Soul Journal

I went for a walk today, down a quiet road to a pathway that follows the ancient journey of a slow moving river. It’s a cool autumn day, and the local flora flouts delicious hues of orange, red and yellow. It’s a spicy concoction that smells woody and wet.

Drinking in the scents of a place and time is a favourite experience of my meanderings, and one that I savor gratefully. The freshness is invigorating, and I’m pleasantly surprised when my body becoming aroused at the sensuality of the riverbank environment.

The river laps quietly at the line of aged wooden trunks as I wander over the wooden boardwalk, and let my feet lead me to a secluded bench. I sit, feeling the cool air on my bare arms, the way it makes my soft cotton skirt dance around my calves. I breath in slowly, relishing the smell of rain that is not too far off. The threat of wet weather has deterred the regular path adventurers that live in the area, and this afternoon I am all alone on the riverbank. The trees and clouds are my company.

My hand reaches down, sliding over my waist and on over the top of my skirt to my warm mound. I rub it a little, enjoying the comfort of the touch, and the way my nipples begin to tingle as the want starts to pool in my stomach.

The branches sway overhead, making a rustling sound akin to slow breathing.

My fingers strum a little more steadily on the soft fabric between my thighs, and I tilt my head to one side as the delicate first drops of rain start to descend.