She visited them as regularly as she could.
The drive in her jeep would take her through various mountainous terrain and valleys of bare rock. A place fondly remembered, far enough from main roads and remote enough from her own existence in the noisy city. She would stay usually no more than one or two nights in her cave, but the nights there were her medicine that she had to take. Her nights would rejuvenate her, recharge her, fire her hormones and detonate her sexuality. She would go away, but she would always return a little older, but more desperate, confident and desirous than less.
Her stomach, nearing empty, would always return her reluctantly to the closed society she had long learned to despise. In her cave, however, she was the female version of Robinson Crusoe. She would bring along jerrycans and ration packs and enjoy her treasures and the intensity of her own self-made environment. It was an island for her. A necessary one because most people would not understand her, they would simply judge her with the mentality of sheep. A closed mentality. While she was alive, she would be dutiful to her own sensuality and pleasures. She would explore the darkest recesses of her female brain and bring fantasy to life. What society didn't know about, didn't matter!
Whenever she made her approach after the long drive, she would approach her cave with the same caution when she approached it for the first time. The reason for the slow approach wasn't just for caution, of course. The area had been safe for quite a while. Her body and her nature also felt the need to approach it slowly to soak in the moment, to play act in the way she did as a little girl, to feel the intense rush of feelings that swept her trembling into that place.
She adored reliving the experiences she had there. The silence and the isolation further fed the intensity of the experience. She craved these moments of isolation, to be away from other living people, people who would never understand her and who would harass and victimise her because of her differences. Some would want her locked up. A menace, a disease of immorality and depravity. They would not call her an 'abnormal' person, they would isolate themselves from her, excommunicate themselves. There would sometimes be a few others who would see her different, they would see her as a delicious wild flower, a deliciously rare wild flower who deserved to chase whatever satisfied her. They had a similar mind and outlook oppression on sexuality however exotic. Unfortunately, these types appeared so rare that she never heard from them, they kept to themselves, chasing and feeding their own depravities, their intense hot-blooded sexualities.
Nearing the entrance to her cave, she would sometimes have to stop to recover and drink water from the nearest jerrycan. Her gasping would come from the heat of the sun, the breeze over the rocks and the sounds she made as she neared the entrance. Sometimes, like on this occasion, she would resist the urge to remove her top and pants and masturbate in the open with only a blue cloudless sky above. Other times, she would let passion out of its stifling cage and stand there with her legs well apart. She would watch her shadow while the back of her neck felt incessant warm kisses from the sun. She would watch the shadow of her left hand moving gently in rhythm with her heartbeat. Leaning against a rockface near the entrance, she would squeeze her full nipples while deftly working her fingers over the moist pink flesh, not enough to relieve her, but to sharpen her desires into razors.
She had always kept her sexuality to herself as she did the treasures inside her cave. She would wait for her dark eyes to slowly adjust to the light and then she would enter into her self-made world. Stowing her gear at the back, she would then open her bag of candles and light up the darkness just enough for her to make out her treasures inside. Each candle placed strategically to create a delicious atmosphere of her own choosing.
Introducing the candlelight slowly made her quiver. She would begin to make out her still treasures lying there in the darkness. And when she felt the light soft but sufficient, she would slowly remove her khaki top and her camouflaged trousers and drop them below her knees. She would take out her digital camera and squat above the nearest round bone she could find. Peering between her smooth, rounded thighs she would moan at the deteriorated condition of the taut leathered skin that the candlelight displayed for her. How, with each visitation, the leathery covering would slowly reveal more of the white headbone beneath. She would have wanted to touch, to caress more but she dared not to for fear of him deteriorating too rapidly. The camera flash lit the inside of her cave as she took her first picture of the man's skull laying there in the dirt between her white, warm thighs.
Her second image was of the dark sadness of the empty eye sockets that she loved. She moaned at the large gaping hole where a man's mouth and tongue had once been. The dried skin still clinging to jaws and cheeks. Her third flash captured the empty mouth and the taut skin gave him an appearance that he was screaming. With images as overwhelming as this, she would start trembling. Slowly she would stand with camera around her neck and remove her panties, before squatting down to spread her legs wide and part her hot, moist labias with one hand. Her other hand would hold the camera.
.... There is more of this story ...