Never understood the meaning of clean-limbed until that summer, watching from the woods.
Every morning those girls emerged from their tents, stretching slender arms to the sky, their breasts outlined perfectly against flimsy nightwear.
They’d return from the showers, skin glowing, wet hair glistening in the sunlight and we’d yearn to be a fly on the inside of those canvas tents.
One morning they caught us. Damn near wet ourselves, expecting big trouble.
But that’s girls for you – unpredictable.
Difficult to tell which of us was horniest, but for sure it was a summer none of us will ever forget.
November almost over, thank goodness. It’s bitterly cold here, but a crisp, clear day with blindingly blue skies and we’re off out to enjoy the sunshine. Thanks once again to Rochelle, the multi-talented leader of our happy band of Friday Fictioneers.