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Alone in a Sleeping Bag

Posted by: Author: Age: 46 Posted on: 0 comments
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After visiting this marvelous site, I went through my journals and found this to offer up in kind. Thoughts and sensations from a camping trip earlier this summer. Enjoy!


It occurs to me that I have been drifting in and out like this for hours since I awoke just before dawn, and that I had been writing and then dozed, and perhaps I wrote again, and that I am now very comfortable and rested, except, just perhaps, I am a bit too warm. I wonder, as I unzip my sleeping bag but let it lie open on top of me, how much time has passed. My journal is open. The pen has rolled somewhere onto the canvas and underneath the pillows. It would be an effort to find it and besides I have lost interest in whatever it was that I had been writing. I feel a flutter inside me and I close my eyes. I let my hand go under the sleeping bag and I untie the string at my waist and slip my hand down across my bare stomach. I press down with my hand, grateful for my breath and for the muscles of my abdomen. I rest my hand there for a while, feeling breath rise and fall. Maybe I lose myself again, drifting away like a little stick in the river, and then I am back inside my tent. I feel a flutter inside me and I let my hand brush absently across my panties. I let my hand go down, caress the insides of my smooth long legs and find its way to the spot I love to touch. I press my fingers against my white cotton panties and I am surprised that they are wet. I squeeze my legs together and press again with my fingers. I move the wet cotton with my fingers and then, though I'd really rather keep them tight, I relax my legs. My panties are very wet and they are sticking to me and the air, when it touches them, makes me flutter inside again. I pull the wet panties away a bit and slip my fingers inside. I touch the soft tips of my lips and they are filled with wetness. I slide two fingers back and forth over the gorgeous lips, above them and below them and all around, and more and more wet comes. I feel another flutter inside me and I quiver. I want to squeeze my legs together but I hold them open. This makes me want to receive with my mouth and I put my head back into the pillows and turn my face slightly into the soft sides of them, opening my lips imperceptibly. I keep motionless, in silent ecstasy, then I squeeze my legs together and feel them so slippery that I come. I press down on my vulva with my fingers while squeezing my legs tightly. I begin to undulate my pelvis slowly and pleasure myself with both hands. This goes on for a while, but after a while, I become dissatisfied and make myself lie very still. Perhaps it is too warm under the sleeping bag. I feel the cold of the zipper across my leg. I lie there motionless on my back with my hands between my legs, squeezing with my legs, my wet ecstasy. Pressure. Pressure. I hear the force of water on the rocks and how it falls away, wild, uncontained. Suddenly, I am paralyzed. I lie there motionless until the body heat emanating from inside of me, and the sun heat bearing down on top of me in this pressure cooker nylon tent, is unbearable. I push the hot sleeping bag aside and roll onto my stomach. I shiver uncontrollably as I squeeze and press at the same time while the weight of my body creates such heat and pressure inside of me that I explode in orgasm. I am streaming, streaming, streaming and , when I think about it, it is maddening to keep hearing the river rushing like that. Is there no end to it? I will have to quit this sometime. I lie there wishing I was exhausted, with my hands between my tight legs and my face in the cool cotton pillow (I just love the way it smells) motionless again, thinking. I pull down my panties, still on my stomach with my hands between my legs, but this time I am not pressing. I part my legs and I start to stroke my swollen clitoris and pussy lips until they fill up again with wet and I can feel how my skin between my legs is all wet and is sticking to the plastic mattress because the sleeping bag rolled away. I feel a cold front come off the river and I shudder. I get goosebumps all over my naked arms, my suddenly sticky legs, and my exposed butt. My panties are down around my knees. I listen. The cold front fills me with sudden terror and then there is an imperceptible breeze, with heat in it from the trees, and this breeze touches my exposed wet slit and I shudder again and come. Then I lie there for a while. Still wet. I wish there was something I could suck. I open my mouth and my tongue comes out and I pretend to suck and lick. With one hand I touch my clit with my finger, just barely, then begin to stroke it methodically, and with the other hand I go round behind and caress my butt with the slightest sweet touch. Inevitably, my fingers find the wet and slippery boat to my soul. It would be a long journey. And now I want a man inside of me. I want to make love with him all night long. I lie there for a long time, thinking about it, seeing him, watching us madly fucking while I absently slide my fingers back and forth over my swollen pussy lips, over the dew, above them and below them and all around, circle and circles and more and more wet comes. Then suddenly I roll over and quit. The tent is suffocating. I pull off my wet underwear and tear open the zipper of my tent. I'm about to step out into the naked daylight, when I see, directly across the river, a tent, pitched handsomely alongside a fallen tree in a deep green glade. I pull back instinctively, a deep inurating red rushing to my cheeks, to study this sinister development.



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