Chapter
1: A Cold Wind
A rustle of wind blows in from the surrounding trees,
making me look up expectantly to the deep blackness of
the night. I yearn that HE might appear. I dream of his
gorgeous, tanned body. I imagine him walk out of the
darkness and into the clearing of my campsite, the
campsite of this frail and very anxious young woman. But
instead, I see only shadows, cast by the swaying
branches, illuminated by flickering flame of the burning
campfire at my feet.
The wind blows hard and cold, hard enough to sway my hair
over to one shoulder and cold enough to form a momentary
chill in the air. It tingles as it brushes against the
skin of my naked feet, legs, and bare thighs. Two drops
of cold water, one on my red, possibly sunburned shoulder
and the other at my knee, percolate down from the moist
leaves above, still moist from a brief and relaxing
thunderstorm from just an hour before. This causes me a
shiver and I am tempted me to reach for the blanket at my
side, but then I remember the heat of the day.
As Papa liked to say, the day had been "hotter than
a
roasted jalapeno in Baja." The sun shined bright and
the
humidity made it unbearable. It was a typical hot
Midwestern summer day, one of those days when the air so
heavy you just knew it was going to storm. And then it
did! Just as the sun went down, a thunderstorm roared in
from the northwest, bringing with it the wind and thunder
of an angry God through the trees.
I retreated into the confines of my stifling tent to let
it pass; praying all the trees remained upright and no
water gathered to flood my campsite and wash my little
body away. I found myself wishing HE sat with me,
protecting me, calming me as I sat helpless and alone,
listening to the thunder crack, the wind roar, and the
rain pound on the sides of my little tent like a thousand
angry fists.
And then it was over. It lasted only a few minutes, and
then it passed.
I crawled back out of the tent and into a different
world. Small branches lay strewn around the campsite. My
bare feet became wet on the soggy grass. It was a wet,
muddy, but also a much more comfortable world. I think
the storm dropped the temperature by a good 20 degrees,
enough to cause a chill in the air as I...
...now sit alone in face of the fire. The chill, however,
lasts only a moment before the roaring flame of the
campfire rises to my protection. It swells upward in the
breeze, flames leaping into the air and seeming to nearly
touch the overhanging branches. It radiates increased
warmth as though to apologize for the chill caused by its
misbehaving cousin, the wind.
I feel proud of the campfire; even a little surprised at
the ease it took to build. The last time I camped was as
a child, probably ten years ago. We used to camp often as
a family. I wished we still did, but the outings sadly
came to stop after my parents needed start paying tuition
for my five older brothers. Papa promoted education above
all else. His own experience as a southern immigrant
working in the farm fields of
provided ample reason. He said we had to "cut the
corners" in his own imperfect English, and the
summer
camping trip up from
were one of the saddest cuts I had to endure. It took a
surprising lot of money to go camping with a family of
seven, or at least that's what Papa said.
I discovered the campfire was surprisingly simple to
build. "Kidder must first remember," I still
remember
Papa instructing my older brothers. "Must let fire
breath. Gotta make open at bottom to suck air." I still
remembered his words, and it was a lucky thing I did, for
Papa never let me build a fire myself. I grew up in what
could best be described as a traditional Catholic family
where men did the hunting and the women stayed in the
kitchen. Well, maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but Papa
and Mamma did teach us very clear lines of division
between the sexes. This applied to the summer camping
trip as well as our everyday lives. The making of a
campfire clearly lay on the "manly" side of the
fence, as
did grilling, fishing, and maybe even a little hunting if
Papa and my brothers got the chance. The more mundane
tasks fell under the woman's domain, like setting the
picnic table and washing dishes.
I shuffle my chair back to escape the waves of heat from
the first just as another breeze blows through the trees
and makes it roar with increased vigor. Flames leap high
into the air, this time high enough I think to burn of
the leaves of the overhanging branches-or at least that's
what it looks like when I gaze upward from my seated
thrown-a lawn chair. Now I worry over too much fire. In
my zeal to make a fire, any fire, I wonder if I piled on
too much wood in my first attempt. Not that it had any
chance of causing a forest fire, not in a green forest
and certainly not after a thunderstorm. My concern
revolves around the light.
I worry someone might see me. Although I sit alone and
the campsites are spaced far apart, I can't help but
recall the two-hundred-some other campers who also occupy
the park. Some of them I can make out in the distance
from the evidence of their own campfires. One sparkles
through the trees on my right and another ahead of me. A
closer campsite stands on my left, I knew, but everyone
appears to be in bed.
The anticipation that HE might arrive and the knowledge
of so many people creates natural, embarrassing thoughts
in my mind. I can't help but think of a religious old
woman (a woman very much like my own Momma, I can't help
but consider) casually strolling into my camp. Maybe she
comes in need of some kitchen ingredient. Or maybe she
just wants to stop by to talk. The people in this part of
the country-unlike Chicago, or any other big city for
that matter-are known for their friendly attitudes. It
would not be uncommon for someone to walk over to a
neighbor's camp simply because it was the neighborly
thing to do. Or even worse, a dirty old man might notice
me from one of the surrounding camps or the gravel road
that serves to connect the various sites. He might notice
my top and my top-heavy proportions, and sneak up to
catch me from behind.
My imagination shifts into high gear as I consider who
might walk innocently into camp and discover me. I cannot
risk being seen, not in my present state of undress. For
last-ditch protection, the blanket sits beside my chair.
It lay on a few remaining pieces of wood to keep it out
of the mud. I can grab it if necessary and quickly wrap
its protective fabric around my waist. If too late even
for that, I think about using sunburned thighs as an
excuse, but the excuse sounds too ridiculous for anyone
to believe.
No matter what I say, it would be hard to explain my
dress, for I am hardly dressed at all. I feel naked and I
practically am. The only thing I wear is the top from my
bikini; the bikini top HE complimented me so graciously
on earlier in the day. The bottom half drips soaking wet
from a makeshift clothesline tied between two trees.
HE is the reason for my present state of undress. It is a
gift to him; a reward. It is a hint of what I desired.
Chapter
2: A Hot Body
I first met him by accident earlier that day. It was just
after lunch and at the peak of the noonday sun. The
campsite boiled in unbearably heat and humidity; hot
enough to drive me towards to the cool water of the lake.
The lake was Lake Michigan, where the water's vast depth
kept it cool and isolated from influence of the blazing
sun above. Three miles of continuous beach hugged the
state park, all of it covered with a gradual drop-off of
sand that made it perfect for swimming. People to jump in
anywhere along the 3 mile stretch, but a protected area
stood roped off in the center of the park. It had locker
rooms, showers, lemonade stands, ice cream fountains, and
everything else associated with a public beach.
I stayed away from the public beach, deeming it too
discomfiting to approach. My habitual morning walk showed
me a more appropriate place. My walk took me along a
hiking trail to a more private spot of sand. The trail
came within sight of the lake, to a place where I figured
I could cut through the forest, walk between the trees,
and reach the water will little problem. That is where I
hiked after lunch, and that is where HE first saw me.
I judged the bikini gave me good reason to be discrete. I
originally bought it for William, my ex-boyfriend, or now
more properly loathed as "The Bastard."
He originally came up with the idea to go camping.
"How about taking a trip up north to one of the
state
parks?" He suggested over our regular Thursday night
pizza feast. "Couple times you mentioned camping
with
your family. How about a revival? I think I know someone
who'll lend us the equipment."
I thought it a wonderful idea. Neither of us wanted to
stick around a deserted campus over the long 4th of July
holiday weekend. A camping trip sounded like a lot more
fun. Just the two of us, alone up in the big north woods,
going hiking, swimming, and whatever else caught our
fancy. At night, we would sleep together in a small tent
or maybe under the stars. It sounded so romantic; even
kind-of daring and erotic. I couldn't help but wonder
what it would be like to do it outdoors; under the
stares. The thought of it sent a shiver of excitement
down my spine every time I considered the possibility. I
am sure it excited William too. I think that is why he
suggested camping to begin with, but I didn't mind. I
liked William. He was special-or at least I thought he
was-and I thought he liked me too.
We had been dating now for a solid three months and not
yet "done it." He wanted to, of course, as did
every guy
who ever took me out on a date. Men, I've noticed, like
to stereotype. When they see a short girl with big boobs,
they automatically type her as a bimbo and assume she is
easy. That may often be true, but the assumption did not
apply to me. Momma raised me to be a traditional girl.
That meant a guy had to earn his reward. And with the
threat of AIDS and all the other sexually transmitted
diseases going around these days, the passage of time
only served to increase the sensibility of her advice.
Now don't get me wrong! I'm not one of those fridged
Catholic girls that Billy Joel sings about either; the
type that remain virgin until marriage. I'm proud to
admit I've had sex with a half-dozen guys over the years,
and I really enjoyed it too. I fooled around with William
too, but only with innocent games like titty feels. The
furthest it ever got was when I once allowed him see me
topless. Immediately after-and after he lifted his jaw
back off the floor-I bid him good night. I allowed him
nothing more.
With William, I waited a little longer than usual. I
liked him well enough and didn't want to let him go, but
there was just something about him... I don't know what
it was. I've tried to put my finger on it many times, but
I can't quite pin down the issue. Part of it came from
his drinking. He drinks a lot of beer and booze, but then
the same can be said of most of the guys in college-and
even a lot of girls. Drinking is part of the culture of
college life. I think I maybe even liked William a little
better because he drank. The guy became a hilarious
comedian when he got drunk.
Another part of my caution, I know, came from his anxious
attitude towards sex. He really worked at getting me into
bed. All guys did, but William worked at it harder than
most. He even got seriously physical with me once,
holding my hands with one hand and grabbing one of my
tits with the other. I screamed, but he just laughed and
quickly let go as though it was all a joke. I'm pretty
sure it was, but I still wonder. There is just something
about him...
In the end, I decided to ignore my paranoid reservations.
Three months of dating was long enough, so Sunday night I
called to give him my answer. I told him I wanted to go.
The next day I went to see him. I walked up to his dorm
room unannounced, anxious to tell him about the
reservation I made that morning and to find out about his
latest progress on the camping gear from some friend of
his. And more importantly, I also wanted to show him a
little present I bought myself for the trip. I anxiously
wanted to show him the tiny article of clothing now wore
cleverly disguised under my blouse; a present for me to
wear but for William to see.
"But how will we know if you drilled Diane or
not?" One
of his friends asked from the other side of the partially
opened door as I was about to push it open the rest of
the way. I recognized the voice as Moog's, one of the
rudest, biggest jerks on campus. The guy once grabbed one
of my tits on a crowded dance floor.
"It's not as if we can go right up and ask
her," Another
voice spoke. This one I didn't recognize. "Say
Diane, I
have a question. You let William to fuck you on that
little camping trip or not?"
I automatically stopped outside his door at the
recognition of my name and the sound of four men laughing
at the remark. I could tell they were drinking.
"Damn, you are so lucky," Moog spoke after he
recovered
enough to speak. "I can't believe that hot bitch
even
agreed to go along with your plan. Everyone I talked to
says she's fridged as ice."
"She is," William agreed. "Why else do you
think I've
been going out with her this long? I'd drop that bitch a
long time ago if she'd put out some. Her cunt just better
be worth it."
"Worth a hundred bucks?"
"Worth a lot more than that," William
countered. "The
hundred bucks is just the fringe benefits. Her cunt is
going to be the real prize."
It took me a moment to comprehend the words. I understood
everything the moment I heard the words out of Moog's
mouth, but it took several seconds longer for the idea to
sink into my head. My boyfriend was taking bets on me. I
caught him in the process of making a bet on weather I
would let him fuck me or not.
It was terrible. I ran away crying. I cried all the way
back to my room, and then cried for a long time into the
night as I explained what happened first to my roommate
and then to my best friend. William left me devastated,
especially the way he called me a bitch, but at least I
discovered the real man.
I slept little that night and lay in my room numb most of
the next morning. The telephone rang a couple of times
and there were two knocks on the door, but I refused
answer any of them. I just wanted to think.
My roommate and best friend thought up a cruel, but very
simple way to get back at him. They talked me into
calling Moog the next night and simply telling him that
he was a hundred bucks richer. Predictably, William tried
to phone me immediately after. He called several times,
but I hung up on him every time. Then even more
predictably, he sneaked into the girl's dorm after hours
and tried to apologize through the closed door. At this
point, my roommate called Campus Security, lying to the
police and telling them that William was some kind of
pervert who she thought had been following her the last
couple of weeks. I vouched for her validity, telling the
police I thought I recognized the face from the one I
caught looking into our window late the night before.
It was a mean, nasty little trick. But I have to admit,
it bought me a tremendous sense of release. I felt a lot
better after I heard the police try to question a
confused William out in the hallway and then drag him off
to jail. I wanted nothing more to do with the guy.
Meanwhile, the problem of the campsite reservation and
the present remained. My first reaction was to return
both, but the reservation was non-refundable. And as for
his gift, well, I'm sure I could have returned it, but it
seemed like such a waste. Growing up with five older
brothers had always limited my options when it came to
fashion. No words ever needed to be said; no directions
given. I just knew what was expected. I always bought
conservative clothing and made sure to hide all that
might be of interest to a man. The most profound example
of this was swimsuits. I just knew I was expected to wear
a one-piece suite.
His present looked small and very hot. It was a two-piece
string bikini made even smaller by my big boobs. I bought
it because I thought it would be fun to get William a
little excited and aroused. What did it matter if a man
saw me wearing it at a campsite? So what if a stranger
gazed down on me lying on the beach? The chance of
meeting someone I knew at a campsite 300 miles from home
had to be exceedingly rare. And besides, lots of girls
wore string bikinis.
Well, maybe not too many young, good looking brunettes
with a double-D cup size strolled along the beach every
day, but I certainly was not going to be the first. So
what if I happened to be one of them?
*
* * * *
Glancing down at my own body illuminated by the fire, I
almost feel sorry for William and at what he is missing-
almost, but not quite. I see a tiny bikini package that
seems to cover close to nothing. Two large orbs swell out
of my chest, touching slightly in the middle, and then
rounding around like two big melons to the outside. The
only fabric is the strap that stretches down from behind
my neck to the little white cups that serve to cover the
furthest extent of my big boobs. The cups start so low I
fear my nipples may become exposed, which they almost do.
The top fails to cover perhaps half my boobs, and with
boobs as big as mine, that is quite a lot.
This is what HE saw me in the first time we met. It is
also the reason I chose to take the long way around to
find a deserted stretch of beach. The public beach might
have been okay if William was along, where I could use
him as cover-like a safety blanket. But alone it was
different. I knew my body well enough to realize I would
get no rest. As soon as I sat down, every young guy on
the beach would take turns trying to pick me up, and
probably a few of the older men too. It happened whenever
I wore a one-piece conservative suite, and I am sure this
little bikini would amplify it a hundred fold. I looked
easy, and that is exactly how the guys would treat me.
For this reason I took the hiking trail. For this reason
I wanted to find a more isolated spot. And it was for
this reason, luckily, I encountered HIM.
*
* * * *
HE presented himself just as I turned off the trail and
started the walk through the trees. Lake Michigan lay off
in the distance, peaking through the trees, not more than
the length of a football field away. I walked in my
sandals and hung onto a cheap plastic bag with sun block,
towel, hat, and a book inside. The bag also contained the
matching cover-up to the bikini, the one I elected to
remove while still on the trail. I wasn't too worried
about meeting up with anyone. No one was mad enough to go
hiking in this kind of weather.
I failed to notice him because I was practicing being an
environmentalist. I was stepping cautiously, being
careful not to step on and kill any of the new saplings
that might be trying to peak their way through the soil.
I was paying attention to the ground at my feet instead
to where I was going.
It was obvious why HE didn't see me. He stood busily
concentrating on other things.
Half way to the beach I saw him, up against a tree, not
more than ten feet away. He was a big man, more than six
feet tall and budging with muscles. I could tell he spent
a lot of time in the sun because his skin was tanned a
golden brown that made him look like one of those
gorgeous hunk lifeguards that spend half the day working
out in the gym and the other half on a surfboard. The
first thing I noticed was his handsome face and the blond
hair that came down to his shoulders. And the second
thing I noticed was that he was butt naked nude.
"Oh my God!" I screeched in surprise, and then
said it
again as I realized what he was doing in the deserted
spot between hiking trail and beach. His hand extended
down between his legs and pistioned twice before
detecting me.
To my utter amazement, he turned down the opportunity to
cover himself. He declined the opportunity to turn away
out of embarrassment or run away in shame. Instead, the
guy just stood there, naked, right in front of me. He
hand stopped its pistioning action and he simply held
himself there for me to see.
And I looked. I am not sure why I looked, but I think it
formulated from his good looks and then from the
awareness of his size-and I am not talking about the size
of his body or the size of his muscles. Although he had a
big hand, I noticed it could not cover the thing. It did
not even come close! His fingers did not encompass it
either in width or length. His prick swelled out both
from the ends of his fingers and from both sides of his
closed palm. And it was such a nice, shiny prick. I could
see it had pre-cummed quite considerably. With his organ
shinning brilliant in its own wetness, it looked as
though he was about to eject.
And it wasn't just his organ, but my eyes wondered down
to his balls too. They refused to hang straight down like
an ordinary set of nuts. They looked to be very firm
instead, standing out and upward at attention. I've
always found myself attracted to a man's nuts, which I
know a lot of other girls find very odd. The nuts on this
man were quite impressive.
"Hi," A deep voice spoke from the gorgeous hunk
before
me.