A small hill

A small hill with thick tame grass, a chill breeze. Sitting cross-legged on the hill, sweating hard from running up, the breeze is acute and cuts through a thin cotton T shirt. Taking off my hat it runs into my hair. I shiver suddenly, and lie back on the grass. It's like a well kept lawn, no nettles, no weeds, but the grass is long and freer than close-cropped turf.
The sky is empty of clouds, and a light, flat blue. The breeze suddenly ceases and I become acutely aware of my nakedness. I start to shiver and curl up. My limbs seem long and awkward, and they don't fit together. I reach down and fiddle with my penis, my knuckles brushing the tips of the grass. My thigh is pressed against the ground, the grass warming and itching the skin.
I feel an erection rising, and soon I am masturbating, my nakedness forgotten. The wind has warmed but the sun is dimmed behind another cloud. I am sitting straight, my back tensed, my face upturned, unseeingly looking through the sky. My legs are open and wide. I revel in my nudity, spreading wide like a child in a king's bed. I feel exposed but thrilled, my passion in the open bare-skinned embrace.
My orgasm is fractured, beaten. I slump forward, my hand caught under me rolls and pulls the tendon. It hurts, but I stay forward.
The harsh tungsten lights are switched off. My orange fatigue suit is thrown at me by a guard with his trousers still round his ankles. It lands on my back, but I don't move. In the corner of my eye I can see two officers still masturbating each other. It's a you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours Freudian relationship, called "communism" by those "in the know". They're probably both straight, but three years can drive them to anything. A broad Texas accent orders me away, calling me an asian cunt. I can hear the fat in his voice without even looking at him.