Carman Fan Club: Adventures at Camp Somewhere

by Sasha Pearl

  She turned her hand so that her thumb and forefinger made a circle around my nipple, then pulled her hand back, slowly tugging and teasing my tit. I did the same to her, and this we repeated, changing sides, shifting weight, one hand, the other hand, both hands, anchoring ourselves down and together with our legs twisted under the water.

  I didn’t notice when the grinding and bouncing started but then I did notice I couldn’t stop it, and so with the waves, with the water I bobbed, wishing her hand would find its way in me again, move inside and pull me over the edge.

  With a look that was just on the edge of wicked, her amber eyes fiery with her own throbbing she said, “I’m going to cum next, you know that, right?” I nodded and the two of us worked our way out of the lake, up the path, back to her lakehouse, where we showered (naked, quickly) and she lead me to her white sheeted bed.

  “I thought we all had to stay in dorms at camp, is this cheating?”

  She shook her head guiltlessly. “I stay in the dorm, I sleep with the girls, follow all the rules, but I need my space, you know?”

  And with me settled on the bed above and below soft white bleached sheets, she left for a minute, returning with her treasure box.

  “First a strap on,” she said, pulling out a holstered dildo, “no, no, not yet,” she corrected herself. “First, we start with this,” presenting a two headed dildo, “and then we move to the advanced stuff.”

  Without her asking, I pulled down the sheets, opened my knees, made room for her to settled between them. She held one part of the dildo right below the head, and told me to do the same, “do what I do, exactly what I do, yes?”

  And yes, I did.

  She rubbed the head of the dildo up and down my slit, slowly softly; I did the same, up and down her nude fat pussy, not slipping it in even when she shifted her weight and tried to suck it into her thirsty twat.

  She pushed the head in a little, just a little, and I looked her in the eye when she did the same, and said “more” but she didn’t hear me because she was pulling up on top of it, mounting it, motioning for me to move my hand so she could mount me.

  “It’s going so deep, yes?” she told me and asked as I sank down on the dildo, wet and thirst like her, both of us pushing and grinding until we met in the middle, clits hitting, her tits swinging above my face “suck them” she told me and I did, I sucked them and held them and held on to them and to her and she rocked me, rocked us both, rocked over and over until her throbbing contractions pushed the dildo out, back towards me, in and harder and I came too, holding her tits, sweating, thankful.

  “Now,” she smiled, “now I will teach you to eat fruit,” and with that she leaned back away from me, the dildo sliding out of her, out of me, opening herself. “You start up here, yes?” and she pointed at her mouth, pulling me on top of her, kissing me with her lips barely open.

  “When you get there, start like this,” she instructed, licking my lips gently across, back and forth. “And then, you move it like this,” touching my lips with her fingers, rubbing across in a pattern like she had made with her tongue, slipping a finger in, then again.

  I started to suck it, tilted my head back and wished her finger was a dick (yours).

  Graciella pulled her finger from my mouth, traced it down her tits, over her soft flat curved stomach, and between her legs. I followed the path with my tits, with my tongue, finally resting between her legs, where I did my work until her pussy sucked my finger, sucked up two fingers, and I knew in whatever language she spoke at in her head (which I hoped was Italian, not French and dear God please not Portuguese) her pussy was silently begging for a dick.

  Without her commanding me, while I finger fucked her with one hand, I slipped the strap on up on and over me, and pushed it into her, her legs wrapped around me, and like that we rocked over and over, taking turns above and below and behind and pinned down, naked and sweaty, in the tiny lake house by the lake at camp on this Sunday afternoon in late June.

  Lisa and Rosa

  Too polite to stop Lisa – who, by the way, wasn’t saying a word, just banging and sweating – Rosa’s eyes stayed open, taking the room in, noticing dust on the ceiling fan, that the closet door wasn’t completely closed.

  She scratched an itch on her nose, then stretched her cramp and scratched an itch on her foot.

  Um, oh, oh, wow, yeah, Rosa said, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, noticing how much easier it was to fake it on a dildo than a hand or a dick. Oh, oh, I'm THERE, I'm almost, and OH, ohhhh don't stop, don't.... oh, THANK YOU! Oh, stop, stop, it's too intense, no, no, I can't take more, really too much... Oh, stop, yes, pull out.... Oh wow, thanks. Lisa rolled off in a frustrated huff.

  Rosa say up, said thank you, and please could you go now and you must exhausted. Thanks! then closed the door.

  Alone with her dildo she had a shot at coming.

  Propping it up on a chair, Rosa leaned herself backwards and down on it, slipping herself up and then down, moving first all the way up and all the down moving from her knees, and then less moves, a little faster, her hips also moving back and forth.

  She remembered him leaning over her this way, his arms around her stomach, face buried in her hair.

  One hand moved down her stomach, like his had, softly – after whispering for her permission -- gently sliding over where she was most protective.

  Pushing back onto him, onto the dildo, she moved her fingers in the smallest lightest circles, starting a second fire.

  Seconds later, just as she pushed back down on the dildo - his dick – her entire pussy pulled tight, backwards and up, then let go in waves, pushing against itself and against the dildo.

  When the last wave ebbed, Rosa sat up and off the dildo, rewrapped it in a towel, and tossed it on the top of her closet.

  Before she went to bed, Rosa rubbed vanilla almond scented cream up and down her legs, took two red sleeping pills with the cup of water on her nightstand, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

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   Carman Fan Club 

  CHAPTER 6: QUIET, SLIPPERY

  I wake up in my own bed, sheets tangled between my knees, hugging my pillow.

  They have all left me alone, like they did yesterday, out doing what they signed up to do, following their itineraries.

  The first wave comes, and then another then the next. Yesterday was worse; today is is only water. For a minute (more than one) I wonder how good this must be for my abs, then shake off the thought.

  After that I stay on the bathroom floor hugging the toilet, a towel draped over the hard white toilet seat like a pillow case.

  When that stops feeling good, I lift the towel and push my forehead against the white coldness, expecting relief that doesn’t arrive.

  Later someone brings me water, a few brown oval pills, a cold cloth.

  I go back to bed, back to the quiet room, slipping between the sheets completely still except for my right foot which

  moves rhythmically, invisibly, rocking myself back to sleep.

  She arrived after the third breakfast I skipped, standing over my bed; three grave questions asked and answered.

  She offered to help however she could.

  I threw on a teal short sundress, brushed my teeth and followed her out of our cabin, down the path that wound under moss draped trees, out around the lake, behind the rocks and into a crevice big enough for three of us.

  There she told me why she was there, what she had and how it was growing.

  They tried to cut it out, to burn it, to poison her, but nothing, it kept growing filling the part of her where she’d wished for babies to grow.

  I leaned back against the cold rock, one particular vein of pain running from under my left shoulderblade up my neck through my temple to my eye.

  It will not go away, I told her, I am being conquered. I am tired of fighting, I said, not even meaning it as the words fell from me to the universe, seeds planted somewhere.

  You were having a grand time,
she reminded me, leaning in so friendly I could smell raspberry and ginger and hope.

  She offered me water.

  She offered me a large blue contraband pill to end the pain.

  She lit a joint and we shared it, surrounded by the sweet smoke, tied by the rhythm of breathing, passing, allowing, receiving.

  I told her about my year, about my month, about my journey here.

  She talked about jeans, about stars and flowers, her mother Helen, about Crowbar, speaking so perfectly slowly and kindly my mind unwound and the pain popped like bubbles like hope and by the time she got to the part that brought her here, to this, to try it and see, I had laid my head in her lap and she stroked my hair, my cheek, my arm.

  I looked up at the firm round breasts that moved with her voice with her breath, hovering above above me and asked, nicely, please could she give me more comfort, just for a few minutes, and I think I said more because the blue pill warmed my throat, my heart, my soul and I could think boldly again only I didn’t have a pen or my purple journal so I can’t remember exactly what it was I said before she shifted – or did we both – and kissed me and there we stayed, comforting each other, crossing our bodies our lives our pain, quietly (I hope).

  She thinks I couldn’t cum; really, in truth, I wouldn’t, I refused instead remembering the week that lead me here, remembering the decision the awful decision over and over so that tears almost came, clouding my face with a sadness she mistook for ecstasy and kept licking and pinching and circling and pushing until I lied to her with my body silently, imitating happiness, so easily, too easily, and then it was over.

  Before lunchtime she lead me back, filled my plate with fruit and cookies and compassion, which I only nibbled at for now.

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   Carman Fan Club 

  chapter 7: Like Candy

  Better, much better, from my run around the lake, to the hazy sunrise, on and on it stayed better through breakfast (fruitfree) and then I got my itinerary.

  .

  Printed on heavy ivory cardstock stamped with tiny words in all capitals , my day started with “Massage by Candy.”

  Danielle read this over my shoulder – she’s spent the morning hovering over me, now that I’m better, now that I’m fine – and said “You have NO idea. Shave first….” Which was so like her, and anyway irrelevant because I’d waxed, not that she’d know because even though we’ve all see her pussy (several times) mine is a little choosier.

  So when I got there it was dark, quiet and peaceful in a wind chime and bamboo and feng shui way. She was wearing a red silky robe, closed loosely, and greeted me with two kisses and orders to change into a robe like hers. Her face was kind, her voice soft, her hair wavy and free.

  She didn’t ask questions.

  Yes, I did as I was told, then followed her to the room with the waterfall, with the bathtub, with the table and the sofa.

  First, face down, robe only pulled back off my shoulders, she rubbed my neck, my shoulders, my arms with an oil that was maybe cinnamon, maybe with vanilla, maybe graham crackers I couldn’t tell. I didn’t. The woman’s hands were magic – they moved down then, down my back, lower, then skipped the bunched up robe, skipped to my ankles and moved up, one hand then the other, two hands, up then down, up and down one leg, then up then down and up and down the other leg then one hand on each leg, together up, together down, first just to my knee, then higher, then higher, but not all the way.

  My eyes were closed.

  Turn over.

  I did.

  Same thing from the front, two hands on one leg, rubbing the oil, one up, one down, higher and higher, up and down passing each other. Then the other leg, up, then down, promising higher, going higher, then up and down and shifting to one hand on each leg, one up one down, one down then up, together up and down, and so I noticed she had moved herself in between my legs into an upside down V notch in the table so she really was between then, leaning back over me, rubbing my shoulders from the front briefly, then my arms, and then lower to my stomach, lower still, but not to where I was waiting.

  From there, she turned me over again and walked to my facedown face and whispered in my ear that she was going to use more pressure now, and she did because even though I didn’t see her I did see her robe slip to the ground and then she removed mine and again standing in that V of the table reaching up to my shoulders. Then she pulled herself up so that her knees straddled were outside my nake ass cheeks. Warm drops of oil fell on my shoulders, my back, dribbling down to my ass, then in between, to the place that was already wet.

  Long strokes of her hands up and down, harder now as she was over me, then – I swear this really happened – she laid on me and slid her body her tits her rock hard thighs up and down and against and over me, giving not taking, orderly, methodically.

  Turn over, please, she said, draping a cloth over my face to keep the oil out, to keep the image out, as she dribbled again the oil – orange lime? I couldn’t tell, didn’t Rockete, as I slipped farther down into my body – then slid over me hands going up and down and around in circles over my breasts, rubbing herself against me, pushing the oil out so it slid down my sides and on the table.

  Her hands never entered me, no, but by the time that that was clearly where we were going she warmed a red dildo, teased my (jealous and impatient) clit kindly, over and over in circles until I said “please” and she said if she were going to do it, it would be her way.

  I nodded.

  It went so fast then, the vibrator, right there, the dildo, pushing in (there? How did she push it in there? How deep was it? I couldn’t think) and I came hard, so hard even more filled with the warm slippery red dildo pushed in and patient.

  She knew, of course, because the waves pushed it out towards her, “come hard, keep coming,” the vibrator forcing me to, the dildo pushing me to, her exploring fingers twisting one tit then the other, and I came a second time – even better – then a third time, not as hard, but gratefully.

  After that, she settled me into the warm bath, pouring cups of ginger lime scented water over me, washing off the oil, washing off her fingers, her tits, her body.

  She pulled her robe back on, then folded mine and handed it to me in a small brown handled bag along with the red dildo, now fresh and virginal again, like her, like me, like the day, like fruit filling with sunshine on the vine, ripe, offering itself freely like Candy.

  Day #15

  This morning when our itineraries were slipped under the front door, Lisa raced me there, betting me she would finally get to meet Candy today.

  Hmmm, she said, handing me our identical itineraries. Except for mandatory appearances at lunch and dinner, neither of us had anything planned.

  We fell back in bed – in her bed – fully dressed.

  It drives me crazy not telling you what I do, she tells me, pushing my hair out of my left eye.

  There I said it and now you just know, she looked away from me and I looked at her and around her, wondering if she was really asking me to guess.

  I’m not a guesser, but I don’t want to tell her I’m not a guesser because then I’d be telling her I think she is asking me to guess, which she isn’t actually directly doing so if she isn’t, I’d be accusing her of … whatever… so I held my tongue pulling the covers of her bed up and over myself up to my chin.

  We twisted and punched pillows and hunkered down ending up face to face.

  What would you have been? If you hadn’t have become… had become… were, I mean are…?

  What did I think I might have become in another life? I repeat her question, actually changing it to fit myself, and then answering it.

  A physicist. I love physics; I wish I’d had more a chance to study it, to take more math and science, but still, I understand it, even if I can’t be an expert in it.

  She nodded her head, biting her lip, waiting for me to hit the ball back. What would you have been?

  A Supreme Court justice.

&n
bsp; Not just a lawyer, like an awesome lawyer, that wouldn’t be enough, I ask her, seriously.

  No. She shakes her head. I see myself in robes, long ones, deliberating freedom and liberty and justice and being behind the bench.

  It’s your vision, I say, and she nods, leaning into me. For a minute we take small liberties with each other, unbuttoning, pulling, looking, revealing pieces in a small dance under the covers.

  She pulls on of my hands up, then the other, holds them over my head. Tell me again about matter and energy, she asks leaning over me.

  Matter plus energy? The source if everything. Creation, destruction, the entire cycle, one into the other, I say, holding her gaze.

  She looked away, pulled away, admonishing me to hold my arms up and above my head, to look straight up, keep looking, she said, then pulled back into the bed.

  Open your legs, all the way, and keep them open, she tells me and my brows furrow reflexively at such a command and also at feel my body answer yes before my mind could catch up.

  Good, she tells me, pulling the covers down, lower, down to my waist so the coolness of the room licked my tits merciless.

  Now, what are your tits asking for? She leaned over me, her hair ticking my face, my neck then lower, her cheek and face brushing one tit then the other, pretending to listen for an answer. She listened with her lips with her tongue, then her fingers, pulling, pinching, teasing.

  My hips strain up, already, asking for more than this, which she must have been prepared for because she pulled the comforter lower, worked her cheek lower, her hair, her laugh, lower down my stomach and to my thighs, outside then inside and finally in between where she stayed playfully rubbing herself on and in me,

  I did what she asked, kept still, kept open, kept silent and came over and over while she first worked her hand and then her dildo hungrily into me, asking nothing more than I gave her freely this afternoon – complete surrender.