Chapter 1: A Cold Wind

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Fiction, DomSub, FemaleDom, Masturbation, Exhibitionism, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1: A Cold Wind - Buxom young lady unexpectedly comes across a handsome young man who likes to allow her to take charge.



A rustle of wind blows in from the surrounding trees, making me look up expectantly to the deep blackness of the night. I yearn that HE might appear. I dream of his gorgeous, tanned body. I imagine him walk out of the darkness and into the clearing of my campsite, the campsite of this frail and very anxious young woman. But instead, I see only shadows, cast by the swaying branches, illuminated by flickering flame of the burning campfire at my feet.

The wind blows hard and cold, hard enough to sway my hair over to one shoulder and cold enough to form a momentary chill in the air. It tingles as it brushes against the skin of my naked feet, legs, and bare thighs. Two drops of cold water, one on my red, possibly sunburned shoulder and the other at my knee, percolate down from the moist leaves above, still moist from a brief and relaxing thunderstorm from just an hour before. This causes me a shiver and I am tempted me to reach for the blanket at my side, but then I remember the heat of the day.

As Papa liked to say, the day had been "hotter than a roasted jalapeno in Baja." The sun shined bright and the humidity made it unbearable. It was a typical hot Midwestern summer day, one of those days when the air so heavy you just knew it was going to storm. And then it did! Just as the sun went down, a thunderstorm roared in from the northwest, bringing with it the wind and thunder of an angry God through the trees.

I retreated into the confines of my stifling tent to let it pass; praying all the trees remained upright and no water gathered to flood my campsite and wash my little body away. I found myself wishing HE sat with me, protecting me, calming me as I sat helpless and alone, listening to the thunder crack, the wind roar, and the rain pound on the sides of my little tent like a thousand angry fists.

And then it was over. It lasted only a few minutes, and then it passed.

I crawled back out of the tent and into a different world. Small branches lay strewn around the campsite. My bare feet became wet on the soggy grass. It was a wet, muddy, but also a much more comfortable world. I think the storm dropped the temperature by a good 20 degrees, enough to cause a chill in the air as I...

... now sit alone in face of the fire. The chill, however, lasts only a moment before the roaring flame of the campfire rises to my protection. It swells upward in the breeze, flames leaping into the air and seeming to nearly touch the overhanging branches. It radiates increased warmth as though to apologize for the chill caused by its misbehaving cousin, the wind.

I feel proud of the campfire; even a little surprised at the ease it took to build. The last time I camped was as a child, probably ten years ago. We used to camp often as a family. I wished we still did, but the outings sadly came to stop after my parents needed start paying tuition for my five older brothers. Papa promoted education above all else. His own experience as a southern immigrant working in the farm fields of California and Arizona provided ample reason. He said we had to "cut the corners" in his own imperfect English, and the summer camping trip up from Chicago to the beautiful forests of Northern Minnesota, Wisconsin, and the Upper Peninsula were one of the saddest cuts I had to endure. It took a surprising lot of money to go camping with a family of seven, or at least that's what Papa said.

I discovered the campfire was surprisingly simple to build. "Kidder must first remember," I still remember Papa instructing my older brothers. "Must let fire breath. Gotta make open at bottom to suck air." I still remembered his words, and it was a lucky thing I did, for Papa never let me build a fire myself. I grew up in what could best be described as a traditional Catholic family where men did the hunting and the women stayed in the kitchen. Well, maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but Papa and Mamma did teach us very clear lines of division between the sexes. This applied to the summer camping trip as well as our everyday lives. The making of a campfire clearly lay on the "manly" side of the fence, as did grilling, fishing, and maybe even a little hunting if Papa and my brothers got the chance. The more mundane tasks fell under the woman's domain, like setting the picnic table and washing dishes.

I shuffle my chair back to escape the waves of heat from the first just as another breeze blows through the trees and makes it roar with increased vigor. Flames leap high into the air, this time high enough I think to burn of the leaves of the overhanging branches-or at least that's what it looks like when I gaze upward from my seated thrown-a lawn chair. Now I worry over too much fire. In my zeal to make a fire, any fire, I wonder if I piled on too much wood in my first attempt. Not that it had any chance of causing a forest fire, not in a green forest and certainly not after a thunderstorm. My concern revolves around the light.

I worry someone might see me. Although I sit alone and the campsites are spaced far apart, I can't help but recall the two-hundred-some other campers who also occupy the park. Some of them I can make out in the distance from the evidence of their own campfires. One sparkles through the trees on my right and another ahead of me. A closer campsite stands on my left, I knew, but everyone appears to be in bed.

The anticipation that HE might arrive and the knowledge of so many people creates natural, embarrassing thoughts in my mind. I can't help but think of a religious old woman (a woman very much like my own Momma, I can't help but consider) casually strolling into my camp. Maybe she comes in need of some kitchen ingredient. Or maybe she just wants to stop by to talk. The people in this part of the country-unlike Chicago, or any other big city for that matter-are known for their friendly attitudes. It would not be uncommon for someone to walk over to a neighbor's camp simply because it was the neighborly thing to do. Or even worse, a dirty old man might notice me from one of the surrounding camps or the gravel road that serves to connect the various sites. He might notice my top and my top-heavy proportions, and sneak up to catch me from behind.

My imagination shifts into high gear as I consider who might walk innocently into camp and discover me. I cannot risk being seen, not in my present state of undress. For last-ditch protection, the blanket sits beside my chair. It lay on a few remaining pieces of wood to keep it out of the mud. I can grab it if necessary and quickly wrap its protective fabric around my waist. If too late even for that, I think about using sunburned thighs as an excuse, but the excuse sounds too ridiculous for anyone to believe.

No matter what I say, it would be hard to explain my dress, for I am hardly dressed at all. I feel naked and I practically am. The only thing I wear is the top from my bikini; the bikini top HE complimented me so graciously on earlier in the day. The bottom half drips soaking wet from a makeshift clothesline tied between two trees.

HE is the reason for my present state of undress. It is a gift to him; a reward. It is a hint of what I desired.

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