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Nurse Jones waterskiing
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From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Nurse Jones; more from last summer...
>From Nurse Jones,
[ANOTHER new post, untimely ripp'd from my Summer's diary...]
Summer '92
We took a vacation in the middle of last month and stayed at
Jay's parent's lake cabin in the wilds of Appalachia. Jay took us
all waterskiing. It's a lot easier than it looks. Certainly
compared with downhill snow skiing it's a snap. Of course Jay
spent his summers on the lake when he was a kid so he can ski
backwards on one ski, the showoff. He doesn't even like to ski
anymore. He says sailing is much more fun.
I agree, actually, but that's because I tried to hang onto the
tow rope after I fell and swallowed almost the entire lake and
lost my bikini top and very nearly my virginity. I'm telling you,
all my sins flashed before my eyes.
Well, okay... I couldn't actually hang on *that* long....
It sounds incredibly stupid, I know, but I just forgot to let go.
Twice. I mean, once you've fallen you remember to let go pretty
quickly, but in all the confusion your natural instinct is to
hang on to something, and I picked the rope handle instead of my
top.
Anyway, that left me with only one other suit: a one piece thong-
backed black scrap of a thing that I bought on a dare and really
only intended to wear in more private places. Which was just fine
with Jay and Tom. And Neets.
Why do these things always happen to me?
Of course, whenever we went skiing after that, Jay buzzed other
docks so that everyone on the lake got the full scenic panorama.
So then I tried cutting off a tank top t-shirt to wear with my
bikini bottom, but I couldn't really swim anywhere public in it.
The only good thing about it was that it gave me a good excuse to
not go skiing: the t-shirt just wouldn't stay put and I couldn't
let go of the rope to pull it back down to where it should have
been once I got myself up and out of the water. Not that a wet t-
shirt was doing much good anyway. Besides, I had had my, er, fill
of skiing.
I made up my mind to get another suit when we pulled the sailboat
into a marina for diesel fuel. The four of us were walking down
this boardwalky thing between the rows of boats and I was blithely
chatting to Neets when Jay snorted out a laugh because a large
red-faced sailor got smacked on the top of his head with a
styrofoam cooler lid for gawking at me. His wife waved the lid at
him and told him that the South had better *not* rise again, not
on her vacation, and Jay's abortive attempt to stifle a laugh did
some minor damage to his sinuses. At which point I woke up and
realized that everybody and his brother was staring at me, not
just the red-faced guy rubbing his head.
Jay said my makeshift top was so tight it didn't matter that you
couldn't see through it. "It's a shame it's dry," he said.
"There's a lot going on inside there." Of course, he just *had*
to wait to point this out to me until we were out in the middle
of dozens of retirees lounging on their boats, watching.
And of course my nipples instantly went all funny and I scurried
back down the dock with my arms artfully folded in front of me
and got a towel to drape strategically over my shoulders.
Sheesh.
Jay tried to persuade me that we wouldn't have to go near
civilization again so I didn't need to get another suit, but a
few days later I discovered that every day Neets was secretly
cutting a little bit off the bottom of my already-cut-off-enough-
thankyouverymuch t-shirt. She has a very primitive sense of
humor, Neets. I pretended not to notice for a while and just let
it get shorter and shorter until it really got so obvious that I
was embarrassed to wear it even in front of Tom so I went and
bought another suit.
Jay and Tom moped around for two days and Neets adopted my ex-top
as a headband. Very comical, I'm sure. She's such a card.
Thank God I don't know anyone up there except Jay's parents. I
managed to get a towel around myself whenever they... well, you
probably aren't interested in my inlaws.
Besides, that's not what I wanted to write about anyway. We did
vacation things: we watched sunsets and went skinny dipping
and cooked marshmallows over a driftwood fire on the shore by the
dock and went camping in a quiet inlet on an uninhabited island.
Most of the lake has a red clay shoreline with rocks and tree
roots, but there are little secluded sandy beaches in the coves.
Which is what I wanted to tell you about.
There must be hundreds of these islands; we sailed over to one
and camped for a night. This place is a paradise. Believe it or
not, there were *no* mosquitos -- a miracle in the South. No
stagnant water, I guess. We anchored in a little cove and swam
ashore with our things in plastic garbage bags on a rubber raft.
There were these big rocks sticking out of the water and behind
them was a sheltered little sandy-bottomed lagoony sort of place.
The water was clear and warm from the sun and Neets and I washed
our hair and skinny dipped all by ourselves while the boys set
about doing manly camping sorts of things.
Not *that* kind of camping, you perverts. You know what I mean:
arguing over who was supposed to have brought the can opener,
tearing bits of cork out of the wine bottle with a swiss army
knife instead of a real corkscrew, starting a fire, which
definitely should have been done before solving the corkscrew
problem -- those sorts of camping things. One of them had to swim
back to the boat for lighter fluid. A real man would have done
something resourceful. Rub two boy scouts together. Whatever.
So anyway, Neets and I left them to it while we took a bath in
the sandy little lagoon. The water is so soft that your skin
feels wonderful afterward. And Neet's hair... well, she always
has beautiful hair. It was almost sunset and we were sitting on
a rock in the shallows, looking out across the lake at the glow
and Neets was playing with this big blob of red clay she had
pulled out of the bank, squishing it between her fingers.
She handed me the blob. "Feel this," she said.
"Yuck."
"But feel how smooth it is. It's like potting clay, except red."
I wasn't interested. "Lets watch the sunset," I said, handing the
clay back. I sat there next to her watching the reflections on
the water, not really paying much attention. When I looked back,
she was holding her leg out in front of her and it was smeared
with the clay. It was a kind of reddish orange and seemed to glow
in the lambent (look it up, Harlan) atmosphere.
She reached over and smeared the clay across my chest just above
my breasts.
"Hey," I protested.
"No, wait... it's not dirty. Look: it washes right off. See?"
She dipped her foot in the water and demonstrated. "And it's so
smooth. I bet it's like those mud packs they have in the european
health spas. I even bet it's good for your skin."
She took another swipe at me, this time cupping a breast in her
hand and covering me with more of the clay. She handed me a
fistful of clay and I smeared some on her arm, then on my own.
She was right. It was smooth, and it did feel... different. So
just for the hell of it we sat there and smeared clay over each
other. She covered my torso and then fingerpainted designs on me.
I started on her back but then she stood up and stepped away from
me. "Watch," she said. Her stomach was covered in the clay; she
ran her hands up her sides and over her breasts, leaving broad
streaks of bright reddish orange. Her tan lines magically
disappeared. She looked as though she was dressing herself in a
skin-tight film, wiping it on. She was intentionally trying to be
erotic with this little demonstration, but when I stepped toward
her she stepped back again, up on a rock in the shallows.
"Just watch," she said. It really was kind of seductive, the way
she wiped the color over her body and then looked at me for a
reaction. Except she seemed to be dressing rather than
undressing. When she did her legs she started at her ankles and
it looked as though she were pulling on stockings except they
went all the way up to her hips: she wrapped her clay-filled
hands around her ankle and covered each leg in almost one sweep.
I watched while she stood there in the shallows and covered
herself from her neck to her ankles with the stuff. I guess the
weird thing was that it was so smooth and uniform. Her body was
all the same color.
"Do my face," she said. "Cover everything." I smoothed it
around her eyes; her eyebrows disappeared under the clay; I
spread it under her chin, on her neck, everywhere.
"Hair too," she said.
"Yuck. Not your hair.... Are you sure?"
She ran her hands through her hair and gooped it completely in
clay, and then coiled a rope of it on top of her head. She had me
add more to it, sculpting it. She was completely covered in it.
She looked fantastic. In the literal sense of the word.
"Look," she said, and struck a pose, sitting on a rock. She froze
and waited. Suddenly she *did* look like a sculpture. She looked
like one of her own terra cotta sculptures.
I applauded and presented myself arms held out to the sides. "Do
me," I said. "Except my hair." Instead she walked over and
pressed herself against me and smeared the clay over me with her
body, sliding her thigh between my legs, rubbing against me.
She kissed me. It was a really weird kiss. Our bodies felt so
odd and gooey, pressed together -- that was kind of nice -- but I
got grit in my mouth from her lips.
"Bleah." I scooped a handful of lake and rinsed it out.
"Okay, no kissing," she said, "But this is cool."
She did look cool. Alien, almost. Something about the red clay
and the red sunset and the glowing green foliage behind her and
the white sand made her seem to have a light of her own as the
last hints of the late afternoon faded into evening.
"Wait," she said. She scooped water up and rinsed my face and
part of my chest off, and began smearing the clay over me,
creating a kind of off-the-shoulder fantasy "garment" that would
never have stayed in place if it hadn't been painted on. She took
great care to make a sharp "neckline" that just barely covered my
nipples, the edges following my natural contours. She left my
face and hair and shoulders uncovered, just as though I were
wearing clothing. When I was done, she had me step into the water
and rinse my feet and hands off so she could make sharply defined
garment-like cuffs.
Then we stood back and admired each other.
Neets said it was a shame to let this artistic creation go to
waste, so she dragged me over to where the boys were cooking some
brown food.
The color is very important on a camping trip. Manly food has to
be brown, salty, and pure cholesterol. I think it's some kind of
male camping rule that since you can't actually risk your life to
kill something and eat it, you have to compensate by cooking life-
threatening foods.
Plus, your modern danger-deprived male seems to feel he has to
satisfy his primitive instincts by opening cans with a Swiss Army
knife instead of bringing a proper can opener. Of course these
basic drives only emerge on camping trips. Jay wouldn't know
where to begin looking for the can opener at home.
Men.
Anyway, Neets dragged me over to where the boys were
demonstrating their Swiss Army prowess to each other. I was
embarrassed, and it took some coaxing for her to get me to walk
into the camp site. But you know me. I did it anyway. When we
left the beach it was dark under the trees.
The boys just stood there open-mouthed. Neets walked in first.
She was quite a sight. She looked a little primitive, the way her
hair was stuck to her head with the mud. She walked up to the
fire and stood there in the flickering light like some pagan wood
nymph while they stared and adjusted their cutoffs. Then she
looked over to where I was standing in the shadows and I came out
too. She later said I looked very refined and dainty, as though I
were tiptoeing along in a very clingy body suit. Actually, I was
barefoot and being careful not to step on another pine cone.
Tom found his tongue first. "Wow. Cool."
And Jay said, "So, what's all this?"
So I said, "Whatsa matter ... you never read 'Lord of the
Flies'?"
Neets walked over and relieved them of their half-bottle of wine.
She took a long swig from the bottle and said, "We'll be back for
dinner," and pulled me along after her back to the beach.
"You want company?" Tom calls after us.
"Nope. Maybe later."
When we found our way back, I told her we had to wash off. In a
hurry. I was getting turned on and couldn't stand not feeling her
against me. So we did, and ended up making love on the beach. I
didn't climax, though: too public on the beach even though nobody
was within miles. I can't do it in public, not really. I can get
terribly turned on, but my fear of discovery is too distracting.
So I ended up extremely horny all through the seven course dinner
Jay had promised me in order to get me to go camping in the first
place. It turned out to be a big plate of brown stuff and a six
pack.
Ha ha, very funny. You owe me buster. Seven courses. I said.
Got 'em, too. All seven.
I dunno why I keep going on about the brown food. It bothers me.
It's just that men would *live* longer if they would eat some of
the other colors now and then. I think. We'll never know until
someone tries it.
Funny: I had assumed Jay would be the first person I would make
love to on a beach. Instead, he was the first person I made love
to on a sleeping bag. Which, in mid-summer, leaves one all hot
and sweaty.
Well... two, actually.
Anyway, we snuck down to the beach for a swim afterward and
found Tom and Neets already there. And we thought we were being
so clever, sneaking out of the camp without waking them. They
were all hot and sweaty too.
So I guess that makes four, actually.
Nurse Jones,
When the weather's hot and sticky,
That's no time for dunkin' dicky.
But when the frost is on the punkin...
That's the time ... um ...
God, I don't believe I'm so crude. It's all ASB's fault, I want
you to know. Let's try a different sig...
Nurse Jones,
worth
wading
for...?
no, huh...?
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