Camping With Cliff and James

Camping, fishing and the nature; or in like terms, my life. Certainly I accepted without hesitation when I my friend, Michael, invited me to go camping with his father, two brothers, and himself. The night before we were to go out, I packed my bag. Everythin' that was essential was packed, minus a few things that I would need when I woke in the morning. I woke early the morning of the day we were to leave. I groggily got into the shower, the warm water cascaded down my tan flesh. I sighed as I drug a soapy rag down my torso. The ridges of underlying muscle pushed back tenderly against my fingers.

I finished my shower without incident, at least after I’d become erect after feeling myself up. And no, I’m not a narcissist. Five guys, packed into the same truck. Michael’s little brother, Aaron, opted to sit in the bed of the pickup; the father and the two other brothers sitting in the cab.

Our spot was along a stretch of U. S. Route 420, and wasn't very secluded. The site itself was a clearing about 20 X 20 feet, about 100 yards from a shallow, but wide, river. We had disembarked for our site a little later than we had planned; Michael’s old-man moved slower than a tortoise. We arrived to find the spot in a state of rundown disrepair, nothing more than cosmetic, but it was fine for us.

We started unpacking after awhile. Our first struggle was trying to get the nearly one-hundred year old tent setup; the damned thing, as we were later to find out after nearly an hour and a half, had a gigantic hole in the side which absolutely demolished the purpose of the thing altogether. The consensus was that we’d all cram into the truck, the Old-Man was to sleep in the cab, and we boys were to sleep in the bed of the truck packed in like sardines.

Night was beginning to set in, as Michael and I walked along the dry-brush laced banks of the river. The shadows of fish, though not large, were present in the inviting cool of the clear shallow water. Michael and I talked randomly, mostly about the fishing and where we planned to fish the next morning. Michael and I reached a distant bend in the river where, a massive rusted steel train trestle ran overhead, the area alive with pestering insects. One look, and a few nips from the territorial mosquitoes, Michael and I began to walk back the way we had just came. There was a lot of river to cover the next morning, and into the evening and afternoon.

We climbed the steep bank, made of dilapidated concrete slabs, careful to watch for the rather reclusive Copperheads and Rattlesnakes that were known to haunt the area. The crest of the concrete hill lie ahead, reaching the top of the nearly twenty foot, nearly twenty-five percent grade, embankment; he and I both turned to look down at the river for a fleeting moment before returning our eyes to the dusty dirt road that lay about ten feet ahead on the other side of the seldom used, rusted steel, railroad tracks.

We walked slowly, the calming sound of the evening frogs and the gentle lull of the water greeting our ears with its pleasance. Michael and I talked as we walked, the conversation falling short to observe the gentle calm of the nature around us. The usual banter of hunting, girls, trucks, and ATVs. We were greeted by a small campfire, two young boys nearly identical if it weren't for their difference in hair color, build, and height.

“Hey guys,” Michael called, “what’s for dinna'?”
The elder of the younger boys responded sharply, “Whatever you’re cooking.”
Teasingly Michael replied, “Mosquito stew it is, then.”

I cracked a small smile, more of a smirk as I walked to the cooler that had our beverages in it. At the bottom rested a thirty-pack of Budweiser, I took one, turning to the other boys I asked, “Anyone else?”
Two hands and a 'me' in response, I dug three beers out and distributed them to a boy each as I sat down on a log. Three simultaneous PFFTS, followed by a delayed and boisterous PFFT.

After five beers and some chattering amongst us, undisputedly, it was bedtime. All of us crawled into the back of the truck and got situated; the arrangement was far from the space of our beds at home. We said our goodnights, mocking "The Waltons". I assume it was about midnight, or later, as my head hit the pillow only to be greeted by the relief I sought. I was awoken, a while later, although I found that it wasn't the beaming rays of the sun or the songs of Whooper-Will, but an electric sensation radiating from my crotch; someone had his hand on my dick, and was stroking me off. Slowly, I reached down, before a lightning fast strike towards my pants, catching the arm of the person previously stroking me.

“Shit,” I heard in faint breathless whisper of the perpetrator.

I sat upright, my hand still squeezing the arm of the perpetrator, and pointing to the rear of the truck out over the tailgate. Still tugging on the arm of the perpetrator, I helped him out of the truck. His face came into focus as the light of the crescent moon caught its subtle pale tones. Michael’s little brother, James. . .

*** More to come, read on. Questions, Comments, REVIEWS, Background Information on the story, Anything --just email me. . . {dick101697 at GMAIL (dot) com