The west wind was wandering that night. She could hear it approaching through the silken leaves that were paper-thin and pale green with early spring. The moon lit everything around her silver, making artistic black and whites of every image. Grass tickled and caressed her toes as she twirled around, arms spread, reveling in the beauty of this night. Her slim arms cut ivory lines through the dark air, the hollows of her shoulders and the dips of her collarbone shadowed, drawing the eye down to the soft curve of her breasts, barely covered by the semi-sheer night dress she wore.
She knew she was far from prying eyes as she danced in the moonlight, uninhibited, ignorant of her nymph-like beauty. The satiny sheer of her dress brushed and tugged in the breeze, sliding over bare skin. Brianna laughed softly, running across the lawn as the west wind pulled at her hair, covering her face with balmy kisses. She had always loved the wind.
On many other occasions, she had gone wandering at night—slipping out of her clothes to go walking down by the river, shivering at the delightful feel of a spring breeze stroking her skin. She could never resist going out on evenings when the air sighed and bumped the windows, as if calling her. Often, she would pull herself to the very top of a tree, to be the very first to greet the gradually intensifying wind of a coming storm. She would leave her clothing hanging in the green boughs and shriek in delight as the gusts tossed the branches, wrapping her body in an enthusiastic embrace.
Some of her friends—when she had had friends—had teasingly nicknamed her Windspeaker, saying that it was her Iroquois princess name, since Seneca was in her blood. They kidded her ceaselessly because she sometimes even talked to the wind, but Brianna liked the moniker, and had always felt that it was her alter-ego. She liked nothing better than turning her face to the west and allowing the breeze to wash over her.
Tonight, she had decided to brave the mosquitoes to sleep under the stars in her hammock. There was supposed to be a meteor shower later in the early morning and she wanted to see it. At first she lay down with a light sheet to cover her, thinking that the steady zephyr would chill her too much. Soon, however, the soft draft had wooed her into pulling away the blanket and she was surprised to find that the air was warm as a gentle breath. The west wind made sure to blow any mosquitoes far from her tender skin.
Brianna sighed luxuriously, spread-eagled on the hammock, shivering as the silk of her slip riffled in the breeze, tickling her nipples and sliding over the smoothly shaved skin of her mound—she was not wearing panties or a bra. A puff of air snuck under her skirt to brush the lips of her pussy. Startled, she jumped, then slowly spread her legs wider, the wind unexpectedly sensual against her delicate skin.
The west-wind grew stronger, pulling at the hem of her negligee, flipping the fabric up to bare her legs to the hip. Brianna quivered, warmth bathing her flesh, seeming to soak into every pore. The breeze worked its way up her body, slowly covering her calves, then her thighs, then tugging the bunched fabric at her hips back and forth. Trembling as the silk glided over her clit, Brianna laughed in delight. She imagined that the wind was her lover, gently touching her all over, kissing and caressing her curves.
"Oh, alright," she said aloud, and began to pull her slip over her head, as if finally convinced. She gave a muffled yelp as a sudden, powerful gust whipped the gown over her shoulders to drop into a heap in the grass. Giggling, she fell back into the hammock, happy that the wind was cooperating with her fantasy.
A waft of cooler air nipped at her breasts, drawing her nipples up into hard tips and sending tingles down her entire body. Her long hair was lifted and tousled, brushing her throat, tickling the sensitive, rose-colored skin of her areolas. Writhing, she cupped her breasts and kneaded with her palms, moaning slightly. An almost hot breath wafted over her labia from bottom to top and a steady wind picked up, blowing over her clit with excruciating pleasure. Pulling her thighs apart even wider, she lifted her hips slightly, whimpering.
The wind from the west came stronger and stronger, rolling over her form with firm currents that snaked up the insides of her legs and over her breasts, slid over the mouth of her cunt, and massaged her smooth buttocks. Brianna closed her eyes, lifting her lips up to kiss the rushing air; its almost solid warmth pressed back, slipping into her mouth to make her tongue tingle.
Arching her back, she kept her eyes shut. She could so easily imagine hands running over her shoulders, squeezing at her tits, and swooping down to rub her clit. She gasped as the wind against her pussy grew harder, a hot pressure against her tight, pink opening. Crying out, her fingers grasped at the air as a blazing heat swept through her. The muscles of her cunt spasmed, clenching around an exquisite warmth. Her pussy was drenched, her juices running down over her ass.
She reached the peak of her climax with a scream, the wind all around her, her unfocused eyes snapping open as her body thrashed. Her entire being felt enveloped in searing ecstasy; the hard pressure of this fey west wind against her breasts as they bounced, against her throbbing clit, against the convulsing walls of her pussy. With one last scream, she fell back, limp as a rag doll, her blood pounding in her ears.
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When Brianna woke, sunlight was filtering over the horizon. She was still naked, but she had pulled the sheet up around her in her sleep—either that, or it had blown up to cover her in the wind. She felt wonderfully refreshed, lighthearted, and satisfied. She would be convinced that last night had been a dream, if her pussy wasn't still tingling. But what had really happened? Shivering, she glanced about her apprehensively. She remembered the moment that she had opened her eyes, or at least thought she had. Brianna shook her head vigorously as if to shake the vision from her head. She must have been dreaming.
She stayed in the next night, curled up in her bed with the windows shut snugly, curtains drawn. All night long, she dreamed of the most beautiful man. He was powerfully built, with long, blue-black hair pulled back from his face in a braid. His forearms were encircled with dark, tattooed symbols. He was completely naked except for a loincloth, treating her eyes to quite a lot of darkly tanned skin.
Waking with a start, Brianna gave a frightened squeak, clapping her hand to her mouth to try to muffle it. One of her bedroom windows was open, the curtains billowing lightly. Stealthily, she reached down over the side of her bed to grasp a heavy flashlight. Holding her breath as she strained her ears, she slowly got out of bed. A quick survey of her room revealed nothing, so she bolted to the window and slammed it shut, locking it. Brandishing the flashlight, she flipped on the lights and gave her room one more search. Nothing.
Any sensible person would have called the police. Brianna, however, was stubborn. Clutching her flashlight, she took a blanket, wrapped herself in it, and crawled under her bed. For the rest of the night she watched, jumping at every rustle in the trees outside. In the morning, she crept through the house, going through every room. Nothing was out of place. She checked around the yard, but there were no traces out there either. At last, she gave in and phoned the police. After relating her story, she was told that they would send a patrol car by later that evening and to call them immediately if something else happened, instead of waiting 'til morning.
