After some time, her long hair caught itself in some brambles, pulling at her.    She squealed, awakening, and sat up rubbing her head, wincing.   Her half-opened eyes were green, emerald, like cat-eyes shining through the mist.   She had a look like she was half-asleep.   Like a 'chick' that had just hatched, and was still sitting in her egg-shell, looking around all dewy-eyed, unfocused, not sure as to what to make of the world.  As if her eyes were still covered with egg-yolk.    Her lips, thick and pulpy, were hanging in a perpetual, open-mouthed pout, with no self-conciousness or awareness to close them.   An air of being 'bewildered', or 'not quite there'.
It made Tomek want to cover her with kisses, and hold the hatching chick in his hands.   

☼                ☼                 ☼

She jumped off the horse, and she did this by swinging her far leg up over the horse’s lowered head.  This meant that, for just an instant, she was facing Tomek with her legs spread completely wide apart, and he had a view-shot right up to her panties, — the white, cottony, concave isthmus there at her fond, before she slid off the horse onto the ground.   Like a beacon of white, a quick strobe, cutting through the fog.

That brief flash of her panties made his phallus spring immediately up.    It burned an indelible image in his mind, that would not go away, that he could recall vividly the rest of his life.

☼                ☼                 ☼

The nymph began playfully running in circles around the horse, waving her arms, giggling and laughing a little, and let out a shriek.    As she ran, making sudden twists and turns, playing with the horse, her knee-length skirt flew, rising like a frisbee platter 'round her.    Her hair also flew, wildly around her, so one could hardly see her face.   
It was clear that she wore no bra, (he would later learn that island women never wore bras), — her breasts moved too freely, bounced too gaily, swinging from side to side and around, beneath her dress as she jumped, played, and ran with the horse.
It was a thin, green dress, and as the sunlight filtered into the brume Tomek could sometimes catch a naked sillohuette of part of her moving form, maybe even a hazy, [sublime,] dreamy, outline of a bouncing bosom.

There was a jiggle and a bounce in her every step, like the rising and the falling of the ocean waves, all her wobbly parts set free.    Because she wore no bra, (no 'constrainer' as the islanders called it), every little tiny step made her dress top shimmer, wobble, and tremble, making it seem alive.    Even her gentlest breathing filled her bosom with shimmers, so that her front side was a sea of gentle lapping waves.    And when she turned suddenly, or ran, it was like a storm had hit her ocean, with her mountains heaving and rising and falling in giant waves, all over the place, crashing one upon the other, in a bosomly tempest.    It took quite a while after standing still again before her waves settled back to relative tranquillity.    And then she would move again.