A Pregnant Nudist Pt. 01

People stare at my belly. I'm not sure they even realize they're doing it, but they do. Constantly. I've had curves since I was 13, so you'd think I'd be used to this sort of objectification. I became acclimated to the sorts of stares women in general get, I think, but pregnancy has turned out to be something else entirely. As soon as I started showing about 4 months in, nearly every individual who happens to see me has their eyes glued to my midsection until I manage to get out of their view. By and large, folks don't seem to see pregnancy as in any way a sexual phenomenon (despite how it tends to begin...); it seems to me that, as a result of this, people who may feel embarrassed gawking at a woman under non-gestational circumstances feel entirely within their rights to look an expectant mother thoroughly up and down. "What an exciting time this is for you!" they appear to be thinking: "Let me celebrate on your behalf by attempting to x-ray the fetus with my bare eyeballs." Not at all creepy: thanks, everyone.

Maybe my situation made me particularly sensitive to all this. I was 40 and unmarried, and this had not at all been planned. When I got a positive pregnancy test a few weeks after a one-night stand and a few weeks before my 40th birthday, though, I quickly came to the realization that this could easily end up being my final opportunity to have a child. Motherhood was something I'd always wanted, and I was doing well enough in all but the romantic sector of my life to be able to comfortably manage being a single parent. Nonetheless, doing it on my own was generally not looked upon all that highly, even in our modern, supposedly enlightened world. So, yeah, I guess I did have my back up about the general public's prying glares. I was feeling self-conscious enough about my suspect situation without the world reminding me about my growing belly every three seconds.

It drove me especially crazy at work, where all my colleagues new damn well that I was not, and had not recently been, in a relationship. Both privately and professionally, I'd always preferred wearing more form-fitting clothing. Once I felt my body start to bloat 9 or 10 weeks into the pregnancy, I shifted into much baggier clothing. After being in my job for over a decade and consistently showing up in tight clothing, this sudden change in behavior drew enough staring and behind-my-back whispering that I quickly opted to revert back to my usual wardrobe. If my coworkers hadn't deciphered my condition when I briefly dressed more loosely, they certainly did once my belly unmissably inflated every piece of clothing that touched it.

So began the questions. "Are you doing this on your own?" "Whose is it?" "Did you mean to do this?" "What are you going to do?" Each more grating and more intrusive than the last. The women I worked with were worse than the men, adding to the universal queries an assumption that they were allowed to touch me whenever they pleased. Whenever they came and gave me their pitying smiles, they added unsolicited belly rubs to their claims that "You're going to be such a great mom, even without a man!" Thanks, ladies. With all this attention at work, it became challenging to get any of my actual job done; even more difficult to keep at bay my festering anxieties about the impending baby. Maternity leave could not come soon enough.

I hated going to work, hated going out in public altogether. Previously, I'd delighted in my time at the gym. Now, that was an especially unpleasant-sounding forum for being gawked at. Late in my second trimester and growing ever heavier this deep into the gestation, though, I started to reconsider this position: there was a pool I could use at my gym, and I was desperate to let the water absorb my weight and buoy me for a few blissful minutes. On the drive to the gym before work one Friday morning, I saw an exit for a local beach and just about swerved into the right lane to get off the highway. It was still a pretty chilly time of year, a temperature in which few would brave an ocean dip. I was large with child, though, and consistently overheated. The beach would doubtless contain fewer prying eyes than the gym: and so, a choice was made.

I used the public restroom to change into the relatively form-hiding one-piece I'd purchased at the start of this second trimester, just barely managing to enclose my swollen boobs, butt, and belly in the thin black garment. There were more people than I'd anticipated on the beach: not many, but enough to spoil my strong desire for privacy. I walked the length of the short stretch of sand, hoping a quick stroll might give the other beachgoers a chance to get lost. After making it all the way to one end and back again, I knew I had no such luck. There was, though, a "Clothing Optional Area: Adults Only" sign on one end. Was there anyone foolhardy enough to both visit a chilly beach AND strip down completely nude while doing so? I figured my chances were pretty decent that there was no such person. I had no intention of getting naked myself, of course, but the peace and quiet would be much appreciated over there.

Much to my delight, I found myself all alone in the "Adults Only" area of the beach. I walked a third of the way down this stretch of sand, dropped my towel and keys a few yards from the edge of the water, and carefully started getting my feet wet. It was bracingly cold, but I soldiered on, managing to get my belly fully submerged within two or three minutes. It hung there in the water, buoyant and feeling not entirely of my body. What a delight! It had been weeks since I hadn't felt like I was carrying most of a bowling ball just above my pelvis. I waded in a bit further, ignoring the chill to let the soft waves lap up to my chin. I jumped up and down, over and over again, feeling the detached weight of my bump hang a few seconds longer than the thin air's usual gravity would allow. Free of the heft for a few glorious moments, I couldn't keep the huge, goofy smile off my face.

One thing nagged at me, though: my overly tight one-piece was a little too constraining, preventing me from a true feeling of physical freedom. I pulled it down past my feet, walked a few steps toward the edge of the water (exposing my breasts to the air, but still no human eyes), and tossed the suit onto the sand. I stepped back toward the open ocean, again in all the way up to my chin, then continued to indulge in my delight. I closed my eyes, enjoying the childish act of hopping for a solid five minutes. I held my belly as it softly rose and fell, both palms rubbing it all over. They drifted, naturally, both up and down, soon caressing both swollen breasts and overgrown pubic mound.

My horniness snuck up on me, but felt undeniable in this excitingly natural state I'd found myself in. Two fingers from my left hand eventually settled on firmly pinching my right nipple; two fingers from my right ended up massaging my clit. I'd never attempted underwater masturbation; I was pretty pleased with how well my first foray went. I got myself off quickly and intensely, not shocking given it had been a solid month since I'd climaxed. Even as I shook with the pleasure of it, I tried to keep the orgasm as much to myself as I could, emitting as minimal of vocalizations as was womanly possible. This was still a public space, after all.

When I finally opened my eyes, I was no longer alone on the nude beach. There was a couple, a bit over middle-aged by the looks of them, halfway up the beach and about 20 yards nearer the nude beach boundary to my left. I couldn't help but wonder if they'd noticed my quiet orgasm; I can't say I cared that much either way, I'm surprised to admit. The couple were not the most impressive of physical specimens: I suppose traditional standards of beauty weren't the only motivation people might have for exposing themselves in public. Even in this chill, they were fully nude. Just sitting there together in their beach chairs, thick knee socks and wool hats keeping them warm against the overcast, windy day. I guess some folks just need to be publicly naked, even wearing just a few winter garments and nothing else to keep it feasible. It made me slightly uncomfortable to have people so near me while I was nude, but the water still fully hid my form. Anyway, I didn't once observe the woman nor the man even glance in my direction.

Nonetheless, even as I noticed myself getting chillier and chillier in the water, I felt hesitant about the bodily exposure that heading for my discarded swimsuit would require. They were probably experienced veterans of these places, probably wouldn't even look up at most other nude beachgoers walking by. A conspicuously pregnant one, though? Couldn't be all that common, and might still produce a gawk or two. I ran things through in my head a few times, but the facts remained unchanged: I was naked in the ocean, no clothes within reach unless I fully exposed my pregnant body to two older nudists. And I was getting ever colder. Action clearly had to be taken.

I turned my back to my fellow beachgoers and walked backwards until my heavy breasts were exposed, my round belly was exposed, my overgrown pubic area, and all the way down to my feet. Glancing behind me every step or two, I continued to move backwards until I could lean down for my swimsuit. They may have been looking at my bare ass, sure, but at least I kept the more obviously knocked-up portions of my anatomy to myself. I pulled the wet swimsuit on with considerable effort, then hustled back toward the border of the nude region. As I moved past them, I ventured a look in their direction. Neither was looking anywhere near me: the woman seemed absorbed in her novel, the man had his eyes closed. It seemed I was less interesting than I'd feared. Maybe they hadn't noticed the pregnancy, or maybe nudists were a lot more unflappable and less judgmental than the general public. I certainly appreciated it, whatever the actual explanation may have been.

I REALLY enjoyed my time publicly nude, I noticed as I arrived at the boundary that would require I put my clothes on. There, I hesitated. I turned back around, substantial belly now fully pointed towards the couple. Fuck it. In one impulsive motion, I yanked down my entire one-piece. I stepped out of the wet swimsuit and sat my moist expectant ass right on the chilly sand. I didn't bother to cover any part of myself, nor to turn away from the nude couple. I looked right at them, in fact, and aimed my body straight in their direction. Within 15 or 20 seconds, the woman happened to glance over: she smiled at me, and I smiled back and waved. Her eyes met mine and didn't wander. Not only was this nude woman not interested in checking out the more private areas of another nude woman; the fact of my obvious pregnant condition didn't seem to register with her whatsoever.

This, it occurred to me in a moment close to clarity, was what privacy and freedom felt like. Privacy wasn't just hiding your body, the body, it so happened, that you were quite fond of (proud of, even!) both pre- and mid-pregnancy. No, privacy was the ability to bare what you wanted sans harassment from other people in your vicinity. To be yourself, as you wanted to be, in relation to the world around you. This nudity-allowing beach gave me the freedom to expose myself without legal intervention. Mixing the libertine beach with its laidback clientele proved truly liberating. I would not have guessed that to find my freedom from the various emotional harassments of the world I'd have to completely surrender myself physically to it. Quite the discovery.

On my walk back to the public bathroom to change (passing through the boring, clothing-required section of the beach), I started fantasizing about getting to spend more time in the state of ecstatic liberation I'd just discovered. My mind went to a sign I'd passed a few times on a rural route 30 or 40 miles away: "Friendly Valley Nudist Colony." It had always seemed almost like a joke to me, something no one could ever possibly take seriously as a concept, let alone ever stooping so low as to set foot in the place. After getting the tiniest taste of this lifestyle, though, I was immediately resolved: I needed to visit, and soon. I pulled out my phone in the parking lot before entering my office. Upon searching, I was able to find a web site for Friendly Valley, but it looked like it was stuck in the 1990s. It used comic sans font, nearly unreadable red text over a bright green background, and an "Under Construction" sign on two of its three pages.

The semi-functional home page contained a photo of the street sign I'd previously passed and a photo of a modest building next to a pretty green patch of grass (no nude folks to be seen, disappointingly enough). It also had a section entitled "Contact," featuring their mailing address and a link to a Hotmail email account. Unsure that this place was still operational, I clicked the email link and shot off a quick question about whether they were still active. I was half-surprised that it wasn't immediately kicked back to me after I clicked "Send."

I entered my office, got to my desk and started taking care of a few daily morning tasks. An hour or so passed; I heard my phone buzz with a notification within my purse. It was a nudist (presumably) replying to my email. Friendly Valley was, in fact, still operational, and I was welcome to stop by whenever I pleased. I was provided no information beyond this, but I supposed it was enough to give it a shot. I finished out the day, pleased the weekend was about to start. I packed a bit that night, general items as I had no idea what might be in store for me at a nudist colony. I felt lucky for my gestational exhaustion that night, as I found myself almost giddy with excitement but could never make it past 10:00 PM with my constant pregnant sleepiness. I woke up eager and ready to go at 6:00 AM, showered and packed up a few final things before getting in the car and starting on my way.

It was a two-and-a-half hour ride through a mostly pleasant rural setting. Excited through the first half of the trek, I became more and more anxious upon closer approach. Approaching within twenty-five miles, my demeanor changed drastically. Horniness returned, accompanying thoughts about the possibility of getting nude with strangers. My right hand slipped down into my sweats and panties, right to my wet and waiting pussy. I rubbed myself enthusiastically, left hand leaving the steering wheel at safe-ish moments to grip and massage my pleasantly plump belly. A mile or two into this session, I came. It was nice to cum in my car, away from the possibility of spectators as I had at the beach: I was able to voice my pleasure as much as I wanted. And I wanted to voice it pretty damn loudly, it turned out. My breathing slowed as the orgasm subsided, happy neurotransmitters helping me relax as my mind returned to wondering what I would find at Friendly Valley.

I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Was this a crazy thing to do? Could I really expect whomever I was to find here to be kind, based on a tiny sample of two disinterested naked beachgoers? It seemed crazy. Those few minutes nude on the beach without a care in the world, though, fully enjoying myself in the world: I simply had to chase that feeling. I pulled in to their long, unpaved driveway. After a half-mile or so through dense woods, I arrived at a modest, single-story white building. Still no nudists visible. I got out of the car, approached the door of the unlabeled structure and tried the knob; I entered cautiously, eyes adjusting as I exited the sun and tried to decipher my new surroundings.

It was a plain room I found myself in, shabby and undecorated. I could neither see nor hear anyone in the building with me, but the cheap desk in the center of the room had a little brass bell on it. I tapped the top gently to produce a modest ring, then waited nervously as the sound slowly died out. No one emerged from the two doorways opposite the one I'd entered; a minute or so later, though, a woman came in from outside, straightening her loose floral dress as she smiled warmly in my direction. "Welcome! First time?" I nodded silently; she chuckled. "Yeah, people are usually a bit worried when they get here. We're not so scary, though, don't you worry. My name's Vivienne, by the way." She was probably 60, thin with long grey hair. She looked like a hippie, which did not shock me.

"Sam." I put my right hand out; she shook it with both of hers. "Yeah, sorry, I guess I am pretty nervous. Never done this before."

"No need to apologize, Sam. I'm glad you're here. Just here to check us out, then?"

I nodded, grateful to be made to feel at ease. "Yeah. I went to a nude beach for the first time yesterday, and..." I paused, struggling to put it into words.

"You felt comfortable?" she perfectly finished my thought.

"Yes! I didn't expect it at all, it was a whim, but..." I rubbed my belly with both hands. "I've been struggling feeling so visible while I've been pregnant, like everyone's constantly staring at me. Somehow, the other people at the beach not giving a crap about me, allowing me to enjoy myself undisturbed...I don't know, it just really worked. I remembered driving past Friendly Valley, and thought I should come check it out."

She'd been nodding and smiling throughout my rambling. Once I finished, she extended an arm and put her hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you follow me?" She took my hand, and we exited back outside, heading around the building and a few yards down a path densely lined with trees. Suddenly, the trees parted and there was a beautiful, sprawling meadow in front of us. Bright green grass, assorted wildflowers, and brightly-painted wooden building created quite a pretty picture. Also, naked people and plenty of 'em.

I stopped in my tracks, taking in the many overwhelming sights in front of me. Vivienne's hand slipped out of mine; she took the opportunity to pull her dress up and off, revealing full-on nudity of her own. Both near and far, I could see it all. Cellulite-strewn thighs, swinging dicks of unimpressive proportions, saggy or non-existent tits, serious bushes, hanging asses: I noticed very few lookers in the bunch at first glance, and I absolutely loved it. These people weren't here to be attractive or attracted. This was for freedom, this was to enjoy the world and their bodies and each other...but not sexually. Just for physicality's own beautiful, natural sake. That's certainly why I was here, and I was feeling a grand affinity with this place already. Vivienne glanced back at me before wandering off toward her naked brethren. I suppose she saw the awe plastered across my face and realized I didn't need any hand-holding to get my bearings here. Following her lead, I wandered off myself, eager to take in the sights at closer range.

Naked people tended cute little gardens. Naked people read in plastic lawn chairs. Naked people touched up the paint on wooden buildings. Naked people hung damp clothes on clotheslines. Naked people greeted me with genuine smiles. Naked people freely shared their own stories when they saw the look of curiosity on my face. They'd been coming here a week, three months, eight months, three years, twelve years, thirty-four years. They spent every Sunday here, several afternoons a week, summers, all of the past decade. They contributed their skills of carpentry, conversation, lawn maintenance, psychotherapy, abstract expressionist painting, homeopathic medicine, accounting.

They told me anything I'd eventually like to give back to the community would be greatly appreciated, but there was no rush to speak of. They mostly wore nothing, though there was an occasional pair of boots or cardigan that seemed to be more an implement of warmth than of modesty: they frequently assured me, though, that I was under no obligation to remove my own clothing any more quickly than I was comfortable with. Crucially for my comfort here, none of them ever mentioned my pregnancy, even as at least one of my hands remained glued to my conspicuous belly.