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Every Step

Posted by: Author: Age: 23 Posted on: 0 comments
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One more contribution. The change of tense is deliberate. As I wrote this, initially recounting, I lost myself in the memory and the past became the present.


Every morning is different. It may be the metallic tang in the air after a shower of rain, or it may be the utter stillness of that exquisite moment between sleep and wakefulness that determines the day. One's senses awake and vie for attention.

This morning, I felt sensual. Not, you understand, sexy, or raunchy or horny exactly, merely sensual. I felt my legs against each other and every nerve ending seemed to sing and gentle rhapsody to my awakening brain.

I became aware of my breasts, small though they are and the breathless kiss of cool morning air on my nipple that rose in turn to greet the dawn.

I got out of bed and stood, naked in my room the scent of the night still on my body. It was then, unbidden, that the decision, no, that is the wrong word. This was not a set of variables that came together into the crustalisation of conscious decision. This was, yes, this was impulse.

I reached, not for my robe to go for a shower, but for a plain white cotton summer dress that I slipped over my nakedness.

I walked, not to the shower, but to the door. Once through it, I walked through the grounds of my home to the small gate at its border and into the wheat field beyond. We have not had enough rain, and the crop is stunted and barely reaches my mid-thigh, yet it is perfect for my purpose this morning, that, even as I walked is becoming clearer in my mind.

I feel the stalks of wheat brushing my legs as I walk and I hear the soft swishing of the stems as they are caressed by the morning breeze. It is cooler than I thought, and my nipples are already hard against the dress. I reach up and slip one shoulder strap off, exposing my nipple and, indeed, my whole right breast to the kiss of the morning sun.

There is no doubt that now, I feel sexy. Perhaps I did when I woke; perhaps that is why each movement felt, in its own way, exquisite.

Of course, I know that I am naked under my dress. I luxuriate in the naughtiness off it, so much so, I almost giggle. My clitoris is so alive I can feel her throb. But there is also something else. I need to pee. I walk on, now accutely aware of both the increasing demand of my clitoris and my bladder. I get that feeling of pleasure/pain that accompanies my efforts not to urinate. Hmm. 'Urinate' How clinical that suddenly sounds to me. No, it just won't do. I don't need to urinate, I need to pee... no... I need to piss. Yes, that is the word. In fact it is the word I say out loud to the stillness of the morning. 'I need to piss'. Now, I shout it so loudly I scare some birds in nearby trees. Again, the need to be unbelievable crude forms. 'My cunt is wet and I need to piss.' You know, I actually laugh. Look at me. Tall, elegant, educated, and, thanks to the Good Sisters, well disciplined too. How Sister Mary would have ranted to hear such langauge. No doubt 'patience' her small black wooden paddle would have stung me as she would have corrected this outburst.

I am standing still now, and I feel my wetness. No, more, I can smell my own wetness and the stale perspiration of the night. I lift my dress up around my waist. I hope someone, some early morning walker sees me. Maybe he will approach. Maybe he will fuck me. No. That is wrong for this morning. I don't want sex. I want.... I want...just me.

I spread my legs a little and look down at the flatness of my belly, my smooth mound and I have to crane my neck forward and pull my tummy in to see the top of my slit.

Thats when I do it. I pee. Oh so slowly. Agonizingly slowly. I want to let it all go, to let it gush from me. Instead, I do it so slowly, alternating with touching my clitoris, and today, mouthing obescenities. In my mind, I am in the school grounds; those immaculately kept gardens the sisters were so proud of. I am standing in the cloister, my skirt up around my waist and my room mate watching me. I piss... ohhh I can't hold it any longer and the flood pours from me accompanied by the first shocks of orgasm.

It lasts so long, interminable aftershocks, convulsions, and still, through it all I piss.

At what point does it stop? I don't know. I stand there holding my dress up with my left hand and pinching my nipple so hard the pain lances through me, my legs spread a little and my middle finger dancing a tarrantella on my hard clit. I come again this time with a squirt that is not pee. I feel my ass contract and now my whole pelvic floor is alive.

I let my dress fall and I walk, wet with my cunt, wet with my pee, and with a feeling of regret that I didn't finger my ass. I enter the grounds of my home through that absurdly small wicket gate, and then, still in my dress, I plunge into the pool.

My day has begun with a communion with nature. Could there be a better way?



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