Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
Karl looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. I knew nothing of sexuality in general and certainly nothing about my own, so I had no convenient label on which to hang the elated devastation those eyes wrought in my soul. All I knew was that I would die for Karl right then, just to have him look at me like that again. In that golden, priceless moment, that fucking triangle started clanging to draw us to dinner. I fucking hate that thing.
***** Canvas Hell 3: Creepy Fireside Story By Bear Pup
T/T/T on T; self-discovery; cruelty; molestation; masturbation
We both jumped, me from the jolt of the sound, but Karl looked frankly panicked. He couldn't look me in the eye and couldn't think where else to look. His breathing was deep and ragged; he honestly looked like he expected, and perhaps even stoically welcomed, betrayal of his weakness. Everything in me longed to comfort him, but I know it would be the worst decision I could make.
I rummaged briefly through the pocket of my backpack and seized a bottle of Visine. "I think you're allergic to something, Karl. Your eyes are red and puffy. Use my Visine and we'll talk to Greg about how to best deal with your allergies." I placed a lot of stress on that last word, giving him a clear indication that, far from betraying him, I would go out of my way to protect his confidence. He smiled tremulously then applied the burning drops (this was the 70s; no one thought something was medicine unless it was unpleasant).
He used a hanky to clean up his face as I rolled back the tent flaps. Light flooded the tent, bringing life back to Karl as well. We headed down to the mess hall. Karl was still something of a wreck, but held it together. I can't tell you what we ate that night. Yes, I was distracted but there are two very good reasons I can't tell you what they served; first, it was unidentifiable and second, describing it would be needlessly cruel to whomever might read this. Being teens, we ate it anyways.
Each "cabin" had fire-ring, and the centre of the camp had a larger one. George had told us over supper that those in tents were welcome to join any of them, just as the cabin-campers were free to move between them. Karl and started at the central one where hot chocolate was being served. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. One of the teen leaders had a guitar and having fun with some of the old camping sing-songs. Karl and I looked at each other, grinned, and moved on.
We made a rounds of the various campfires, making a sort of inventory. One seemed to attract storytellers and the most-gullible of the younger set, gasping in horror at whichever ghost story was in progress. I recognised "Creeping Barb Wire" from my first trip, knowing that the tale-teller would point out the barbed wire that had "driven itself straight through" a tall beech tree as proof of the wire's murderous power. Some kindly older person would eventually get round to telling the thus-terrorised teens that trees grow around anything that it attached to them and the barbed wire in question had been strung when the tree was a sapling. I knew from experience, though, that the boys would look askance at any roll of wire for years to come, reassuring themselves that the stuff wasn't really moving of its own accord.
A couple of the other fires were more musically-inclined, one with traditional "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore", "Kumbaya" and other clean-wholesome-Christian tunes intended to civilise the beasts that teen boys are by nature. The other was a lot more modern, with songs from Simon and Garfunkel, The Eagles and Jimmy Buffett's breakout hit that was still fresh on the airwaves, Margaritaville. The boozy and slightly risque nature of the tune was a big hit, especially amongst the older teens.
Lastly were the just-plain-campfire fire rings, where the roasting of marshmallows (and more frequently their immolation) leant a sweet overlay too the smoky redolence of the fires themselves. Horseplay was rampant as the boys burnt off the energy of the sweets. And naturally, with any conglomeration of teenaged boys, nascent pyromania made any fire ring the centre of attention for a dedicated cadre of fire dogs.
We managed to largely avoid The Buggers, glimpsing them across a clearing or fire-pit. We both decided to water the scenery about the same time and stepped away from the rim of light and into a nearby dark thicket. We chose opposite side of the same tree and had just finished and zipped, preparing to head back to the fire when we heard a branch snap. We froze and looked at each other's wide eyes. Whilst not gulled into a belief in the murderous One Eyed Jack or the creeping ghost of The Bound Boy, woods at night are by their nature eldritch and a bit spooky.
We both exhaled as we heard the voices. The Buggers were moving past us, deeper into the woods, and had a younger boy, maybe 14, with them. From our newly-damp thicket, we could see but not be seen, and we were far enough from the Camp proper that the woods held a soft silence. The Buggers moved past us, then moved into the deeper shadow that put our thicket between them and the stray glow of the fire pits.
"This is a good spot. Let's take a piss." It was the somewhat deep voice of Bugger 3. Shockingly, they didn't turn but unzipped right there. The non-Bugger was stunned.
"Wh-What? H-h-here?"
"Well, yeah, doofus," Bugger 2 speaking, "where else. Or you got suck a teeny weeny that you're scared to let us see?" All three older boys snickered. I doubt there was a boy alive who would have withstood such a challenge to his budding manhood.
The boy gulped, but unzipped. By this time, The Buggers had their dicks out and started pissing into the centre just as the younger teen freed his prick.
"Not bad for a little boy," sneered Bugger 1.
"Bigger than you, shit for brains," was the quick retort. The Buggers had obviously planned for exactly that response.
Bugger 3 purred, "Prove it, numb nuts."
"Wh-what? What do you mean prove it?"
Bugger 3 opened the button on his jeans and slipped the waistband of his y-fronts under his balls. Neither Karl nor I could see, but the motions were unmistakable. Karl tugged on my arm, but I was both fascinated and perplexed. What DID he mean, 'prove it'?
"Whip it out, little boy, and let's see if your dick matches your brag."
The other Buggers had also exposed themselves, leaving the boy no suitably-manly means of escape. He shakily copied and showed his package.
"Well," Bugger 2 sniggered, "I'd say he's got you beat, Bobby!"
"Bullshit. Watch!" The rapid hand motion was unmistakable to any teen boy; Bugger 1 was jacking himself to full mast.
"Go ahead, Jim, put up or shut up!" Again the taunt worked as Jim, the boy, worked to get hard.
"Can you even GET hard, little Jimmy?" Bugger 3 guffawed.
"Y-yeah. I just don't get hard looking at other guys' stuff, ya know."
That was the very wrong thing to say. All three Buggers went silent and menacing. Karl's tugging became insistent.
"You saying that cuz we can bone when we want we're queer. That what you sayin, little Jimmy?" The menace in Bugger 2's voice was unmistakable.
"No! N-n-no! I, I just..."
Bugger 1, the original challenger, took advantage as the boy's gaze locked with Bugger 2 and moved behind him. Before he knew it, the boy found his arms locked behind him, jeans and shorts yanked down.
Bugger 3, clearly in charge now, growled, "So if it makes us queer to get a bone, what does it make you that my hand is making you hard as a rock, huh?"
Jim squirmed and began to cry, "Please don't touch me there! Stop it!" Bugger 2 had locked his arms tighter and the boy squeaked. " Please! Please don't hurt me."
"Hurt you?" I could tell that Bugger 3 was frigging the boy roughly, painfully. His voice was a verbal leer. "You don't look hurt, you look like you're all turned on. Turned on by big boys with their dicks out for you to stare at you little pansy." The boy whimpered, but at his (our) age, the result was inevitable. He got harder.
Karl was now yanking my arm painfully as the three boys taunted and mercilessly jacked off the helpless youth. As they molested him, they made sure that he believed he was the pervert, the sicko, the queer. They mocked his helplessness, the size of his erection, the impending orgasm, everything. Karl finally resorted to physically dragging me back toward the fire. We were both shaking and visibly upset, but Karl was in a true and complete panic. We fled past the quieting fire pits to Tent Canvas Hell.
I tied the flaps as Karl face-dove into his cot, sobbing with pain and grief. I stood next to him, at a loss as to how I could comfort my new and obviously traumatised friend. I reached down and he jerked as if my hand was a branding iron on his skin.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I jumped back so quickly I sat heavily onto my own cot. "Just, just, just leave me alone! Please just leave me alone," he sobbed.
I sat still and silent, both stunned and worried, until he seemed to calm a little. "No."
His face whipped round toward mine. "What? No what?"
"No, I won't leave you alone."
Karl turned his face away.
"No, I won't let my friend," I placed heavy emphasis on the word, "be in so much pain without helping. Karl? Karl look at me." He did. "Karl, did they, did, did they DO that to you?"
The pain and humiliation and self-loathing contorting Karl's face hurt to watch, but what came next crushed him and me both. His voice was a sound of the damned recognising their fate, a primal howl of remorse and self-loathing, "No. No! They made me do... do that to another boy. AND I LAUGHED!"
The wracking sobs overtook him, his entire body clenching and writhing with agonised sobs. I sat in stunned silence. Karl was a victim twice. They'd somehow coerced him into victimizing a younger teen, then left Karl to torture himself thereafter. Then tonight, I accidentally made him relive the entire horror he'd experienced. It was monstrous. "Oh, Karl." All I could do was whisper as he cried and my own silent tears flowed in empathy. Eventually, Karl cried himself to sleep. I sat staring in the darkness at his sleeping form, utterly confused. I put my light camp blanket over Karl before finally falling asleep myself.