Guest Website by: George S Mycroft
Running around naked and free as child:
At one time in my own life, I used to live in a gatehouse cottage attached to the stables and outbuildings of an old grain mill situated in the rolling dales of the East Riding of Yorkshire, in England.
The factory had long since discontinued its frank business, had fallen into disuse, and had subsequently been converted into a personal house, possessed by a neighborhood surgeon of some repute as I remember.
His wife was an artist and, at beach group sex , a studio with big northlights have been accommodated in part of the construction.
It was no windmill, though, but a water mill, and its new owners had kept the mill race as a distinctive and agreeable feature, flowing alongside and then under their new house.
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 yards, before meandering their way back with their mum-flow, the nearby river.
The entire house and gardens lay quietly by the end of a lengthy 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 name, it still retained the quiet and privacy that has been much cherished by the wildlife of the place.
The river formed one edge to the whole property, with wild, unkempt and frequently waterlogged land beyond. Wild bunnies, ducks, hedgehogs and the occasional fox seen and loved those green lawns of the old mill, skirting their way around the ever present earthen domes of molehills, which lay like brown, bulging pustules on the yards’ overgrown faces.
The house, once I lived there, was empty – sold on to a local hotelier and publican who meant to eventually renovate the property and live in it himself.
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 bungalow which we thus rented for a song.
On the other hand, the lack of human habitation had enabled 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 formerly immaculate roses were straggly and tortuously intertwined, with many shoots of their wild ancestors happily in evidence.
It was a quiet, happy, tranquil, secret spot then and an utter delight to dwell alongside – which rather compensated for http://x-pot.com -than-perfect interior and draughty doors and windows. Moving in during late winter, those polar jets were all too quickly detected and suffered, but the arrival of springtime brought undreamed-of joy.
The dawning daylight and the birds’ morning chorus used to wake me early. Stealing nude from below warm and snuggly sheets and blankets, the night-cooled atmosphere of your house nipped every tactile point on my air-clad skin and heralded a fleet awakening!
Going silently downstairs, missing those unavoidable squeaky steps, I padded barefoot through the living room, smelling the dead coals’ scent from last night’s open fire. A speedy double-creak of the wooden back door and I stood naked at the outer limits of what became a most memorable and gratifying, routine adventure.
My first job 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 merely impinged on one’s aural senses.
More immediately, there was birdsong, and rustles in nearby bushes; a blackbird pulling determinedly at a recalcitrant worm in a nearby bed of earth. Then that delicious, damp, almost-fecund smell 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 detail of the courtyard and the garden before me.
Entirely alarmed to my setting, then I trotted forwards towards the old factory, reveling within my physical liberty and my nakedness in the cool air, feeling the little pebbles of the driveway 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 signs of unwanted business on the driveway to the house, an early morning walker perchance, who might see me going pink-skinned and clothing-free away from the bungalow.
Reaching the safety of the hedgerow at the far side of the drive, my feet encountered the wet grass of the garden pathway — and I was off!!
It was a very large garden, mainly laid out to yard, open and wide and uncut, and it was here, unseen by the outside world, that I ran in absolute and entire naked liberty as fast as my legs would take me, feeling the cool earth pounding beneath my feet and the trickling droplets of heel-kicked dew striking my bare buttocks and coursing their way down my backside and legs.
I ran and I ran and I ran, the chill atmosphere now flooding 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 very own green-and-silver, flashing world, until I espied the end of the garden and, with a mental yell of absolute joy, I threw myself length-ways into that dew-bedecked, grassy heaven and rolled over and over and over in sheer sensuous delight until I was saturated, spent, chilled and joyfully happy.
It was utter and entire sense, 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
Tags: young nudists and naturists
Classification: Nudism and Naturism, Social Nudity Sites
About the Author (Author Profile)
Guest blogs written alone for Naturist Portal.
Guest Website by: George S Mycroft