I worried about splinters.

It was still just early afternoon when James steered us back to that same bondage booth. He conferred with Rob and the female attendant, and though they whispered I understood, and my heart sank. Yet I didn't resist when Rob was given two small, silver-coloured items; and still next to the counter, he crouched in front of me to put his hands into my crotch. Unable to see because his head was in the way, I felt his fingers parting and plying the lips of my vagina. I felt a pressure, not painful but a tightening of the flesh, as Rob clasped the objects to my labia. Then without rising he asked me to detach the strap from my collar and hand the clip to him. The tension down below increased a little more; and when Rob stood up I finally saw what it was that I suspected I was feeling. Attached to each fold of my vulva was a miniature, spring-loaded clamp; a ring joined them; and connected to the ring was my leash. Rob tried a couple of test tugs, and we both realized that if he pulled too hard it wouldn't hurt me, but instead the clamps would come away (unlike Olivia's, which were affixed to her body with piercings). So if he was to lead me about, Rob would have to be subtle and I would need to be cooperative. In fact, it was an oddly pleasing sensation, the meagre weight of the leather strap dragging on my labia ever so slightly. On the other hand, the ring brushed against my clitoris, and I soon as I started walking I felt a spasm of arousal.