Date: Wed, 4 Jan 2017 17:07:20 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell: Canvas Hell 4

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!

<eof>

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.