Date: Mon, 2 Jan 2017 12:51:24 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell: Canvas Hell 3

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.

<eof>