John Romero - Coed camp

He felt her hand slide down from his back to his ass, and just as the first spurt of jism blasted through the length of his cock, she shoved her finger into his asshole. His muscles tightened in reflex and he shoved his ass forward, driving his cock right up to the end of her love-tunnel.

"Oh!" she cried, and locking her legs about his hips, she squeezed him as if she would crush him. Her pussy muscles, too, clamped down, milking away at his pulsing, squirting cock, and he felt that he would come forever.

Finally he lay panting and sweating across her body, completely spent.

"Baby, I've never come like that before," he said, when he could get his breath.

Marsha said nothing, but just smiled contentedly.

They lay silently for a long time, perfectly relaxed. Finally she shoved at his shoulder, and he rolled off her and onto his back. She slipped off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. In less than a minute she was back, a warm, wet hand towel in her hands. She raised his now limp tool, considerably shrunken in size, and wiped it clean with the towel. She went thoroughly all over his balls, too, and the inside of his thighs.

"Now," she said, "you'd better get dressed and slip out of here before we fall asleep and find ourselves in an embarrassing predicament in the dawn."

Dan dressed quickly, gave her a warm goodnight kiss, and crept quietly out through the dark office. He made his way through pitch darkness to his cabin. Without turning on any lights, he stripped down to his shorts and crawled into his bunk. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The strange surroundings caused Dan to awaken early the next morning. He glanced around the pine board walls of the cabin, the rows of empty cots alongside either wall, and remembered where he was. Bird calls and other signs of dawn brought him fully awake. He looked at his wristwatch; only six o'clock. For a moment or two he thought of going down to the lake for a quick dip. He had plenty of time, since breakfast would not be served until eight, Stein had told him.

Then he decided to take his racket and go over to the tennis courts instead and hit a few practice serves for a half-hour or so. Quickly he slipped on a pair of shorts and sneakers and one of the Camp Arrowhead T-shirts that Stein had issued him the evening before. Grabbing up his racket and a bag of balls, he walked through the silent camp to the playing fields on the far side, at the opposite end from the lake.

He couldn't believe his eyes when he got to the courts. Marsha was there, in her white shorts and a lightweight sweatshirt with the camp insignia on the front. She was volleying against the practice wall, alone. Dan watched for a moment before making his presence known. The woman was damned good. She had a hard, level drive, and her form was very good-her tennis form as well as her body!

"Hey, early bird!" he shouted.

She wheeled around and waved to him.

He walked over to the practice wall. "Looks like you're a real pro," he said stopping in front of her. "Do you always get up so early and practice?"

She gave him a warm smile. "It's the only time I'll have, when that mob of kids gets here this weekend."

"Good form there," he said.

She looked at him sharply, then smiled mischievously. "You certainly ought to know by now, Doctor."

He grinned. "I mean tennis, too. Do you want to playa game or two?"

"Sure." She moved to one end of the nearest court and he took the other. "Match for serve?" she asked.

"You start," he said.

She took two or three practice serves, then they played. At the end of the second game Dan was winning steadily, but he realized that his opponent was no slouch.

"You sure keep in good shape, Marsha," he complimented her as they changed courts after the third game.

"I have to," she smiled, a trifle grimly. "When you hit thirty, you have to work at it harder, especially if you're a woman. And I'm proud of my body."

"That's a body to be proud of," he said, patting her shoulder. He moved closer, for a kiss, but she backed away.

"Discretion, Danny boy," she cautioned him. "If we get into the habit of public demonstrations, we'll get into trouble. I tell you, old C-C is hell on sin, and just about everything is sin to him."

Dan had a chance to meet the formidable C-C on Saturday morning, but there was barely time to acknowledge the introduction by Jerry Stein before the first wave of campers began to arrive. Jerry had told him that they were mainly very rich kids. Their means of arrival reminded Dan of the fact. Some came in chauffeur-driven limousines, all the way up from New York City. One young lad was flown in by helicopter, the whirlybird landing in the middle of the playing field. Lean, expensive sports cars filled the camp's parking spaces, and Dan thought humbly of his ancient little MG.

Parents were all over the place, too, richly dressed and coiffured mothers looking like fashion models and casually dressed men with Palm Beach suntans. Charles Culpeper was allover the place, his cultured Harvard accent drawling into the conversation as he moved from group to group and parent to parent. He, too, was dressed in expensive but carefully casual sports clothes. And his silver-gray hair topping a lean handsome face made him a very impressive sixtyish. His wife, a very good-looking woman with a brunette Latin appearance, was obviously a good twenty years younger.

"The old man looks as rich as his customers," Dan said to Stein as they passed one another in the milling crowds.

"He ought to, the price he charges them for keeping their kids here for two months," the camp director growled.

Finally the weekend was over. Sunday evening at the early dinner attended by what parents had remained, as well as the campers and the staff, C-C made a speech. His rich baritone sounded like a well-educated preacher's, and his text was in the same vein. Morality, careful training of the youth of America, concrete goals, and healthy activity. Dan shot a look across the counselors' table at Marsha. The deadpan expression she returned him was the same as an I-told-you-so.

Sunday night Dan checked the dozen young boys assigned to him into their bunks. His age group was twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. The age limits for campers was twelve through sixteen. The boys' cabins were on the left side of the main office, facing the lake, and the girls' cabins were on the right side.

"What's your name, sir?" a youngster asked him as he walked up and down the cabin before lights out. Most of the kids, he noticed, were polite, not at all what he would have expected from rich brats.

"Just call me Dan," he smiled down at the boy. "What's yours?"

"Pete Mordant," the boy said. His big eyes bulged luminously as he stared at Dan, and Dan felt as if he were having his mind read.

"Okay, Pete, lights out," he said, and walked over to the main switch near the door. It was ten o'clock. The older kids in the other cabins could have lights on a bit longer.

He sat on the edge of his three-quarters bed in the darkness. The larger bed was just about the only concession made to him as a counselor. That and an upright locker against the wall at the head of his bed. The campers had been told to bring footlockers to slide under their bunks. Some had brought two.

He sat for a long time, hearing the rustlings and little sleepy mutterings of the kids as they fell asleep in their new quarters. Finally he was sure they were all asleep. Quietly he slipped out the open door and walked down toward the lake. He saw that a light was still on in the main office. Stein was probably busy, getting schedules organized for the next day. Dan thought for a moment about dropping into Marsha's quarters, but he was afraid that some youngsters might be bedded down in the sick ward with ailments, real or imaginary, on their first weekend in camp. He didn't want to risk ruining a good thing.