I am now fifty and have hooked up with Susan, thirty-eight. We have rented a beach-side house south of Sydney for a week's holiday. Susan is very proud of her body - slim, athletic, shapely. She jogs most days, except for the day she does half a kilometer in the pool. She practices yoga, and eats healthily. When I see her naked, it feels like I am attracted to a very young woman.

I think this was our first morning. She tells me she is going for a jog, and will be back in about an hour. Off she goes towards town. The beach is on the other side of the road. There are a few houses that side, but mostly it is open space, with a few bushy sections, and the occasional grassy park, between the road and the sandy beach. On our side of the road there are very few vacant blocks.

She has been gone for about fifty minutes, so I leave the house, with movie camera, to catch her return. I walk about a hundred metres towards town, to the nearest open park-like section, and wait for her to appear. When I catch sight of her, I train the camera on her, and focus on her as she approaches. About ten metres from me, she turns down towards the sand and the ocean. The camera follows her. She quickly disposes of her shoes and socks, and as she jogs towards the sand, off come her top and her tight gym pants. She is now fully naked, unrehearsed, and unconcerned.

The camera remains focused on her as she crosses the sand and runs into the water. She splashes about like a child, laughing at the camera, jumping the small waves, and clearly enjoying her ad lib nakedness. She frolics, she dives under some small waves, and each time turns to the camera to make sure it is still concentrating on her. Then she starts to walk back towards the sand, her arms stretched above her head as she wrings the water from her hair. She is pure beauty.

As she crosses the sand towards the grass, she turns her head to the left, and a look of mild apprehension comes across her face. The camera follows her gaze, and is now focused on a youngish male jogger entering the grassy area from the left. His gaze naturally is focused on the naked Susan, not watching where he is going. There is a narrow concrete path from the road, across the grass, and terminating at the sand. Near the road is a white post, in the middle of the path, probably there to prevent vehicular access. It is about a metre high.

Our jogger collides with the post. He has not slowed down, so the impact is obviously painful. He hits the post firstly with his knee, and then the top of the post buries itself into his groin. He falls to the ground, in agony. Into the picture arrives the naked Susan, clearly concerned with the plight of her voyeur, but unable to suppress a gentle laugh nonetheless. She offers her hand to help him up, but he is too embarrassed to accept it. He staggers unaided to his feet, mutters something inaudibly, and the half hobbles, half jogs, back along the road.

As he disappears, Susan breaks into unrestrained laughter, picks up her clothes and shoes, and we walk back to our holiday house. She does not feel the need to put the clothes back on, as it's only a short distance. No doubt the occupants of a passing car appreciate her reasoning.

Until now, I did not know Susan to be so uninhibited with her nakedness.

She knows this delights me, and I look forward to giving this aspect of her make-up every chance to flourish.

Back home, Susan remains naked, sunbathing on the deck, but not in general view. She cannot sit long in the sun. She has that gorgeous alabaster skin, common to those born in the UK. After a short while she tells me she is going downstairs to wash the car. The car is parked on the steep driveway leading up to the house, and just outside the garage, which is locked and unavailable to tenants. There is a tap adjacent to the garage door, but no hose. She takes a bucket from the kitchen and dons one of my white t-shirts that barely covers her private bits. The car is some twenty metres up the drive.

I watch as she fills the bucket from the tap, and douses the car. As she stretches up and over the car with sponge in hand, the t-shirt creeps up revealing her gorgeous bottom. As she bends to reach the lower sections, another aspect of that sensational bottom is on view. She stays mostly on one side of the driveway, as the other side is protected by the fence, limiting the view from the house, and the street.

It does not take long for the t-shirt to get thoroughly wet. This results in two things. The shirt clings to her delicious breasts and becomes almost transparent. And when the shirt slides up to reveal that heavenly bottom, the wetness keeps it up, leaving the bottom in full view, even as she stands normally. The show is for my entertainment, but obviously also open to any passer-by.

A few cars pass without incident. Then one suddenly slows right out front. The car comes back more slowly on the other side of the road, as the occupants confirm that what they thought they saw was, in fact, real. Having passed, it then returns to park out front, on our side of the road. I watch, stooping out of sight, but able to see everything through the gaps in the deck's fence.

Of course Susan knows they are there. She is now meticulously washing away the soapy water by the bucket-load, and sponging the water off. There are four young blokes in the car, faces filling its side windows. Mostly she faces away from them, her bare bottom fully at their visual disposal. Occasionally she separates her legs as she bends, to enhance their pleasure. She slowly turns from time to time to allow a frontal view, after surreptitiously ensuring that the front of the t-shirt also stays up. She avoids eye contact, however.

The car windows are now down, and some comments are forthcoming. She pretends not to hear them. The driver's door opens, and the driver gets out, stands, and asks Susan if she needs help. She now realises that it is time to finish the exhibition, so she responds that it is typical of a man to offer help when the task is complete. She picks up the bucket, washer and sponge, says goodbye, and escapes into the house.

The driver stays standing by the car, contemplating his next move. Eventually he gets back in and drives off. Susan is exhilarated, wet inside as well as out.

"It's great being a woman! Blokes can't get away with that."