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This is, primarily, a story about my fascination with female body hair, especially when it sprouts and flows freely and abundantly. This book records one particular encounter. But before I begin I’d like to share some background information.
Annie, my wife, and I met in college. I’ve always been a bit of a geek, that’s what she calls me, and shy around women. But from the moment I saw her talking with a couple of her friends in the student union I knew I had to get to know her better.
What first caught my eye was how small she was. And then I was struck by the beauty of her face, surrounded by a mass of rich red-brown curls. Finally, what clinched it was the sense of intense impish vitality that seemed to emanate from her like heat off a radiator. As I sat staring at her she turned slightly and looked straight into my eyes. I felt as if I’d been hit by lightning, so powerful was her presence. In the merest instant it seemed we each downloaded several gigabytes of information. And then she turned back to her friends.
It took awhile before much else happened. I was, as I said, a shy person. But slowly, like magnets drawn into each other’s influence, we moved closer and closer throughout the next couple of weeks. And then we abruptly clicked. I learned later that she’d had her eye on me even before I’d seen her at the student union. It was all a cat and mouse game. And she, quite clearly, had been the cat.
We realized, even at the start, that we had very different approaches to interacting with the world and for a long time this made us both wonder if our relationship was, in fact, workable. But over the years we developed an understanding of how we complemented each other and came to deeply respect and value our differences.
Annie is the adventurous one, the seeker, the swashbuckler, the spunky sprite, the bold zephyr; I’m the ballast, the keel, the counterweight, the appreciator. I play Sancho Panza to her Don Quixote. After many long talks we’ve come to the conclusion that she expresses and instigates feelings that I carry within myself but don’t yet feel comfortable acting on while I give her a sense of safety because she knows that if things get too crazy I’Il be clear-headed enough to put the brake on. Over the years we’ve developed a delicate, and delightfully vivid, balance between her style of being and mine to the profound enhancement of both our lives.
One of Annie’s habits that threatened the stability of our early years was her openness to enjoying the attention of other men, especially when this included their physically intimate attention as well. She never made a secret of her other friendships and sexual dalliances and never apologized for them either. Her attitude was that it was her body and she could do with it what she would and if I couldn’t handle her choices I could move on. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand my insecurities or empathize with the hurt I felt but, despite her real concern, she refused to be bound by my limitations.
And she didn’t (and doesn’t) maintain a double standard. She actively encouraged me to experience other women which, because of my diffidence, sometimes took the form of covert facilitation.
Eventually, as the true depth of her love and respect for me became clear, I began to appreciate and even delight in the gift of freedom she offered me. I never evolved into what anyone would call a womanizer but I liked knowing that if an interaction with a woman reached the point where sexual intimacy seemed like a good idea I could act on it without guilt. Another benefit was the quality of honesty it built between us. As our relationship progressed I felt less and less of a need to hide what I truly thought and felt because I learned that although she might express hurt, anger or irritation she was always willing to work through these emotions till we both knew where we stood. And, in time, through a rather long and painful process, I taught myself to do the same for her.
Several months after we first became sexually intimate, during the pillow talk following an especially open and tender evening of love-making, with more than a little trepidation I broached the subject of my interest in women with a lot of body hair. Her initial reaction, as I had feared, was one of amused incredulity; she couldn’t imagine how a man could actually be aroused by a woman with hairy armpits and legs.
Annie, I should say, was not a particularly conventional young woman. She didn’t wear much make-up. The pieces of jewelry she chose tended to be understated and selected more to express something about herself than for ostentation. And, although she had a marvelous sense of style, her clothing was simple and inexpensive. But one thing she did, religiously, was shave her armpits and legs.
So, even though she’d had some experience with the tastes of a variety of men, the idea that a man could find hair on a woman to be sexually stimulating struck her as foreign. But as I talked about güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri my feelings and the moments in my life in which my fascination had been revealed to me, even as my fingers played in the reddish-brown fluff of her pussy, it began to dawn on her just how deeply my feelings went.
When, finally, I summoned up all my courage and asked her if she’d stop shaving for me all she would say was, “I’Il think about it. ” I knew her well enough by then to know that I would have to be content with that answer as there was no point in pushing her.
A couple of months later I found that a soft russet fuzz was beginning to adorn her legs and the pockets under her arms. At first, not wishing to raise my expectations, I told myself that she was simply taking a break from shaving. But then one night, since a couple of weeks had passed and the fuzz continued to flourish, as I knelt between her open legs slowly thrusting and withdrawing while stroking the new furry down on her calves, I asked her if she had, in fact, stopped wielding her razor.
“Yes,” she said sweetly.
“Thank you Darling,” I whispered, leaning down to take her in my arms, “I love you.”
It was a special moment for both of us.
Annie wasn’t, however, an especially hirsute woman. She developed a couple of pleasant copper colored patches under her arms but the hair on her legs never went beyond a soft reddish down while the fur on her pussy never extended farther than the small neat triangle bounded by her thighs and the bottom of the swell of her belly.
At the time that this story begins Annie and I had been together for nine years. We’d graduated from college, settled in the Northwest, and both started our own businesses. I am a freelance computer programmer and consultant and Annie owns and operates a small printing firm. For several years we’d concentrated, almost exclusively, on building up our businesses but now things were beginning to settle down and we were casting around for new worlds to explore.
As usual this adventure came about as a result of Annie’s explorations. It started with her telling me about some people who’d come into the printing shop; she described them as “interesting”, “different” and said, “I think you’d like them”. But when she told me she’d been invited to a gathering by some of her new friends I was somewhat less than overcome by the idea of tagging along. And even the tepid interest I did have cooled when she went out and bought a large used tent, quantities of prime surplus store camping gear, and informed me that this gathering entailed transporting this equipment to a forested area several hours away and creating a livable(?) habitation. I liked nature. But I tended to prefer to experience it through a picture window or through the windshield of an automobile.
As the date of the gathering approached I began to feel a subtle but mounting pressure from Annie. It puzzled me because she and I generally didn’t insist that one share the other’s pet project if there was a lack of interest. At the time I just put it down to the intensity of her enthusiasm.
Finally one day, unable to guarantee my presence at the gathering by less direct means, she happened to mention with elaborate casualness that her friends called themselves Wylde Wymyn and, as part of their acceptance of their bodies, refused to shave their legs and armpits. They also, she recollected, were casual about nudity and enjoyed going about “skyclad”, which was the term they used.
In the merest fraction of a nanosecond I was totally committed to being at that place even if I had to pack the tent and all the attendant doodads on my back. My imagination grew so inflamed that I couldn’t detach from my fantasies enough to wonder what her motivation for telling me this might be. Upon reflection, after the fact, it was clear that she’d conceived a plan that had been in motion for awhile. But that revelation was several weeks away from dawning.
Now I was the one who could only barely contain my impatience at the ambling pace of time. Annie must have treasured many moments of private amusement at the sight of my obsessive glances at the calendar and frantic fingerings of the magic date. Visions of thickly furred shanks, armpits and pussies danced through my head.
At last the big day arrived. We’d packed the car the night before, stuffing the trunk and backseat to the point of maximum density, so all we had to do was get dressed, drink a few quick cups of coffee, and head for the freeway just as the sun came peeking over the mountains. The anticipation of adventure, of the opening out of new possibilities, put me in a euphoric mood. I looked at Annie and saw the same deep glow in her face. I felt a strong rush of emotion.
“I love you,” I said, reaching out to take her hand.
She turned and looked into my eyes. “I love you too, Sweetheart. Very, very much.”
I turned back to the road to hide my overflowing feelings güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri and felt her squeeze my hand.
We arrived at the site of the gathering several hours later, about 10:00 a.m. It was being held on someone’s private property and, following the directions we’d been given, we turned off the main highway onto a narrow gravel road bounded by a thick growth of trees and drove down it for what seemed like an hour. At one point we met a carload of people coming out and had to negotiate a careful pass with two tires on the road and two tires off. They waved as they went by and we waved back. Finally we came to a place where there was a small yellow tent set up in a small grassy area beside the road. A tall shirtless young man with a scraggly Van Dyke clambered out of the tent as we approached, bearing a clipboard which held a thick sheaf of papers. After asking our names he flipped through the papers until he found the one he needed, made a few notations, slipped a green card under our windshield wiper, and waved us on. We drove for another couple of minutes until, making a turn, we found ourselves facing a large meadow surrounded by trees. We could see that the road ran around the circumference of the meadow and there was an arrow pointing to the right. A hundred yards away a large olive green tent was set up beside the road and a small number of people were moving around underneath. As we came up to the tent a dark-haired, bare-breasted, woman in red shorts detached herself from the activity, picked up several sheets of paper off a small table, and walked up to my side of the car. I felt Annie’s knee touch mine as the woman greeted us with a smile and bent down to hand me the papers which, she explained, contained the rules of conduct and a map of the area. I knew Annie had seen, as I most certainly had, that thick black tufts of hair were peeking out from under the woman’s arms and her legs were covered with dark hair.
“I think I’m going to like this, ” I told Annie as we drove away, headed for what Darla, the finely furred woman, had said was the main camping place.
“Yes, Darling, I think you will, ” she answered. There was something in her tone that made me look at her quizzically but all I saw was a sweet blank smile of impenetrable innocence.
We spent the next three hours erecting the tent and arranging the various pieces of camping equipment that Annie had purchased into some semblance of a living space. Annie was no more of an outdoorsperson than I was so we both contracted severe cases of irritability caused by the frustration of wrestling with unfamiliar materials. I’m only being faintly facetious when I say that the stress of trying to figure out how to set up the tent almost ended our marriage. But finally we managed to work out most of the kinks and find a place for everything.
There’d been four tents set up when we arrived and three new groups had appeared since. There was a quiet sense of camaraderie but everyone was focusing primarily on their own tasks. So when we finished preparing our temporary home Annie announced, with some acerbity due to her irritableness, that she was going to walk down to the big tent and see if they needed any help. I’d glanced at the map and noticed that there was a place called the “Old Swimming Hole” that I thought bore looking into. If anyone was going to take off their clothes I felt it was safe to assume that this would be the most likely spot.
I found the path indicated on the map and followed its rocky way down a slope through a forest of evergreens until I came to a small river. The path turned right and ran along the edge of the river and after I’d proceeded along the path for approximately two hundred yards it brought me to a place where there’d obviously been some effort made to excavate the rocks in order to deepen the riverbed. To the right there was an open grassy area. I knew I’d found the “Old Swimming Hole”. The only problem was that I was completely alone.
For about half an hour I sat on a rock and watched the river slide by until I got restless and took the path back to the camping area. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at my trusty Toshiba portable computer rewriting an instruction manual for a client and watching for nudity in the swelling flow of people arriving to set up their temporary living quarters. It was, I found, very pleasant to key in a sentence or two and then be able to look up and see a naked woman, or man, for that matter, pounding in tent stakes or catch sight of a bare-breasted woman walking up or down the road. At first, I’Il admit, I felt a sexual thrill at the sight. I’d never been in a situation where nudity was accepted with so little fanfare. But as the afternoon wore on my feelings changed from focused sexual response to a more general appreciation. On a level I couldn’t quite put my finger on I felt a deep tension draining out of me.
I hadn’t seen so many unshaven women in one place güvenilir bahis şirketleri since I was in college. And I certainly had never seen so many naked women (4!) with thickly furred armpits and hairy legs.
The sun was just dipping behind the trees across the meadow when I looked up from the computer screen to see a small, red-haired, bare-breasted woman in jeans walking up the road with her shirt and bra dangling from her hand and realized, with a start, that it was Annie.
“Becoming a nudist, I see,” I said as she walked up; she seemed to be dancing with barely suppressed energy.
“Oh Mark! I love this,” she said intensely as she dropped her shirt and bra on the table beside the computer, took the sides of my face in her hands, and gave me a passionate kiss. I reached up to stroke both sides of her ribcage. A moment later she broke away, patting my head, and ducked into the tent. Before I could recover she popped out again, completely naked. “God! This makes me feel so free, ” she practically sang and pranced over to perch on my lap. Awkwardly reaching around her I shut down the computer and we talked about our experiences and impressions since we’d parted.
Annie told me that she’d been assisting Darla and the men and women of the kitchen crew as they prepared the evening meal. She described how she’d watched the reactions of those passing by to Darla and the other semi-nude women and was struck, as I had been, by the lack of awkward sexual responses. So she decided to try it herself. She caught a few appreciative glances from a couple of the men but on the whole nothing changed. What surprised her was how she felt, the sense of relaxation and freedom.
Shortly after I told her the story of my little trek to the “Old Swimming Hole” Annie looked at her watch and announced that it was time to eat. By now the sun had dipped down into the tops of the trees and groups of people were straggling down the road towards the big tent. Annie slipped into one of my old t-shirts while I gathered together our plates, cups and silverware, and we joined the procession.
The food, all vegetarian, was laid out buffet style and as we went through the line Annie pointed out the dishes that she’d worked on. Once our plates were full she led me to one of the less populated tables and settled us down across from two young women who were already seated. As we sat down I realized from the way they smiled at her that they knew Annie and I noticed a peculiar speculative look in the eyes of the woman with long black hair directly in front of me. I assumed this was due to curiousity about “Annie’s husband”. She had a rich olive complexion, dark eyes and full lips; she was wearing a large t-shirt but it was evident that she was large breasted and wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Mark, these are two of my friends. This is Heather,” she said, with a gesture toward the dark-haired woman. “And this is Cassie, ” Annie continued, indicating the other woman.
“Nice to meet you,” the second woman said as she took my hand. I felt a little thrill of pleasure as I gazed into her large smiling hazel eyes delightfully framed by fluffy shoulder-length light brown hair. She was wearing a colorful dress that was tight enough to reveal that she was slim without being skinny.
As we ate the three women chatted. Occasionally Annie would elicit a comment from me but for the most part I just listened and observed. It quickly became evident that these two were regular patrons of my wife’s printshop and seemed to know her quite well.
Ever since adolescence I’ve been the type of man whose response to women is so powerful that the force of my feelings hogties my tongue and, often, my brain as well. I am like a pilgrim struck dumb by the wonder of God. Over the years I’ve learned to become somewhat more detached and have developed a sort of clumsy flirtatiousness but in the depths of my heart I feel the same feeling of speechless awe. This was my general state of mind as I listened to the three women talk.
We remained at the table long after the others had finished eating and talked about a variety of subjects. As I grew more comfortable I began to contribute more to the conversation. By the end of the evening we were all feeling pretty chummy. Finally Heather stood up and announced that she, for one, needed to get some sleep. She was wearing shorts and I couldn’t help but notice the rich growth of black hair on her legs. My cock stirred into a partial erection. As she turned to go my eyes also took in the comely fullness of her bottom. Cassie rose as well and said goodnight.
“Do you like my friends?” Annie asked me as we walked back to the tent.
“Yeah, I do, ” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She slipped her arm around my waist and gave me a sweet squeeze.
“Do you think they’re attractive”
I stopped in the middle of the road and tried to see her face in the darkness. “What are you getting at”
“I’m just curious, Honey, that’s all. ” Once more I heard that tone of opaque innocence.
“Yeah, I do,” I said, pulling her against me, running my hands down her body, and then sliding them up under the shirt. The sensation of the slightly cool softness of her bottom under my fingertips aroused me instantly.
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