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.
The wracking sobs continued. 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. 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.
***** Canvas Hell 4: Discovery Day By Bear Pup
T/T; self-discovery; confession; confrontation; masturbation; busted
Morning arrived and Karl and I both were quiet and reserved. I was terrified of hurting him more with a misplaced word or gesture. Karl would not meet my eyes at all. We made our way to the Hygiene Hut in hopes of arriving whilst there were still a few "towels" available. As previously, our early-rising habits paid off.
I watched in something like grief as Karl stood under the drip of water, forehead against the wall. I knew he was in incredible pain, and had no idea how to lessen it. I finished first and left him to soak; I was dry when he finally, lethargically emerged. I passed him a handful of the near-useless towels. He dried and we dressed, arriving at the mess hall before the triangle pealed.
So, I was tried from a restless night, upset about Karl and suffering serious caffeine withdrawal. How else could I explain marching up to that Major and saying, "Where is the coffee pot, sir?"
"Don't you think you're a little young for coffee, son?"
"No, I think I'm a completely useless at this godforsaken hour without it. Please, sir, where is the," he watched as I struggled to find a non-obscene expletive, "um, 'durned' coffee, sir?" The Major actually laughed.
"Greg, go get this young man some brew. Put it in a regular glass, please; we don't want a stampede." Greg moved behind the screen that protected campers from witnessing the horrors committed in the kitchen. The Major turned back to me and whispered, "But I warn you, young man, the coffee is 'durned' near worse than the food. If you aren't cussing or crying after the first sip, you're probably destined for the Navy."
I was shocked that I'd even approached him; I was now gobsmacked that it had worked, and that the Major was really a pretty cool guy! Greg returned with a milk-glass that, had anyone been astute enough to notice, streamed in a very unmilk-like fashion. I made a hasty retreat and joined Karl, who had loaded two trays whilst I was engaged, a really thoughtful gesture considering his own anguish that morning.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked suspiciously.
"That, my dearest friend, was about the elixir of life." I showed him the black sludge in the milk glass and his eyes shot wide. "Um, I know it's a lot to ask, but can I have just a sip? Oh, God, please? I am so jonesing for coffee right now!"
I took a sip. I was easily as vile as the Major had intimated. "You can have half, but you're not going to thank me after." I passed him the cup and watched the contortions of his face as he swallowed. He shuddered and passed it back, and we both set into the breakfast. As I had, Karl noticed that the only way to have a safe breakfast was to focus on things that the "chef" would not have been able to ruin; fresh fruit, cereal, milk. By the time we were finished, the mess hall was awash with boys and our precious coffee well (if not enjoyably) consumed.
Something drew my eye. About a quarter way round the mess hall, I spotted Jim huddled over a bowl, immobile. It was then that I noticed The Buggers had just settled at the table behind him. Jim started to shake. I couldn't hear what The Buggers were saying, but it had a terrible effect on the boy. Suddenly, Bugger 3, Winston, turned and leaned to whisper in Jim's ear. The boy's mouth opened as if in a silent scream and he bolted from the tent. The Buggers laughing maniacally.
Jim made it to a trash barrel before puking up whatever breakfast he'd managed to consume. Considering the nature and quality of the food, I was not surprised that such a sudden exit with explosive consequences went unnoticed by the adults.
I turned to Karl. His face was a porcelain mask of dread and horror, showing me that he'd observed the same events. I'd never seen someone so white as to be grey, lower lip aquiver and the rest of him utterly immobile. I knew anything I did would make him feel worse. I jumped up and ran after the fleeing Jim. I got outside the tent as I saw him round the corner of the Admin building. I was in hot pursuit and go to the corner just as Jim disappeared into the wooded slope above which were the adult cabins. As unskilled as I was at outdoorsmanship, his crashing and reckless progress was pretty easy to follow. I caught him up as he leant against a towering beech, heaving up spittle and bile as his stomach had nothing else to give.
He hadn't heard me and squealed in terror when I whispered his name. He spun, back to the tree, the picture of a wounded and cornered animal. Eyes wide and streaming. Breath coming in ragged, sucking gasps. He managed to say, "Please don't. Please don't hurt me," the last whispered words fading as his knees gave way and he collapsed in a mess of sobs against the bole of the tree.
I jumped forward as he fell and managed to keep him out of the muck he had just sicked up. He latched onto me like a toddler finding his lost mother and simply wept. A calm and reserved compartment inside me thought, 'There seems to be a lot more crying at this camp than there was when I was 13.' I shook the ignoble thought aside and concentrated on soothing the boy in my arms.
Suddenly the tears stopped and he looked up at me aghast. He tried to leap to his feet and failed, but pushed at me. "No. Go away. I'm fine. Don't touch me!" I ignored all of that and more. He really had not the strength, being a 14-year-old just starting to put on his growth; he soon tired. A final, despairing whisper, "Just do what you want. I want to go home." The tears started again, not the wracking sobs of anger or fear, but the pouring tears of despair and surrender.
"I won't hurt you. I won't let anyone else hurt you. Your name is Jim, right?" He nodded into my chest. I knew I had no real talent for making people feel better; look how horribly I'd done last night with Karl! But I had to do something. "It's not you, Jim. Those evil fucks have done that to other boys, too."
Jim stiffened as if electrocuted. His head snapped up to look at me and his voice was weak, but steely. "No, no one did any, anything to me. You're wrong. I'm not that boy. It was, was some other boy. No one..." he was looking at me as his voice simply... vanished. He could tell by my look that I knew the truth, and that I was not judging him. "I know that I'm sick. I know I'm some sort of pervert. They were ri ri right. I'm disgusting. Please, please, please just let me die. Please oh please oh please, God, let me die now."
Okay, that was a little much. I shook him roughly. "Shut the hell up, Jim. That's stupid." That got him to look at me, but now with anger. "You're not sick, THEY are. Look at what they DO to people. There ain't a boy alive that doesn't, you know, get off if someone plays with, um, it long enough. You're not sick; you're not a pervert; you are a victim of those three evil fucks. And you're going to help make sure they can't do it to other boys. You'll help me, won't you? You'll help me stop what they're doing?"
"NO! NO! Nothing happened to me. Nothing! Can't you hear me? NOTHING happened. I am never going near them again. I am going to call my p'p'parents and g'go home."
"You are the kind of man that lets other boys get molested just cuz you don't want to..."
"WANT?!? I CAN'T! I'm not ANY kind of man! Don't you get it? Don't you understand? They were RIGHT. I DID enjoy it! I WAS looking at their, th, their dicks. I LIKED IT." His wracking sobs returned. "I want to die. I want to go home."
I clung tighter as he struggled. "I don't want you to die. I saw how you reacted last night and I saw this morning. You're a good man, or you will be soon. I want you to be a friend, not a corpse. Will you let me be a friend, Jim?"
His look of open incredulity was almost comical. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm a, a, a queer! NO ONE wants to be friends with a freak! Are you insane?"
"Maybe. But I think I can spot a decent human being when I see one. They HURT you. They did things NO ONE should ever do. If someone, you know, jacked me off {yes, I blushed} I'd like the physical part, sure. But you hated the rest of it. Even if you are, you know, like that, what does it matter? There aren't enough good people left; we have to try and stick together to prevent people like The Buggers from ruining the rest."
"Um, The Buggers?" Kim's head was spinning, but I found it amusing that out of all that, my nickname for the three pricks was the one that stuck.
Luckily, he was a Tolkien reader as well, so the Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and Buggerfur explanation was simple. I left out Karl as much as possible, but his taunt in the Hygiene Hut (I said, 'another boy like them') and my own meltdown was left intact. As was 'me and my tentmate's' accidental witnessing of Jim's humiliation. The mundanity of the conversation settled Jim; he stiffened at mention what they'd done, but the tears were gone. We heard the triangle ring once, a signal that we had fifteen minutes to get to our first session.
"Let's get to the Hygiene Hut and clean ourselves up a little before class." I hauled Jim to his feet.
"I. Um, I don't think I can do it," he said in a small voice, more like he was 10 than 14. I very carefully ignored him.
"What's your first class?"
"Canoeing."
"PERFECT! Me too! We can go together. I am pretty sure that my tent-mate is doing canoeing, too, so we'll have backup if we need it." I smiled and got a not-quite-grin in return. I considered that real progress. We made it to the Hygiene Hut. I had Jim wash his face and rinse out his mouth with the euphemistically-named "toothpaste" as I brushed us both off. We were really in no worse shape than a lot of the boys as we headed to the canoeing dock. I got there to find a shaky, unsettled Karl slouched against a pier-post. He did not look at all reassured that I was arriving with Jim.
Mr Sea popped out of nowhere and called us together. "Well, campers, we have an interesting coincidence this year. Everyone who chose canoeing also chose fishing, and the one guy who had fishing without canoeing decided on another subject instead! So you'll have double the time on the water every time we meet!" This was met with enthusiasm, since it meant actually more than double time since there would be no need to move from one subject to another.
He got us sorted into canoe teams. As a master of hiding, I was very good at watching patterns as teachers or leaders made groups. It looked like they had four-, three- and two-man canoes. I made sure that Jim, Karl and I were in the segment where three-man teams were assembled, and sure enough we got assigned a single canoe.
"Since this is our first lesson, I need to know. Is there anyone here who cannot swim? I ask cuz we're about to get into canoes and I guarantee that several of you will end up in the soup in the next 20 minutes. A few hands went up and Sea shuffled folks around a bit to ensure that each non-swimmer was in a canoe with two or more experienced boys. The next 20 minutes saw a lot of bedraggled young men dragged either back into a canoe they'd toppled out of, or onto the dock whilst leaders righted and drained the canoe they'd capsized.
Sea and a half-dozen of the leaders were encased in truly bizarre contraptions. These eye-rolling-yellow plastic things actually swallowed their lower halves, leaving the torso above with a single, double-bladed oar thing. He called them 'kayaks' and said we might get to try them toward the end of our trip.
"Okay, men, here is how today will go. We are going to canoe upstream {he pointed} for about 30 minutes to a cove. Normally, we'd rest there, turn around and come back. Instead, I'll pass out rods and reels and we'll start our first fishing session! FORWARD!" A pretty exuberant cheer greeted this and we were off. Mr Sea and the leaders flitted from canoe to canoe, explaining or improving strokes.
It turned out that Karl was a powerful and experience canoer; his upper-body strength and low build made him well-suited to the job. I was okay, but not as powerful, so we swapped and I sat in the stern, steering as much as paddling. Jim, between us, was also between us in strength and made the ideal middle-man. None of us spoke more than absolutely required, and I 'accidentally' made sure to steer us a bit further out in the river than the pack so we had relative peace and quiet.
It was shockingly beautiful. A colony of swifts darted and dove over the shallows, snatching bugs for their breakfast and gossiping amongst themselves. We could hear the leaves massaging each other in the breeze and the sound of our own paddles propelling us forward.
The half-hour journey was just about right. I was beginning to ache and Jim was pretty done in by the time we reached the 'cove', an eaten-away flank of the river now off the primary watercourse. We arrived more to the front than middle and sculled about waiting for the laggards to arrive. It turns out that one of the trailing canoes had capsized, so this took longer than expected. Sea used the time to pass out the tackle that two leaders had ported in the supplies canoe. He'd go to the larger boat and grab the right number of rods and a tacklebox, then paddle over to a canoe. It was then that I realised just how advantageous the kayak-thing was. He moved like a duck, bobbing and jinking around with effortless efficiency.
Other leaders in kayaks came round to show us how the reels worked and explain the use of stringers to novices and all the other trivial detail required when you had first-time fishermen around.
We'd be using lures today. Live bait would be on Wednesday. He told us all to select a particular lure. It was two flashing-silver flat teardrops, one slightly smaller than the other. He had us attach then where the worm would have been sacrificed. I was glad; I loved fishing but hated the texture of slimy worms, especially after you hooked them. Ick. When I used bait at home, it was either crawdads my father and I had caught or shrimp we bought.
Sea had us spread out and I took the opportunity to put us well upstream of the rest and on the far side. The nature of fishing with lures meant we couldn't group closely anyways, but I wanted the privacy. We had barely got our lines wet when Jim's pole twitched then bend. He was as shocked as we were and nearly lost his grip (I shudder to think of the collection of poles at the bottom of that river after decades on amateur anglers from Camp Sin). He had snagged a nice little 7" bream with brilliant iridescent blue and purple on its face. I was really struck by its beauty (and oddly by the tableau of Jim, flushed and happy, holding the wriggling critter with Karl almost-smiling in the background).
Sea noticed this and paddled over. He took a look and shouted (man, did his voice carry over water!) "First catch goes to MISTER CONNER!" Jim blushed hard. Mr Sea came right alongside. "There's not any real eating in those, and we don't need the bait. Also, I doubt that's the catch you want to trophy, mount, son." He walked Jim through the plier-work of detaching the fish relatively unscathed. Jim happily led it splash back to its home, probably replete with horrifying tales of being abducted by aliens and gill-probed before the monsters dumped him in the fish-version of a roadside ditch.
Mr Sea paddled off to another catch. Several boys had gotten bites or strikes, but failed to land the prize. Jim was intent on his gear, readying for another cast. "So, your name is Jim Conner?" I watched as his blush deepened and added a nearly-mournful frown. If we hadn't been on a silent river many yards from other fishermen, I never could have heard his mumbled reply.
"No. my name is Jamie. I decided this summer to have people call me Jim. It seemed so much more manly. I, I," a tear leaked past his clenched lids, "I guess that doesn't really matter now. Being, you know, manly." The boy choked and went silent.
I nearly jumped out of the boat when it was Karl who answered. They were the first words he'd spoken since we changed places, and even then it had been more grunts and single-word statements.
"I like Jamie, it's a cool name. But you're right; you're more of a Jim. You ARE more manly that a Jamie. Your choice, though. We'll call you whichever you like."
Jim/Jamie stared, frozen, at Karl's blushing face. "But. But you, you know what they di, did to me! You kn-know what I am!"
"Nope, Jim. We know what they tried and failed to turn you into. You're not the first. They love this sick, disgusting game." Karl's words dripped venom and, I realised, self-loathing. "I'm pretty sure that at least two of them actually are queer."
Both Jim (Jamie left in the dust of the juvenile past) and I sat in slack-jawed silence as he said this. Karl continued is a flat, almost clinical voice, "Yeah. They torture kids because they hate themselves so much. It's like they think that by make others hurt so bad, their own problems can be laughed away." Karl was not looking at us, or even the water. It was like he was staring at the riverbed through the solid bottom of the boat, lost in some private turmoil. Unlike Jim, I knew that he was.
"But how can you know that?"
The three of us sat in awkward silence. Just as I was about to crack, Karl's line jerked hard. He scrambled to control the rod as line shot out. Something took his lure as it fell toward the bottom whilst Karl's attention was elsewhere; that something was not at all happy. We watched as he fought it, line shooting left, then right. I think Karl was as shocked as we were when we caught a flash of pearl-white. The fish thrashed as Jim grabbed the net. Between the two, they were able to get the thing into the boat. It was most certainly not a happy fish.
Several inches longer and much fatter, it was equally beautiful. Flashing white, pearl and light grey, the fish was flipping whenever it could reach the gunwales or bottom of the canoe. We waited for Mr Sea, but one of the young leaders skimmed over to us. "Nice! It's a White Bass. Nice size, too. Who hooked it? The already-impressive Mister Conner?" We pointed at Karl mutely.
"Hold it up, man. That's a nice catch!" The leader pulled out a Polaroid camera. Karl extricated the fish from the net, one hand in the mouth and the other at the tail. Karl's face was a mixture of pride, embarrassment (every boy is embarrassed by the slightest attention) and we found out later, pain. Just before the leader snapped the photo, the bass bit down HARD on Karl's thumb. The flash popped and the whirring magic of the camera sang out. The leader handed him the slowly-resolving photograph then helped Karl unhook and release the catch. Nothing short of a true trophy fish would be kept today.
We went back to fishing for about 15 minutes. Sun angle suggested we had perhaps another 30 minutes, 15 to fish and 15 for the quicker, downstream return journey. Between casts, Karl suddenly spoke.
"I know because they live in the part of Scranton that I do. We don't go to the same school, but they'd seen me around," Karl spoke as if reading from a newly-written script. Hesitant. Unsure. Tentatively. "At Spring Break, they spotted me whilst I was fishing off a weir. They came up and tried to bully me, but I am not easy to bully and gave it back to them. They didn't seem like terrible guys, just rough and crude which seemed kinda cool." I could see a tear on Karl's cheek. Jim sat frozen.
"We met a couple of times. We went to the skating rink once. When we were putting normal shoes back on, Winston (he goes by Winner) leaned over and asked if I was up for some real fun. I thought he mean maybe a beer or a joint or a Playboy, so I said yeah." Karl paused for a long time, then drew a ragged breath.
"As we left the rink, Winner went up to this kid. Maybe 13? Spoke to him. Laughed with him, buddied him up a bit and asked is he wanted to join us. Winner is a big guy. Impressive. The kid was really jazzed to be included."
"Karl, you don't have to do this," the voice was mine.
In the same flat, horrified tone, Karl continued, "Yeah. Yeah, I do. We laughed and joked and I noticed we were headed to the weir where I'd met them. It was secluded and quiet. They pulled the same 'taking a leak' thing like they did to you, all of us pissing into the river. They used the same lines. The same dares. The same taunts. They..." there was a quiet sob, "WE brought the kid off. It seemed dangerous and cool at first. Where was the harm? Every guy jacks off. Why not have fun with it? I was laughing with the other three.
"Winner and Mikey and Bobby used words I'd never thought I'd hear, to a little kid. They made him cry whilst milking him. It stopped being fun, but I'd already gone this far. The kid was red and bawling like a baby when they made him shoot. They were still taunting him as he ran off, tripping over his pants and trying to get back up.
"I've never heard laughter like that. It was evil. A part of me wanted to chase the kid. To apologise. To make it hurt less. I didn't. I didn't have the guts." Another sob.
"Karl, don't!"
"NO!" came the fierce whisper. "Jim deserves to know. I didn't see them again until I got off the bus. They came over and greeted me like an old pal. I hated myself, but no one else seemed to even look at me. I felt... contaminated. Fouled. Why would anyone want to be around me after what I'd done? After we got to the tent and unloaded, I went back to the main square and they found me. We started to walk and they hooted and hollered and laughed that terrible laugh.
"The boy we'd... done that to. His name was Jeremy. He went to their school. Some religious one so all the grades are there together. They... they." A long silence, unbroken.
"They tormented the kid the rest of the year. Bumped him. Whispered the most horrible, foul things to him. Taking his money. Forcing him to, to, I can't even say it. To do terrible things. And they kept laughing. I hated myself so much. I went into the pisser and Patrick was there. I couldn't hold in all the conflicting things and I, I said something horrible just to impress these awful, hideous, EVIL boys."
"That was you?" Jim turned to me, "That was Karl, what you told me?" I just nodded mutely.
"But WHY?"
Karl said nothing, but we could see tears dripping off his down-pointed nose.
"He's been killing himself over it ever since, Jim." Karl's eyes jumped to my face, shock and relief mixed. "He apologised to me when he thought I was asleep. I thought he hated me, but he thought I couldn't stand him. He thought I somehow sensed some defect about him. I didn't. Afterwards, we agreed to start over. The Buggers tried to pick on me and Karl stopped them, then just broke down. Cried, you know?" I looked at Karl. He made no indication that I should stop.
"When we were going round the campfires, we needed to take a leak so we went into the woods outside the fire-light. We heard The Buggers come by with you. We heard what they started to do. Karl dragged me away before, you know, before we heard everything. I don't know how we got back to the tent, but Karl was a wreck. I thought he was going to die from crying. He tried to chase me away, but I couldn't let him do that to himself. We're friends. All of us now. We're friends."
Jim looked from Karl to me and back, over and over. He was shaking like a leaf and clutching his tummy. All of us jumped a foot the Mr Sea's whistle erupted and he announced through a bullhorn (that he didn't need, trust me) that it was time to reel in, clean the tackle and head back.
Not another word was spoken as were paddled back to the pier. Jim used his sleeve to wipe away the tears and snot when he thought no one would see. Karl used the tail of his tee-shirt. They didn't see since I was in the back, but I used my shirt as well. We were sombre but presentable when we got back. Jim got a little cup-thing for First Catch. Karl's white bass wasn't the largest (that went to a kid who got a really feisty pike) so we slipped out before any other stuff could go wrong. We had 30 minutes before lunch. Jim followed us in silence to our tent.
All three of seemed surprised when Jim said, "Wow, you guys are some of the lucky ones with a tent, huh?"
I honestly can't say why, but that struck me hilarious. What I thought was a doom beyond words and that had set Karl on the path to despair was, to Jim, "good luck." I started laughing and sat heavily on my cot. Karl followed suit with deep belly-laughs. Probably out of confused embarrassment, so did Jim, with a sort of SCHNORK-hur-hur-hur noise. That sent both Karl and I into fits, and this one Jim got, so his laughter finally came out more freely (completed with schnorks). Jim collapsed next to me, which (we were teens) led to a tickle-fight amongst the three of us, all seeming to gang up on the others.
When that ran out of steam, all of us were dishevelled messes. Jim looked across as Karl and his smile drained away along with the colour in his face. Karl's eyes widened and I found I was holding my breath.
Jim's voice was shaking and cracked halfway through, but he was certain. "What they did to you was as bad as what they did to me. Can we be friends?"
Suddenly Karl was launched across the tent and grabbed Jim in very sloppy a bear hug. I guess the tickle war had broken the "Men Don't Touch" barrier. I flipped down the tent flaps and watched. Karl was smiling and crying; Jim was shocked but crying softly as well. Needless to say, yours-wimpily was weeping, too. Like the laughter before, this was a catharsis.
The two sprang apart as quickly as they'd come together, both blazing red with embarrassment. I didn't think of it at the time, but I realised much, much later that Karl's short pants seemed far more full than earlier, and that Jim bent quickly to tie his shoes; they were already tied.
We went to the Hygiene Hut, took care of bodily needs then headed over the mess hall, anticipating the call to lunch by only a couple of minutes. We sat together, talking about nothing at all. We were tense, all three of us, waiting for The Buggers to make their next assault on, well, any or all of us.
They picked a rather bad way to launch their attack. As they walked by, Winston poured milk into Jim's crotch and started laughing about the "HA! The little queer shot in his pants." Karl and I sat in silence because we saw what 'Winner' didn't; Major Bachgen had emerged from the kitchen area as Winston had went by and walked behind him just in time for the boy's attempt to humiliate Jim. The reaction was swift and efficient.
The Major's hand shot forward right about the time Winner got to the word 'queer' and latched onto the boy's ear; the word 'pants' became something more like 'pantYOWCHshit!' The Major never even broke stride. Maintaining his pace he walked out of the tent dragging the horrified 'Winner' from the tent.
Silence reigned until a small boy nearby began to pound his tray and whoop. The sound was echoed by others, presumably all intimidated, threatened or molested over the last couple of days. Soon the whole tent was washed with the clatter and the adults shouted down the din and restored order. During the commotion, Mikey and Bobby showed their true colours. Not only did they not stand up for their lead bully, they fled as that first tray struck the table.
Eyes the size of saucers, the three of us simply stared at each other. The food, dismal as always, lay forgotten. As if by common consent, we rose together and cleared our mess trays, heading straight to the Hygiene Hut. We helped poor Jim rinse the milk out of his trousers whilst he stood in slightly-damp boxers trying to shield his modesty with a hopelessly-tiny towel. Neither Karl nor I commented, and Jim's shade had come down from the initial crimson blush by the time we handed him his still-damp but presentable pants.
Our afternoon was Land. I shared the first item, Leatherworking, with Jim (Karl had a Free Period) was in and the two of them shared the second session, Wilderness Survival while I had a freebie. Jim and I both enjoyed the initial sessions where were learned the tools we'd be using the next month. Both of us loved the smooth surfaces and scent of the scraps we used to understand what each beveller, pear, shader and swivel knife would do to the face of the hide.
We met Karl coming from the main camp and he and Jim went toward the Wilderness survival session, today held in a clearing at the edge of the forest. I decided to use the time to take care of some pressing business. For the first time, Tent Canvas Hell had a wonderful feature invaluable to a healthy teen -- privacy.
I was already hard before I even got the tent. I stepped in, noticing that the flaps were down. I'd have to ask Karl, cuz I figured we should leave them open as much as possible. I went inside and the reason for the flaps was immediately obvious. My erection went into throbbing overtime as the scent of cum smacked me; I was apparently not the only camper to use a freebie for the purpose I had in mind.
I laid back and hooked my y-fronts under my balls. I loved the pressure against the base of my dick; each time I moved, it felt like a lover was caressing me there. I pulled the front my tee over my neck to prevent stains and laid back. I conjured up my favourite wank fantasy. Sherry Vale was stunning. She was a year older and treated anyone in a lower grade as untouchable, but she was also a cheerleader. I got to see LOTS of her, and the parts I couldn't see only fuelled my fantasies further. I pumped and pumped, much longer than I would normally need to blow a quickie. I switched from underhand to overhand. I tiddled the tip and long-stroked the shaft. The nerves just below the ridge of my glans were exquisitely sensitive and I almost purred at the sensation.
I was a virgin and frankly assumed all the other boys were as well (how wrong I was on so many levels). Locker room braggadocio was not the same as first-hand experience. I snickered at the accidental pun; maybe the brags were actually evidence that my peers had nothing more than first "hand" experience. My erection loved the attention, but somehow Sherry wasn't working for me. A stray thought interrupted me, "Don't you get it? Don't you understand? They were RIGHT. I DID enjoy it!" Jim crying out his self-loathing, but also sparking a thought, and a twitch in my prick. What would it be like...?
I physically shook the thought off. Not Sherry... how about Darlene? Not a cheerleader, but huge tits and everyone claimed she gave head if you were a letterman and a team starter.
The idea of 'getting head' was mysterious and erotic. What was a blow job? How did it work? Lips and tongues and my dick and Darlene's face below me, tits on display. I pumped to that theme for a long time as well. Suddenly, the voice was back, "I LIKED IT... I'm a, a, a queer!" Jim replaced Darlene's image. His blushing face when he held his bream, so beautiful. His lips pouted a little, pink and soft. What would it...? My dick lurched. STOP IT!
I turned a little to one side. It let me keep stroking but also made it easier to rub my abs and balls, something I'd always loved. I saw something under Karl's cot. A bandana, but not the blue one he'd worn today. Maybe yesterday? This one was red; what colour did he have on yesterday? But why under the cot? I reached over with my non-occupied hand (like YOU would stop pulling your pud?), the closeness of the tent making it so I didn't even have to stand. As I pulled it from its hiding place, a blast of that cum-smell -- equal parts testosterone, frustrated need and innocence -- smacked me. Then I felt the wetness.
I was instantly revolted, dropped the disgusting... yeah, never mind. I knew I should do that, but what I really did was rub my fingers back and forth, feeling the slimy mess contained between the layers. This was Karl at his essence. Like a man hypnotised, I gradually brought it closer to my face. A corner of the bandana moved and I saw and smelt Karl's spunk. I took a shuddering breath... and EXPLODED. I must have dumped a quart of heavy cream. As I cleaned up later, I found it in my hair and even on the tent fabric above the cot. I had never cum so hard. It actually frightened me.
Then I realised; I came because of Karl's, you know, stuff. What the hell was wrong with me?!? A wave of confusion rushed through me, guilt and disgust for sure, but also intense wonderment. My hand, however, was on autopilot. Without conscious thought, my body decided I was through cumming and -- hey! lookie here -- I'm holding a cloth. I started mopping up my load. I was about three swipes in, still stunned by the nature of my eruption, when I realised what I had done.
I flung the bandana to the side; it landed with a squelch on Karl's cot. 'I'll wash it! That's it! Wait... if I wash it he'll know.' Whilst the internal monologue progressed, I robotically grabbed my own cum rag (an ancient handkerchief, soft and smooth and gentle) and finished cleaning my mess. I got the cum off the tent, wiped what I could out of my hair. 'How about if I wash it, then cum it in myself? Wait, what if he knows his own... Is that even possible?' Various scenarios went round and round as I stared at the fold of red cloth.
Suddenly the tent flap pulled back and Karl stepped inside. I saw his eyes go to my forehead (still wet with streak of cum), my tee shirt still hitching behind me, my chest glinting wetly, the bandana I'd been staring at. When he got to the bandana, very much not where he'd left it, I knew I was so busted. Wide eyed disbelief flooded Karl's face as he realised (a) I knew he'd just jacked off; (b) I'd touched his cum rag maybe even his cum; (c) I had wanked too; and {insert cartoon eye-pop here} (d) I might have sprayed knowing all of the above. FUCK!
Big thanks go out to a number of folks who liked the series and gave me great ideas, especially Roger, Frank, AX, Jason, Silent, Jerry, John and Sam.