Her breasts heaving, her nipples a dark dusky pink matching some of the flowers. Her fingers rolling, pinching, tugging her peaks. Something powerful ...as driving her. She was biting her lip, her face a picture, that if captured would move any man, or woman. Having led herself so far, her magical fingers danced down her tummy. Her legs parted, her own trimmed bush, equalling the best topiary within the garden. Her legs parted and fingers found their way deep in her form, her sheath swallowing. She looked up when she sensed my presence and gestured for me to sit on a low stool beside her.When I sat down, I could see that the photos in the album were fairly old. With a start, I recognized the clubhouse. I could clearly tell that the black and white picture had been taken many years before, but it was the same clubhouse that was the center of life in the camp. There were pictures of people too, nudists from the ‘50s.As she turned the pages, I got to see what life was like at the camp. More

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