Date: Fri, 8 Nov 2002 23:59:44 -0500 (EST)
From: Clark Gaybull <ClarkGaybull@webtv.net>
Subject: One of Many Escapades #3

The first two "escapades" happened two summers ago.  THIS summer was
even more eventful.  I hope I don't forget to tell about it all!

You're never gonna guess the first thing, so I'll spill:  I got my own
place at the lake!!!  (Well, actually my parents did.)

Andy's dad knows this guy who's widowed mother had a cottage there.  She
died and the guy inheirited it.  But he already had a huntin' cabin
elsewhere.  So he wanted to sell the lake property.  He told this to
Andy's dad; who told my dad; and my folks became the new owners.  And
dad says it was real cheap!

The place is small and needs a lot of work.  But it's been perfect for
me to go there.  I spent quite a bit of time over the winter fixin' it
up.  And now it's become great to chill there, not just something to
work on.

It has a couple of old stuffed chairs; a cushy old sofa; and two beds.
All this stuff is kinda in my way when I work.  But mom says it helps my
"organizational skills."

It even has an enclosed "L"-shaped porch around the corner toward the
lake that you can actually fish from - it's THAT close to the water.
There's another sofa on the porch and, back inside, there's a tiny
kitchen and bathroom area.

This might be a little short 'cause I'm gonna write about only the
second event of the summer.  (The occasions or characters are all so rad
that I'll document them one-by-one in future installments.)

For one thing, we decided that it would be a cool location for our
teener-league team's annual picnic.  We DO get substantial rain in this
part of the country.  But every time we go to the lake, it seems the
weather's super.  Picnic-day was no exception.

There was a good turn-out and everybody appeared to be enjoying
themselves - boating, fishing, swimming, hiking, game-playing and
eating.

As evening came, people started to leave.  Some of the guys asked their
folks if they could stay over and most of them could.  I had my car, as
did Stan, who's parents weren't there.  My mom and dad were the last to
leave.  So there were seven players who remained.  Let's see how much of
a team we could have made:

Stan was our catcher - the oldest - with dirty-blond hair; just young
enough that his upcoming 18th birthday allowed this to be his final
year.

Ron's height was such that he was a good target at first-base.  He was a
17-year-old blond.

Tim played second-base.  He had red hair, was 16, and was shortest on
the team.

I was the shortstop.  Maybe you remember - a blue-eyed, well-tanned
blond; slight-of-buld and less than two months before becoming 17.  By
far, the best-looking guy on the team.  (Yeah, right!!!)

At third we had sandy-haired Kerry, the youngest, who just turned 14.

Tall, lanky Scott was in center field; also 14, but a little older than
Kerry, who's hair color and style Scott's matched.

And geeky Ron (that's right - there are TWO Ron's on the team) was the
seventh of the overnighters.  This 16-year-old youngster plays right
field (where we put our worst player).

(Our starting pitcher and left-fielder couldn't stay.)

After the parents left, we thought about what we should do.

Stan said, "I know what I'M gonna do."  And he hurried out of the cabin.
He quickly returned, barely able to carry two cases of beer.

"Where'd you get that?" somebody asked.

"Never mind", he barked.  And it wasn't long before almost a third of a
case was doled out.

We bull-shitted a while, waiting for geeky-Ron to finish his beer.  Some
guys had finished a second, when I said, "Let's go swimming."

Some of us got our swimsuits on.  Some simply planned to swim in the
shorts they were already wearing.  We grabbed our towels and when we got
to the beach, nobody wanted to be the first one in.

It was late-June - at the half-way break of our baseball season.  We
were plenty warm from the jaunt to the beach.  But the still night air
was cool.

Then, a few of the guys decided to gang-up on geeky Ron and carry him to
the water.  In spite of geeky-Ron's protests, there was eventually a guy
holding each of his arms and a guy holding each of his legs.  They waded
into the lake to just over their knees, slinging the squirming Ron.
They counted as they swung:  One  Two  Three.  Then they let go and into
the water splashed geeky Ron.

Now that their guinea pig said that it wasn't too cold, gradually
everybody was wet and somebody said, "Let's go out to the raft."  (The
beers probably bostered everyone's courage.)

The first one there climbed atop and bragged that he beat the others.
The second guy up promptly shoved the first into the lake and, witout
having to explain it, a game of King-of-the-Raft had begun.

"I've played this naked already," I boasted.  "At night, of course."

"Why were you naked?" geeky Ron asked.

"Because I took my suit off, stupid!"

"When did you do that?"

"Last summer.  Here," I said, and swam under the raft.  He followed and
I showed him the straps holding the drums.  Then, I took off my suit and
sloshed it over a strap.

"All right," he exclaimed.  And off came his suit and over a strap it
went.

We then swam out from under the raft and up the ladder I climbed,
pushing everyone else off.

"I'm in control now," I proclaimed, beating my chest and flaunting my
nudity.

"What happened to your suit?" came a voice.

I explained about the straps and soon they were all skinny-dipping.

Another session of bare-assed King-of-the-Raft was under way, with its
stabbing and poking; poking and stabbing.  (There were quite a few
erections because of all the contact and au naturel  grappling.)

But that's not what I want to tell you about.  That was the same as the
preceeding summer, only different bodies (and I don't think there were
any orgasms this year.)

The new stuff is as follows...

We frolicked in the all-together for quite a while when Stan, I think,
said, "I'm gettin' thirsty again."

A couple of "me toos" were heard.  It was suggested that we go back to
the cottage.  So, we swam, with suits in hand, back to the beach, dried
off (those of us who were smart enough to have brought our towels), and
began walking back to my cabin.

The two Rons - in the lead - had their towels wrapped around them; Scott
and Tim - in the middle - had put their midsection coverings back on and
their towels were slung over their shoulders; but Stan, Kerry and I were
still naked as we paraded down the road fartherest back.  (Stan and
Kerry were the two who had forgotten to bring their towels.)  Nobody had
much on but nobody was cold 'cause we kept moving and there was no
breeze.

I lagged behind a couple of yards, watching the two bare asses jiggle in
front of me with each step taken.  It was educational how much less
Stan's more-solid, almost-18-year-old butt shook compared to the
4-year-younger Kerry's.

Uh oh!  What was that!!  Headlights!!!  Somebody's coming!!!!  Quick -
into the bushes!!!!!  The front four thought it was funny and kept
walking.

As the car passed, I recognized that it was someone going to a cabin
beyond mine.

"That was a close one!" whispered a relieved Kerry.

"I think it's kinda adventurous."  I tried to sound brave but my
nervousness showed.

Finally we were back at the pad.

"You don't think anybody can see in here, do you?" asked Stan.

"Nah.  The road is way out there," I pointed.

"Good," was all he said.  And he walked into the cabin, threw his suit
into the sink, got himself another beer, and flopped down onto one end
of the cushy sofa.  He was still in his birthday suit.

"OK," I thought.  "I'm not gonna be modest, either."  My suit and towel
went into the sink, too.   I grabbed a beer and fell nude into one of
the well-stuffed chairs.

I guess Kerry, also, wasn't gonna put anything on 'cause into the sink
goes his wet shorts and into the fridge goes an unclothed Kerry for a
beer.

The other four had been out on the porch and were re-entering the main
part of the bungalow.  Scott was in front and had just asked, "What
should we do with these wet things?"

He next looked ahead and saw the three of us in the buff.  With one hand
I chugged my beer; with the other I pointed toward the sink.

Soon, all seven were sknny-dipping again - only no water now.  And I
think we'll make fun of geeky Ron a little less 'cause he's enormous -
even when he's not hard!  Everybody else looked pretty normal; except
Kerry had few pubes 'cause he's youngest.  And regular Ron and I were
kinda sparse, too, 'cause we're blondest.

"What now?" asked Tim.

"I don't know 'bout you, but I'm gonna get another beer," bellowed Stan.

And others who were thirsty for another beer headed to the fridge as
well.

"And I'm gonna claim the couch on the porch for the night," answered
Scott.

"Me too," Kerry chimed in.

"You can't sleep out there too!"

"OK, then.  Only for a little while."

They both retreated to the porch.

"We could have a circle-jerk," Stan slurred, not at all seriously.

Silence a bit.  A few more swigs of beer.  Then, some noise from the
porch.

I peeked out a window to the porch and deduced that Kerry had made the
noise when he had gotten on top of Scott.  I added to Stan's statement
by whispering, "And that can be our inspiration."

Stan, Tim and the two Rons hurried quietly to see what I was pointing
at.

By now, both Kerry's and Scott's dicks were hard.  We could see them
rubbing against each other.  They both seemed not to notice - or care
about - our stares.  By the looks of them, this wasn't gonna last long.
Then Scott motioned for Kerry to stick his thing into Scott's ass.  Did
Scott know what he was asking for?  Did Kerry know what he was doing?
They were both only 14!  But both seemed to perform really well.

Scott was jerking his meat while Kerry was ramming his cock in and out
of Scott's bum.  And I could tell that we five onlookers were enjoying
what we were seeing.  All five of us sported very stiff-looking boners.
And geeky Ron was even bigger when he was erect - nine-inches, maybe.  I
wouldn't call it a circle-jerk; but we sure were touching ourselves
while we watched Kerry and Scott go at it.

Although there was a window between us, we could hear (as well as see
half of) when it was over.  The hearing part was when Kerry shrieked as
he came into Scott's butt.  The seeing part was at about the same time:
when steams of liquidy jism shot out of Scott's schlong; over his head;
then onto his chin and chest; and finally dribblng a couple of times
onto his just-sprouted pubes.

When we saw that, to avoid detection, we all scampered back to where we
were, as if we had seen nothing.  Except we all had woodies.

When nobody came from the porch, after awhile we figured that they must
have cleaned up and invented a way to sleep two-to-a-couch.  But nobody
wanted to look back out and investigate the silence.

Stan was the first to say anything.  "Time for another beer."

Four more of us reached into the fridge.  Beer cans popped open.  Gulps
ensued.  A little more silence.  Then Stan spoke again.

He looked at me and asked, "Ever do that?"

"Do what?"  I pretended to not know what he meant.

"Fuck somebody in the ass?"

"Are you kidding?" realizing that that wouldn't end the conversation,
although more silence followed.  (I could see that Tim and the two Rons
were eagerly awaiting every word of this agonizingly-slow
confrontation.)

"Wanna try it?"

"You're drunk."

"Drunk or not, wanna try it?"

"I'm not gonna let anybody stick anything up MY ass."

"You don't have to."

More silence.

The other three began showing their anticipation.  And for geeky Ron,
that wasn't easy to hide.

Stan walked from his end seat on the sofa to my chair, sat on my lap and
commanded, "C'm' on.  Fuck me in the ass."  And my cock began to grow.

And Tim's cock began to grow.  And the two Rons' cocks began to grow.
(Regular Ron, who had been standing (or leaning) all this time, finally
sat down at the end of the couch where Stan had been.)

"That's it," said Stan, as my dick continued to harden.

"No.  That's NOT it," I retorted.  "It's just because you're sitting on
it."

"And that's where I'm gonna stay," as he wriggled down onto me,
increasing the pressure.

"Just...put...it...right...here," as he reached behind him, grabbing my
now-almost-hard wand and pressed it against the opening of his bunghole.
"Maybe if we make it more slppery."  And he spat into his hand, putting
that onto my dick.

Repositioning himself, he began to sit even harder. Then it went in.
Then he went up and down a few times and I was into it.  I began to
become part of this coupling.  I put both hands on his hips and helped
him push down.

I could tell that the three spectators, too, were no longer passive.
Both Rons and Tim were choking their chickens quite vigorously.  In
fact, geeky Ron got out of his chair, walked into the bathroom (his huge
member pointing the way), closed the door and soon we heard the shower
water.  Regular Ron replaced geeky Ron in the stuffed chair.

Tim was now alone on the couch, sticking his legs straight out, jerking
furiously, looking both in extasy and uncomfortable, as he appeared to
be both rigidly against - yet sitting on - the sofa.

Regular Ron, on the other hand, looked entirely blissful in his seat.
His long left leg was over the chair's left arm; his long right leg was
over the chair's right arm.  Sitting like that allowed me to easiy see
his pulsing poop hole, which he darted his index finger in to and out of
while he jerked off with his other hand.

Stan's dick had also gotten hard and he was pulling on it.

With these sights and sounds and feelings, it's no wonder how this all
ended.  (Well, we can only presume about geeky Ron.)

Tim was first of four to expode, spurting three, four, five blasts of
goo up to his shoulders and down to his belly.  Tim was a quiet cummer.

But not regular Ron.  He was a screamer.  Very vocal about what was
happening.  Looking very comfortable.  But very vocal.  He didn't shoot
very far but he shot a lot.  It puddled on his lower chest and ran down
and around his smooth balls.

Stan and I both popped at about the same time, which wasn't long after
Tim started it all.  Probably Stan came first.  The feeling of his hot
spunk on my upper chest probably pushed me over the edge.  I somehow
wanted to let him know that I was about to unload, but before I could
figure out how, I was shooting deep within his ass.  I grunted a sound
that I don't even know how to spell.

It must have been five or ten minutes that the four of us acted like we
were dead.  We might still be there if geeky Ron hadn't emerged from the
bathroom, obviously relieved, but swinging gigantically.

Everybody wanted to shower clean with somebody else; but it just wasn't
big enough to accomodate more than one person at a time.  So, we were
unable to "conserve water," if you know what I mean.

I'd like to tell you more about the sleeping arrangements, but, my mind
is pretty much a blur after the explosion.  I don't even remember
washing all the cum off.  I only remember trying the next morning to
hide the evidence from the night before - the beer cans, the jizz
stains, etc.

The closest we came to giving away what happened that night was when the
second half of the season began.  Dad questioned why the new nickname
"big Ron" instead of "geeky Ron."

"You don't wanna know, dad.  You don't wanna know," was all I answered.