First Appearance (Chapter 2)

Anderson was saying, his voice barely comprehensible through his heavy breathing, “I guess I just go for… thinking of her undressing… or showering… that kind of stuff…”

Palmer was also breathless. “Tits or pussy…?”

“Both. And her arse. And her legs…”

Their rhythms were now equally fast and their fists made thumping sounds against the material of their sleeping bags. I wondered if they were deliberately keeping pace with each other or whether they were running an unspoken race in which they were currently neck-and-neck.

Palmer said, his voice breaking as if he was about to sob, “I need to think of her… you know… doing something with me…”

“You fucking her…?”

“Yeah… or her sucking… my dick….”

Anderson’s rhythm became a little faster, his fist coasting ahead of Palmer’s for the first time since they started. He said, “Yeah… I like that too… thinking of her mouth sliding down my pole…”

“Red lipstick making… streaks on your dick…”

Anderson gasped, “Oh yeah.” His fist was a frenzy, pounding roughly and frantically inside his sleeping bag at such a rapid rate I couldn’t understand how he wasn’t hurting himself. It was a like an over-powered turbine; a steam train pelting down the track way beyond top speed.

Palmer hammered the image home. “… her chin slamming into your balls…”

Anderson whimpered and I thought for a second that what Palmer had said had upset him somehow.

But then he started gasping, to the same rhythm as his fist, “Yeah… yeah… aaah… fuck…” And I realised he was cumming.

I wondered if I would ever experience that. It sounded like it felt good – maybe even fantastic, although it was impossible to tell how much of guys’ reactions to it was exaggeration – but also a little scary. Like venturing into something unknown.

Anderson’s orgasm lasted longer than Josh’s had when I’d unknowingly watched him masturbating that morning. Maybe Anderson was more experienced or something, but it went on for twenty or thirty seconds. His hand kept pounding at his dick and he kept gasping like he’d just been sprinting. 

Palmer was loving it. He was saying, his grin obvious from the tone of his voice, “Yeah… milk it, Rob… think of her mouth… eating your knob…” His own hand was still working at his own cock, whacking at it noisily inside his sleeping bag.

When Anderson’s orgasm had subsided, he lay quietly recovering his breath for a few seconds and then, abruptly, started moving around. I realised he was pulling off his underwear and cleaning himself up with them. Masturbation seemed to have an unpleasant aftermath. I wondered if it was really worth all the mess it seemed to produce.

Palmer kept at it, his rhythm steady and his breathing deep and regular, and Anderson complained, “See what you did? What a fuckin’ mess you caused…?”

Palmer giggled, “No but I can smell it.”

I could too. That same smell that I’d noticed that morning after Josh had finished wanking. A thick, slightly cloying smell; heavy in the air but not unpleasant.

Anderson had spunked up. That was the expression he’d used about Josh and I and now he’d done it himself. The smell was his spunk, the same pearly white liquid that Josh had had smeared on his hands, his dick and his teeshirt that morning.

I’d kind of known about these things biologically – known that guys produce a liquid containing sperm during sex – but the theory was cold and scientific and I’d never been able to directly connect it with talk of ‘spunk’ and ‘cumming’.

Hearing Anderson orgasm had been a bit of a revelation!

Anderson said, “At the end of this trip, all three tents are gonna have the same smell…”

“Yeah but none as disgusting as ours… Christ, Rob, it reeks…”

Anderson sounded pissed off by that. He called out, “Well if it’s so fucking bad maybe you should try tasting it…”

There was a scuffle and Palmer yelled. I realised Anderson had pushed his sticky boxer briefs into Palmer’s face.

Palmer shouted, “You fucking bastard… it’s in my fucking mouth…” and Anderson guffawed.

Anderson settled back down and Palmer wiped his face with Anderson’s underwear. He said, “Jesus, Rob. Your kegs smell of your knob… of your fuckin’ dick sweat….” He moved them around, trying to find a clean area. “Christ that must be the back… I can smell your arse on them, you dirty sod…”

Anderson chuckled. “That’s the way the ladies like ‘em.”

Palmer threw the boxer briefs to one side and, after half a minute or so, he started masturbating again. Despite his noisy protests, he was obviously fairly unruffled by getting Anderson’s underwear pushed into his face.

After a couple of seconds, Palmer said, “Your spunk tastes like lukewarm porridge.”

Anderson laughed. He asked, “Salty porridge or sweet porridge?”

Palmer considered this for a couple of seconds. Then he replied, his fist still beating at his cock inside his sleeping bag, “Kind of halfway between…”

Anderson giggled again. “You’re sick…” Then after a couple of seconds, “And your mother has a bizarre recipe for porridge…”

Palmer laughed quite loudly.

Just then the velcro strips on the door were torn open and a torch was shone into the tent. Behind the glaring beam, Vaughan whispered, “Can you guys settled down… it’s past one o’clock…”

Palmer stopped masturbating but his fist remained on his dick making a large mound in his sleeping bag at crotch level.

He said, “Just finishing off, sir,” and the mound rose and fell a couple of times, making his meaning unnecessarily obvious. Anderson sniggered.

Vaughan didn’t sound amused. He said, “Well can you be a bit more discrete, Stephen?” He paused. Then he asked, “And what have you got around your mouth… what have you guys been doing in here?”

Palmer was quick to protest. “Hey – it’s not what it looks like, sir. That was Rob…”

Vaughan said, “Evidently.” He sounded like he was smiling now.

Palmer said, “No… I mean… it was Rob messing around…”

Anderson said, in a low conspiratorial voice, “He was very well-practised at it, sir… very sensual…”

Vaughan chuckled. “Look you guys. It’s time to knock it off now. Nice to see you’ve been enjoying yourselves but no more of it. Time to sleep…”

He and his torch withdrew from the front of the tent.

Palmer whispered, “What did you fucking say that for? Now he thinks I’m a fucking cock sucker…”

Anderson tittered. “Naah… he’s smart enough to know the truth… that you’re a spunk eater…”

“I’m not a fuckin’ spunk eater…”

“You said it tasted like porridge…”

They went on for a few minutes, their voices growing gradually louder, until Vaughan called over from his tent, “I mean it, you guys. Knock it off… if I have to come over there again you’re in it deep tomorrow…”

And then they knocked it off.

Palmer didn’t masturbate that night. I could sense him lying in his sleeping bag, staring up into the Arctic twilight seeping through the canvas of the tent, seething at the joke Anderson had played on him. After a couple of minutes, Anderson’s breathing became deep and heavy and it was obvious he was soundly asleep.