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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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The Camper
by Lyndon Brown (indysheets@hotmail.com)
***
It was kind of exciting at first, watching my wife
flirting with those young college students. But at some
point things got quite out of hand and our relationship
would change forever. (M+/F, wife-cheat, cuck?)
***
Author Note: This story grabbed me by the throat this
morning, and made me write it, almost in one sitting. As
always, comments and advice would be appreciated.
***
The camper was supposed to bring us closer. Our marriage
counselor felt that after fifteen years together, we
needed an activity that we could share. She said we
needed to find places, free from stress and distraction,
to be alone. She knows we have problems communicating,
and wanted us to be isolated and practicing the
exercises she gave us. She thought we needed to complete
some sort of project together, something moderately
difficult, that required both of us, working together,
to accomplish.
We had camped before, when the kids were younger, before
our careers took over our lives. We had outfitted a
Chevy van with a center seat that folded into a bunk for
the kids, with a pedestal platform behind holding a
mattress for us. Both of us still held fond memories of
driving in the dark, holding hands, exploring the
possibilities of the future while searching for a
campsite for the night, with our kids tucked in, asleep
behind us.
So we settled on a camping vacation. Our project was a
family calendar, something the counselor said had been
productive for other couples. We would travel to take a
series of pictures that would represent the landscape
and landmarks of our lives. We would edit the pictures,
identify the significant dates, birthdays, anniversaries
and family triumphs, and publish the results as
Christmas presents.
Preparations went quickly. I had months of unused
vacation time accumulated. Joanna team-taught, so a
month sabbatical was only a coordination problem for
her. The grandparents were moved in, to see that the
kids were fed, cleaned, and found their way onto the
school bus.
I had purchased a pop-up camper that was small enough to
tow with my Lexus. We made some weekend trips, and then
I had some modifications made to fine-tune it for our
needs. The camper started with the typical floor plan,
with bunks at both ends, cabinets and a dining table
that converted to a bed in the center. I had half of the
center cushions removed, added lights, storage, and a
sturdy work surface, creating a cozy eating and working
area for two. I kept both end mattresses, but placed a
hinged drafting table under one for map study and
calendar layout. I discarded the ice chest, and built in
a small refrigerator and microwave. We added a roll-up
canopy over the door. I had extra gas fittings,
electrical outlets, and brackets for the range and a
worktop installed, to allow cooking at the side in camp
or at the rear when connected for towing.
I already had a laptop and digital camera for work, but
I purchased a photo-quality printer. Our counselor
helped us find and learn the calendar software. We were
ready. We selected October for our departure. Autumn
seemed to fit the nostalgic nature of our quest. We had
a final session with the therapist, then ceremonially
turned over our cell-phones, beepers, and the modem from
my laptop to be placed in her safe. Alone, together, we
left the city to try to recreate our relationship.
We laid out an ambitious course to visit and photograph
our children's childhood homes: First Dallas, then to
Saint Louis to Madison Wisconsin to Bloomington Indiana
to Nashville, then home. The map was covered with color-
coded pins indicating spots we had always been going to
revisit, or which held significant memories. It was
going to be difficult to cover everything, but that was
part of the process. Working in harness together, at a
tough but worthy task, was supposed to re-forge our
bonds.
There were conflicts, of course. I had awoken at 5:30
every morning for the last twenty years, to be at work
at seven. Joanna's first class wasn't usually before
ten; her evening classes weren't over before nine. I was
asleep by ten, while she graded papers till midnight.
Old habits prevailed. She left the covers to read for a
few hours each night. I took two-hour hikes before
awakening her in the morning.
Sex was a new delight. At first. Each night she would
join me when I bunked down, then ride me to exhaustion,
holding me until I fell asleep afterwards. Mornings,
after my hikes, I would slip back into warm sheets and
gently wake her into long slow lovemaking. Mid-day
brought nostalgic couplings, recreating moments from our
youth: A pond in Texas where we had learned to make love
in the water, unnoticed by the kids or the other
swimmers, oral sex in a fire tower, anal sex in a hot
tub at a resort inn in Illinois. I could barely keep up!
I was inspired by her boundless hunger. I thought it was
for me.
Our destination cities were college towns. We revisited
places we had been when she was a struggling grad
student or untenured instructor. The waiters and
attraction staff were generally part-time college guys,
like her students at home. I began to notice how she
interacted with them.
She enjoyed looking at them, flirting with them. When
they stole glances down at her breasts, her nipples
hardened. When a handsome youth was our server, she
found reasons to leave the table, to press against him
while whispering in his ear, seeking directions to the
phone, or the washroom, or asking for assistance with a
map.
Often when she returned she would stand at my shoulder
and slip her panties into my pocket, or crack open her
bag to reveal her bra within. Waiters would conceal
themselves from me with a menu or a tray, then, perhaps
inadvertently, press their crotch against her elbow or
shoulder as they refilled her tea, or removed a plate.
Her cleavage was on display when they leaned over the
maps, pointing out local landmarks, or gossiping about
other teachers.
Two weeks ago Tuesday, we found a student at his serving
station, cramming from the textbook she co-authored.
While he worked our table, they shared conversation,
flirting like co-eds. Her bra was in her bag, her blouse
undone an extra button. She told him that if he gave her
good service, she would autograph his text. He asked if
she could come, back to the office, to explain a couple
of paragraphs he couldn't quite grasp. She glanced to me
before agreeing. I didn't object. When she returned, her
lipstick was gone and there was a split in her lip. I
pretended not to notice. I forced my mind not to
speculate.
Our journey came to a fork at a campsite in Missouri
last week. I can pull the trailer anywhere, through
anything, but I can't back up worth a damn. Joanna can't
give direction. So our routine is for me to get out,
move behind the trailer, and direct her as she backs
into the site. This time she ignored me, as I waved my
arms and banged on the trailer trying to get her to move
back. She was in a trance, staring off onto the next
site.
The object of her attention was a well-built kid in a
park ranger uniform, coaching an equally well-built
blonde in a bikini as she laid kindling in the fire-pit.
From a distance, now, it's almost amusing. Joanna was
absolutely entranced by him, he as much so with the
young woman's cleavage, while all were oblivious to the
others' attention. I was just mad enough to ask Joanna
if she was going to go "Gaga" over every hunky young
male she saw on the trip. "Would you rather be here with
me, or across the street with him?" I demanded, forever
altering our life together.
"Young men," she said, "my relationships with kids,
particularly my students, mean a lot to me. So does
ours. Don't make me choose between them."
Our relationship changed then. I saw the same things,
but now they were unfamiliar, in a different light, like
the change produced by slipping a polarizing filter on a
camera. I timed her trips to the phone or restroom, and
tried to keep track of the staff. What I had seen as
flirtation, now seemed seduction.
That casual touch could now be a caress. Her erect
nipples might not be the result of the air conditioning.
Her lean across the table to return a menu now might be
an opportunity for her to reveal her breasts. The
inadvertent contact with a server now perhaps was an
occasion to confirm the fullness of her breasts, or to
evaluate the length and hardness of an erection. And
there were erections. She made an impression on quite a
few, and I found myself contrasting their eager young
hardness with my middle-aged spread.
My sexual performance suffered. On a scenic overlook on
a trail above the Illinois River, she knelt on a rustic
bench, flipping up her skirt to reveal her naked rump,
just as she had fifteen years earlier. This time, I
couldn't produce an erection. I found myself thinking
about her with others, and was unable to perform, to
compete.
During foreplay, I would inevitably compare my cock with
the younger larger more-ready ones of her admirers, and
my erection would disappear. I would imagine her, on her
knees before a young stud with a massive cock. He would
be thrusting between her breasts, or full-length into
her welcoming mouth and throat, long enough to erase her
lipstick, hard enough to bruise her breasts, or split
her lip. I would lose myself in the images of others
fulfilling her desires, and ejaculate before satisfying
her. I mourned my lost days of rampant virility and
boundless energy. The images of her with younger men
both aroused and unmanned me.
We stopped early one night at a state park in Wisconsin.
We've gotten pretty efficient at setting up camp, good
enough to look down upon our noses at those who have to
struggle to level their rig, to pop up their trailer or
to erect their tent. They guy in the next site was
easily ten years younger than we were, and in the latter
category.
He was camping out of the trunk of an older BMW coupe.
Gear was strewn about in cardboard boxes, and he seemed
to be missing pieces of the tent. The tent was one of
those intended to fasten onto a Suburban, or a pickup
with a shell, to add on an extra room. He was struggling
to hold everything together and losing the battle. We
watched for a while, amused, before Joanna took pity on
him, and left to offer her help.
I stayed behind to review the day's crop of pictures.
Something was messed up, big time. Every image had an
awful orange tint. I worked for quite some time, before
lucking into a way to salvage them. When I finally
raised my head and looked around, it was nearly dark.
The tent was up, they had given up on trying to fit it
to the BMW. They were messing around with an air
mattress on the picnic table.
The guy had worked up a sweat, and had stripped down to
a pair of gym shorts. He was built like a weightlifter,
and I noticed Joanna's approving glances when his
attention was elsewhere. She took every opportunity to
touch him, to place her hand on him to make a point in
conversation or to steady herself when she shifted
position. They were laughing and talking like old
friends. When I saw her stroke his chest, moving her
hands from the center of his muscular chest out to grasp
his biceps, I stirred myself to intervene.
They had their heads together, tying to figure out the
instructions for attaching mantles to a Coleman lamp.
She had her arm around his waist, his hand was on her
butt. I walked up and introduced myself. He tried to
move away from her, but she maintained her grasp on him.
Her expression was almost defiant.
I removed the mess they had made in the lantern, tied on
new mantles, burned them to ash, and then repositioned
the globe. The lamp lit with the first match, as the
light spread, they stepped apart. I looked at my watch.
"Shit," I said, "We're nearly late for dinner. We really
need to hustle."
Dinner was a small success, visiting with friends I'd
worked with on my first job out of school. Joanna was
nearly silent all evening, but after drinks started to
entertain us with stories about her new friend's
misadventures. I learned that the guy's name was Don. He
was a high school teacher, on sabbatical, trying to
research his thesis and vacation on a shoestring. The
tent and equipment were all borrowed, and he was
completely lost in the woods.
When I returned from my hike in the morning, I visited
the bathhouse, then stopped to check out the items on
the bulletin board. I glanced up and saw my wife in her
bathrobe, leaving our camper and heading toward me. Our
neighbor called to her, detouring her onto his site. I
realized that in my position, behind the bulletin board,
in the shadows of the roof overhang, I was invisible to
them.
I watched them, silently. Mr. BMW wore sweatpants and a
T-shirt in the morning drizzle. Don was trying to cook
over a smoky mass of damp firewood in the fire pit,
using one of those worthless aluminum pans they sell to
gullible Boy Scouts. His eggs and bacon ended up on the
ground when the flimsy handle collapsed. He gave up, and
led my wife toward the tent, discussing gear and
equipment.
She showed him our rig in turn. I watched him stand
behind her, as she bent over to demonstrate how the
leveling jacks at the rear of the trailer operated. I
watched him grin as the hem of her short robe rose to
reveal the lower curves of the cheeks of her ass. When
she leaned forward to show him where the crank fit to
raise the top, even I got a long glimpse of her full
breasts. Her nipples were like marbles. His cock was
stuffed down the leg of his sweatpants, outlined by the
damp fabric, twice as thick, and half again as long as
mine, inches from her nose.
I heard him ask something about the weight of the
trailer, then they moved to the opposite side, where the
data plate is mounted. I shifted position, to where I
could continue to watch.
She knelt, and rubbed on the embossed plate, reading the
numbers aloud. He leaned over her, possibly to read
also, but more likely, to enjoy the view down her robe
as it sagged open. When she straightened, the back of
her head pressed against his cock. She didn't speak, but
moved her head a bit, up and down, then side to side. He
asked something, probably about the BMW, because Joanna
moved over to it.
She sat on the outside edge of the driver's seat, and
leaned down, her head twisted to the rear to read his
data plate on the doorframe. His cock had risen against
the confining cloth, to about a forty-five degree angle.
He stepped forward and rubbed it against the back of her
neck, inserting himself under the collar of her robe.
Other campers were approaching, so I again had to move.
I slipped quietly into our camper. I sat on the edge of
the nearer bunk. I could hear parts of their
conversation, something about an air mattress and roots
poking in the wrong places. I thought she saw me, but
they approached our rig. They were talking about how the
interior was arranged.
The door opened. Joanna stepped into the dark interior
first. The young man paused to adjust his hard-on,
before climbing the steps. Joanna acted surprised to see
me, but her friend was absolutely shocked. He stammered
something, and turned to leave. I told him to stay and
look around. My reaction astonished us all.
Joanna stepped all the way in, turning between my legs
to face her guest. She pointed out our modifications to
the interior, while her free hand reached between us,
concealed behind her back, to grasp the head of my erect
cock, and tuck it back into my shorts. She turned her
head to grin and wink over her shoulder.
He left soon after. We had an appointment with the folks
who bought our house in Madison, for lunch and the
opportunity to take some interior photographs, so we had
to hustle. We knocked down the rig, and packed with our
usual efficiency. Mr. BMW returned, to talk to my wife.
He tried to draw her away for some private conversation,
but Joanna didn't make him any time.
We were on the road in minutes, silent for the first two
hours. I was the first to speak. "What was that all
about?" I asked.
"This is his first time camping, and he was curious
about our rig."
"I was talking about the salami tucked into his
waistband," I joked.
"I don't know about that," she said, "but I do remember
finding a tent peg in your shorts!"
"This is going to be hard for me to say. We've been
avoiding this conversation for months, but it's time I
just spit it out. I think our problem has been that
we've changed sexually, physically, but our relationship
hasn't evolved to suit. I've heard that every guy thinks
he is twenty-five until he's fifty, then overnight he's
an old man."
"What does that mean," she asked.
"It means I'm not a kid any more. It means I can't get
an erection at the drop of a hat, or go four times a
night any longer. It means that I realize I've been on a
downhill slide for the last fifteen years, while you're
just now reaching your peak. We used to joke about you
needing an assistant, now it's time for you to find a
helper for me."
"I have only ever been with you, Bob. I love you. I
don't want anyone else."
"I've loved you now for half my lifetime. I only want to
see you happy, and satisfied. I want you to experience
someone who can keep up with you, who can wear you out
for a change."
"Do you mean that? Could you really step back and let
that happen?
"If it was something you needed. If the circumstances
were right. Hell, if we had spent another night at that
last campground, I might have volunteered to sleep on
the air mattress."
"Do you actually mean that? Could I really have had the
camper and a night with Don?" she asked, with more
enthusiasm in her voice than I would have wanted.
"I think so. It's not like he was going to use something
up, or wear it out. But, then, only if it wouldn't take
anything away from us."
"It wouldn't. I love you. But are you sure," she
whispered, "think before you commit yourself. Be very
sure."
It was a few minutes before I could answer. "Yes. If the
right circumstance arose again, yes."
She chuckled. "You might have spoken too soon. Don is an
IU graduate also. He has homecoming tickets just like
us. We'll be in the same campground Friday night."
So this is how I found myself in another man's tent,
listening to the rain striking the canvas. I was sitting
in someone else's sleeping bag, typing on the laptop on
my knees, pouring my thoughts out onto the screen.
Putting them out where I could see them, examine them,
and determine exactly how I felt.
Joanna has an oil lamp that she lights when we make
love. I know now that she lights it when she has sex,
too. I was never outside the camper before when it was
burning, I was surprised by how sharp and graphic the
shadows were. I stood in the rain and watched. They had
the radio on, softly, but I could still hear the
occasional word.
They started standing in the center. They kissed, long
and passionately. He removed his shirt first. She seemed
fascinated with his chest, stroking his rippling
muscles. She dropped to her knees to lower his shorts.
"Oh Don," she said, It's so big. It's just as long as
ever.
"As ever?" What the Hell had I heard? What was going on?
He put his hands in her hair, and guided his massive
cock into her mouth.
I know too well just how good she is, her tricks, how
she tilts her head up to accept my cock into her throat,
how her eyes watch my reactions in my face, extending
ecstasy into long sweet torture. Even after all these
years I can't last too long in her sucking mouth,
looking down into those beautiful eyes, watching my
shaft move between her lips, watching her cheeks hollow
as she sucks the explosion of sperm from deep within me.
He lasted longer than I believed possible. She was
whining around his massive cock, frantic with need long
before he came. Her nipples were etched in impossibly
sharp silhouette against the canvas, full and ripe,
swollen nearly to the point of bursting. Her hands
worked frantically between her thighs, her climax came
with his last thrust and spurt within her throat. He
withdrew, and ejaculated upon her face, shadow gobs of
cum painting a shadow face.
His moans as he climaxed brought attention. Flashlight
beams found me. I had to walk away.
When I returned, he was taking her doggy-style on the
couch. It's the only place in the camper with sufficient
headroom for the position. Joanna loves it when I do her
this way, as it allows me efficient access to her clit
and nipples, allowing me to drive her to orgasm, over
and over. Dan didn't need any crutches. His hands were
firmly placed on her hips, holding her as he pounded
into her mercilessly. His over-sized cock dragged her
clit inward with every stroke. Her moans and screams of
orgasmic ecstasy were nearly drowned out by the meaty
slaps of his pelvis against her ass cheeks. They paused.
Her cries rose in pitch when his cock began to press
against the rosebud of her anus.
Headlights swept over me where I stood. I had to move
again, and stay away until the new arrival finished
setting up.
When I returned, he was lying on his back on an end
bunk, the shadow of his massive erection distorted on
the canvas. She straddled him, grasping that massive
prong and guiding it into her tiny cunt. It seemed
impossible for her to take it all, but she worked at it
until she sat, fully down onto his hipbones. She rode
him as she often rode me, leaning forward, dragging her
hips back to maximize the pull on her clit, as she
bucked up and down.
It seemed like it went on forever. When she collapsed
upon him, either in exhaustion, or orgasm, he took over.
He held her under the ass-cheeks, lifting her high, then
lowering her. He stroked himself with her body, impaling
her on that massive prong until she recovered enough to
resume her movements toward orgasm. The cycle repeated
itself twice as I watched.
The ranger came through then, using his spotlight to
read the registration tickets clipped on the posts. The
light found me, and held me until I returned to the
tent.
***
I awoke near dawn, cold and alone. I returned to the
camper. The light was out, but the main bunk was
creaking softly on its supports. I imagined them lying
together, spoon fashion, as he gently reamed her from
behind. In the darkness I crept all the way up under the
camper to listen.
"This is fantastic," he said, "How did you ever arrange
this? Does he know?"
"That fool? He actually thinks this was his idea!"
"Is he as good in bed as me, baby? Is he a good father
for my kids?"
"You arrogant prick," she laughed, "You know you're the
best I've ever had. My best student yet. Everyone else
is only in the race for second place!"
Conformation. Desolation.
She had set me up, lied to me, betrayed me on the most
basic and deepest possible levels. His kids! Second
place!
I have competed all my life, in business, sports,
racing. I'd always thought that if I did my best, gave
all I had, realized my potential, I was a winner,
regardless of where I placed. I could never understand
the guys who said, "Second place is first loser."
I do now! God do I!
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 70