Treading Water

I wake up from a deep sleep – and I feel so well rested. I look at the alarm clock, and it reads 4:30 a.m., and I remember that I fell asleep unusually early the night before.

4:40 a.m. – tried to go back to sleep but I can’t. Turn on the television, but nothing interests me – then fire up the computer to see if I have any mail. Several pieces of junk mail – mostly of the weight loss, refinance your mortgage type. Deleting these messages is easy work – from people I do not communicate with, and usually in all caps. And then I two real messages – one from my mother, a small chatty piece of mail. The other from Dr. Allan – I think of him as my personal psychiatrist. Although we have never met, him living in Australia and me in the States.

He has written another piece of e-mail with a story attached. His stories are always well written, always highly erotic but not dirty, and an unopened message from him always makes my heart jump a beat.

As I read his message, my breathing becomes a bit quicker and shallower, not noticeable at first, but I often have to remember to slow down my breaths after reading his stories. Quite uncontrollably, my hands sometimes wander, mostly to my hair, where I twirl my finger absentmindedly into my shoulder-length brunette hair. A nervous habit, I remind myself.

After finishing the e-mail, I am tempted to visit one of the few erotic sites that I know about – I frequented these types of sites a few years ago, but I have mainly lost interest over time. But I refrain, remembering that I normally will find a chat room, flirt and eventually some anonymous person and I will find a room where I spend most of my time typing, and he or she (not knowing the sex of the person) spends most of his/her time masturbating to my words. Not typically a shared experience. So I disconnect from the Internet, and make my way into the bathroom.

I wash my face in the basin, taking time to ensure that my face is well cleaned. I place my hair in a pony-tail to keep it out of my face, and then I go to work. I start with warm water to open the pours, use my hypoallergenic soap, wash all of the soap off with warm water, and once my face is clean, I use cold water – and love the way I can almost feel my pours tighten and constrict.

I look at myself in the mirror – taking stock of myself. I like the look of myself – dark, natural brunette hair, soft freckle-free (I always wanted freckles as a little girl) skin – that was a shade darker when I was younger – well, proportioned facial features, bright blue eyes.

5:00 chimed the grandfather clock. Could it still be that early? I went out to the living room, and then to the kitchen, not knowing what to do next. Then I opened the sliding glass door, and out to the deck in the backyard. I could not see many stars in the sky, but the moon shown bright. Since our house is on a hill, I could see the front and back porch lights in many of the neighbors’ houses.

I noticed a couple of lounge chairs out of place, so the organizer in me straightens out the chairs. I look to the pool, and there are several large leaves floating in the pool. Grabbing the pool net, I approach the pool, skimming out several of the leaves and placing them in the yard. A couple of leaves are slightly out of reach, so I use the pool net as a paddle to attempt to bring the leaves closer to me and my net. A little close, a little closer . . . and then I lose by balance and unexpectedly fall into the pool.

As my head re-emerges from the surprisingly mild-temperatured water, I wonder how loud my scream was. I giggle, out of nervousness mostly, happy in the fact that I did not injure myself from my klutziness. I am wearing an old t-shirt, white cotton panties and a robe, and now the cotton robe reminds me that I need to get out of the water. Luckily for me, I fell in the deep end of the pool, but now I must swim towards the ladder – the weight of my robe would prevent me from lifting myself from the pool at the location where I entered the pool.

I reach the ladder, and begin to climb out, water rushing down my body as I exit the pool. The water runs fast, and I am a little amazed at the amount of water stored in my robe. After looking back at neighborhood below, I re-trace my steps and step back into the water, really enjoying the feeling of the water again weighing down my robe. I let the robe fall off my shoulders, me helping the robe as it clings to my body. I take the robe and begin playing with it in the water; spinning it around and watching the motion take control of the robe. For a moment, I feel like a little girl again. I laugh, throwing the robe towards the center of the pool, watching it perform its dance in the water sans me.

I swim out to the robe, treading water and again tossing it in front of me. I go back to the side of the pool, eying the location of the robe. As a game, I swim to it under water, turning and returning to the safety of the side. I do this several times, being able to reach the side easily. To make things more interesting I take off my t-shirt, throw it out, and because of the lighter weight, it travels nearly as far as the robe. Off with my panties, and I drop them a few feet from the side. Now, almost like a steeplechase, I, submerged, swim to the robe, my t-shirt and then return to find my panties. I ma successful on the third try, my panties being the cause of my misses – they are just too small to see until I am right near them.

Then my mind drifts to Dr. Allan. I wonder what he would think of me doing this – in relative safety, as I am in a pool which in all likelihood cannot be seen from anyone except for my closest neighbor, as long as I stay in the water. I wonder if he would attribute this behavior to my risk-taking concerning my sexuality, or the skinny-dipping fantasies that everyone seems to have. The second time in a row that I successfully touch all articles of clothing under water, I celebrate by tossing my panties in the air. I laugh a bit at my silliness and want to toss them higher, unfortunately because of the second toss, they land out of the water. I look at the panties, as the water starts making a more-or-less circular pattern on the recently dry cement. I quickly swim to the ladder and exit the pool, intent on retrieving my panties.

The warm night and the wonderful swim make me feel so alive. At first I was slinking to the panties, and then I stand up, feeling a slight wind blow past me, almost caressing my naked body.

Rather than return to the pool, I recline into one of the lounge chairs, and look at the neighbors below me. It may be 5:30 by now, not quite sure because I am losing track of time. If I had an almanac, I would know at what precise moment the sun would be coming up. I can tell it is a bit lighter, but the sun is still tucking safely below the horizon. My fingers move to my tummy, the tips lightly touching my drying skin. I wonder how many people are eating breakfast right now. And then my mind races to Dr. Allan in Australia, and I think to myself, “He is probably getting ready for dinner right now.”

I think about Allan, wondering if his wife is cooking for him tonight, if she is even in town. If she is gone, has he ordered a pizza, and is sitting in the living room, stroking himself, watching a tape of a woman who looks like me? My finger drifts, almost instinctively to my private area, my finger softly caressing my outer labial lips. Would Allan call it my labia majora, I wonder.

My finger stops for a moment, and I return to reality. What a beautiful pre-morning dawn, I think, my finger starts teasing my outer lips again, brushing against my opening on occasion. I need to feel my fingers from all sorts of angles. I am adept at pleasing myself, and then my thoughts return to Dr. Allan.

I wonder what kind of lover Dr. Allan is – patient, to be sure. Self-confident, imaginative, and inventive. This I know from our correspondence. My fingers continue to explore myself. I part my inner lips for the first time, and I think of Dr. Allan. I am sure he would run his tongue to tease my labia minora, probably more expertly than my fingers can. I love the feeling of tongue, and my fingers continue to drift over my private parts. In and out of crevices, as I wonder what Dr. Allan’s tongue would be like. I wonder if he would eat me out after cuming inside of me – I would want him to eat me before to ensure a more-exciting lovemaking session, but I would also want him, perhaps 30 minutes after depositing his seed deep within me, to again eat me. Not so much for the excitement, though I am certain I would be excited, but because it takes about that long for cum to exit my vagina – it is like clockwork, my panties get wet from cum almost precisely 30-minutes after lovemaking. And I would want him to prove himself by eating me, having him taste his salty gift as it flows outside of me.

My mind again drifts back to reality, and because of my mind and thinking of my virtual lover, the area between my legs is on fire. My pulse has increased, my breathing is shallow, and my vagina is engorged. I begin to feel myself coming, knowing the feeling so well. The feeling seems to come from deep within me, not nearly as well-defined as an area near the surface of me. It does not seem to radiate from my vagina, from my clitoris, from any distinct part of me. I start to spasm slightly, knowing what is coming, what is here. Again and again, I feel the waves of a finger-induced orgasm radiate from deep within me. I contort slightly, noticing for the first time the beginnings of a daybreak. My nipples are hard, the waves continue, and the sun, my heavenly foe, shows itself in the morning sunrise. The sky becomes, as my organism subsides, a brilliant golden-orange, almost too bright to fully appreciate.

Then it dawns on me (Allan would tam my arse for the pun) that I am completely nude – and I return fully to reality. I dive into the water to retrieve me robe and t-shirt, re-emerging from the pool quickly. I pick up my panties, and in a flash (another spanking from Dr. Allan for the additional pun), ring out, as best I can, the wet clothing as I walk towards the sliding door. I enter the house, toss the clothing in the washer on the way to the bathroom.

I look again at my nude frame in a mirror and smile. I empty the contents of my bladder in the toilel, facing the toilet, thinking again of Allan. Still horny, I masturbate once more on the toilet before taking a shower. I glance at the clock to see if there is enough time to write this down for Allan, and I am out-of-luck; I will have to remember the experience and write Dr. Allan in the evening. Although I am disappointed that I can not capture the moment in prose, I think about my experience many times during the day, getting flushed at times. How wonderful it is to have such a pen pal.