An adult stories – Characteristics of a Wild Camping by chavdarmitev
‘One of the deepest sins against fucking is to believe things without evidence.’
Unknown
The Peculiar Characteristics of a Wild Camping
The August sun beat down on our ragtag crew like a brass knuckle aimed at the forehead. Another wild camping trip, another godforsaken beach accessible only to adventurous fuckers like us. The air shimmered with heat and the promise of quality liquors-induced headaches.
We dumped our gear onto the sand, the usual chaotic scene and enough food to feed a small army (or at least a particularly famished bunch of city slickers).
Jerry and I, naturally, decided to tackle the “scouting” mission. Now, “scouting” could mean different things to different people. To Jerry, it meant brandishing his machete like a particularly enthusiastic conductor leading an orchestra of terrified undergrowth. For me, it meant “Miko”, my trusty katana sword, in my hand and wild nature in front of me
We plunged naked into the woods, leaving the beach bickering behind. The air hung heavy with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, a welcome change from the sea salt and sunscreen stink back on the shore. Jerry hacked his way through the undergrowth like a man possessed, leaving a trail of fallen branches and startled birds in his wake. Miko, bless her steely heart, unsheathed and then lightning-fast sheathed again, cut the chosen branches with smooth and deadly precision.
As we ventured deeper, the dells and ravines started revealing themselves. They were like wrinkles in the Earth’s face, each one hiding its own little secrets. We found a hidden stream gurgling over smooth stones, a clearing bathed in dappled sunlight, and even a precariously perched bird’s nest with a young hawk inside.
The sight that greeted us upon returning from our forest mission would’ve made Boris Yeltsin choke on his vodka. Our beloved girls, nestled comfortably under the flimsy shade of an umbrella, were anything but picture-perfect. Sun-kissed, sure, but also several cocktails past the point of coherent conversation. And the pièce de résistance? Everything – and I mean everything – perishable was sprawled out like a forgotten buffet under the sun, rapidly approaching boiling temperature.
Jerry, bless his easily combustible soul, let out a roar that rattled the acorns overhead. ‘Damn it, you bloody hens!’ he bellowed, apoplexy clinging to him like a cheap suit. ‘What’s gotten into your pickled noggins? Everything’s about to turn into soup and you’re three sheets to the wind?’
The girls, even in their befuddled state, recognized the imminent disaster. With surprising alacrity (and fueled, no doubt, by the lingering effects of their liquid libations), they sprang into action, rescuing food and beverages from the sun’s wrath. I watched, admittedly mesmerized, as their tanned naked bodies darted about, a ballet of misplaced priorities and sun-induced giggles. The way the heavy tits swayed, juicy asses shook — one beauty that always renders me speechless and tearful. They were like tropical birds with a penchant for strong cocktails, fluttering around in their own little hurricane.
Just then, Jenevieve, whose recent acquisition was I (still sparkling from the novelty, mind you), sidled up, her emerald eyes twinkling with lust. ‘Darlin’,’ she purred, her voice a smoky whisper, ‘we need to talk. Immediately.’ Before I could mutter a coherent response, she was leading me towards a small tent, its interior already thick with the promise of whispered secrets and questionable ventilation.
What about Jenevieve?
Tell me please, how could a simple (though educated) block like me to describe the supremest feminine beauty? Well, she had green eyes… everything else was ass and tits. Not to forget tiny and tight but ferocious pussy.
How did we get acquainted?
Well, chaps you know me, I am addicted to romance like an innocent duckling to spring water – alas, there was not even a smidge of romance here. One day at The Beach I watched Jenevieve’s ample curves with silent and polite adoration. She must have sensed the enormous erotic energy radiating through the ether, because half an hour later, Sebastian sat down next to me, put a supportive hand on my shoulder, looked at me with compassion, and said with a sad sigh, “Charlie, Genevieve sent me to tell you that she wants to fuck you.’
See, what I am trying to explain to you all that time? I am nothing but an instrument for the self-satisfaction of pervert women. So I stood up, smiling happily and approached Jenevieve who contemplated the sea serenely. I hugged her through the waist and twitted the highly sophisticated and intelligent words, ‘Hi, Jen.’
She lifted her face with that look of a satisfied cat that just devoured an especially fat sparrow and kissed me square in the mouth, her tongue thoroughly checking the condition of my tonsils. And that was that.
I followed, butterflies doing a cha-cha in my stomach. This, I mused, was definitely not on the pre-camping itinerary. What juicy morsel did my mysterious Jenevieve have in store? Was it a fascinating blowjob? A daring plan to liberate her pussy from the terrible tensions accumulated by drinking naked? Or, dare I hope, an invitation to a clandestine rendezvous with her gaping asshole (preferably one involving an abundance of sun-lotion)?
Jenevieve, my emerald-eyed enigma, leaned closer, her voice conspiratorial in the dim tent. ‘Listen closely, darling,’ she breathed, her words warm against my ear. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to try, something… intimate.’
My eyebrows shot up like startled pigeons. ‘Intimate, eh? Sounds promising. Spill the beans, love.’
‘It’s an ancient Eastern technique,’ she declared, a touch of smugness in her voice. ‘Apparently, tracing the contours of a woman’s face with honeyed cock… well, it unlocks hidden potential, awakens the senses.’
She produced a jar, smaller than a pickle jar, with a label proclaiming its “bio” and “eco” credentials, no doubt acquired at some overpriced health food haven.
I stared at the jar, then at Jenevieve, suspicion battling intrigue in my gut. ‘The point of this cock-honey-face-tracing, love?’ I asked, my voice cautious.
Jenevieve’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would you prefer a lecture on ancient Eastern sex techniques, or would you just do it?’ she snapped. ‘Consider it an honour, darling. Not everyone gets to be part of this mystical experience.’
Mystical? More like bizarre, but hey I love bizarre and Jenevieve had a way of turning even the mundane into an adventure — imagine the bizarre. Taking a deep breath, I unscrewed the lid. The honey smelled… well, like honey. No hidden dragons or hallucinogenic properties that I could detect.
Dipping my erect cock, I gingerly approached Jenevieve. She knelt before me, eyes closed, a serene expression on her face. It felt surreal, tracing the delicate lines of her brows, the gentle slope of her nose, and the curves of her plump lips with the sticky sweetness clinging to my cock. Was I unlocking hidden potential? Or just making a mess with overpriced organic goo? Whatever it was glorious.
She sucked the main instrument of the ritual with closed eyes for a sufficient amount of time (the exact length known only to her and her guru) and then took him out slowly from her mouth. I scrutinized him. The sweet stickiness coating my thrilled cock was gone, which told me the honey’s journey had reached its final destination.
‘Jen, love,’ I murmured, leaning closer to my kneeling muse, ‘what happens when the magic elixir runs dry?’
Her voice, barely a whisper in the dim tent, held a playful edge. ‘Simple, darling’,’ she breathed. ‘Just transfer the power directly.’ Before I could question the logic (or lack thereof) of honey-infused telekinesis, she fluttered her eyelashes, each blinking like a silent invitation.
Now, I’m the one who always heartily welcomes the unusual sex, but eyelash tickling was something that even an experienced and accomplished fucker like me doesn’t encounter every day. However, trying to deny my addiction to strange sex techniques is futile and potentially hazardous. So, I dutifully brushed my cockhead against her lashes and the subtlest wave of tickling was a sensation that almost caused me to collapse there. Chaps, this was sex in its supremely refined form.
‘Do you feel it?’ she whispered, her voice laced with anticipation.
‘Ah..!’ I muttered, hoping to buy myself some more unforgettable moments.
‘The sensation, darling! The ancient energy flowing from my lashes to your cock!’
Honestly, I was in seventh heaven, the rising heat in my balls threatening to melt the tent walls, but lying seemed the lesser evil.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I declared with exaggerated awe. ‘A veritable current of… something!’
Jenevieve, bless her enthusiasm, didn’t seem to notice my lack of conviction. ‘See!’ she exclaimed, a triumphant giggle escaping her lips. ‘Eastern wisdom never fails!’
The next few minutes were a blur of eyelash fluttering, whispered pronouncements about cosmic energy, and me trying not to cum, while battling a tide of sperm craving to be free. Thankfully, the “treatment” became truly unbearable so I gave up and ejaculated abundantly on her face and then traced again the lines this time with sperm.
If it weren’t for the Rag-Doll’s fuck on the cemetery and the Little Elf’s “Circle of Life”…thing, I would count this as the weirdest sex in my life.
Looking back, the “cock-lash-tickling” incident was the pinnacle of exotic sex techniques I had met, but it was also a testament that utter pleasures can blossom in the most unexpected places. And hey, at least we learned a valuable lesson: never underestimate the power of overpriced organic honey to turn a mundane camping trip into a sticky, unforgettable sex memory.
But your fools would never leave you to delve into the wisdom be it Eastern or Western and in the most indecent and profane way, Ritchie and Jerry started to moan in front of the tent
‘Charlieeee…’ bleared Ritchie. ‘Yes, Charlieeee…’ mooed Jerry. ‘You must stop immediately doing stupid things! Let’s prepare the dinner.’
Jenevieve giggled, I, on the other hand, could only shake my head, a mixture of sadness and exasperation washing over me. ‘Friends,’ I sighed, ‘what are they here for? To drag me back from the abyss, only to push me right back in with twice the force?’
But the abyss could wait. After a refreshing jump in the sea the dinner, fueled by Ritchie’s generous contribution of “Screwdrivers” that seemed to glow in the fading light, beckoned. Soon we were all gathered around the fire, the air thick with the aroma of sizzling steaks and laughter that threatened to drown out the sea’s roar.
Wine flowed like a river, loosening tongues and inhibitions. Amazing sex stories, some true, some embellished to such a degree that you couldn’t recognize the source even when you have participated in them, were shared around the crackling flames. Sex jokes, some outrageously funny, some painfully bad, filled the air. And as the stars emerged, like diamonds scattered across a velvet cloth, I realized that despite their penchant for questionable serenades and dubious wisdom, these fools, these friends, were part of my personal adventure. They were the laughter that chased away the abyss, the chaos that made the mundane extraordinary.
Midnight, the witching hour. Or, in our case, the hour when Pete the Small, purveyor of dubious ideas and questionable life choices, decided an expedition to ancient convent ruins was just what the doctor ordered.
Now, Pete’s ideas usually ranged from mildly inconvenient to potentially life-threatening, but hey, the wine and the weed were flowing freely and tonight, apparently, common sense was taking a well-deserved vacation.
Cheers erupted as Jerry, our resident muscle and chauffeur, lumbered into his monstrous truck, the headlights slicing through the darkness like twin sabres. “Manowar”, naturally, blared from the speakers, a sonic assault fit to wake the dead (and possibly any slumbering monsters lurking in the vicinity).
Standing there, bathed in the red glow of taillights and the throbbing rhythm of the music, inspiration struck me like a rogue wave. A whimsical, slightly insane inspiration, fueled by the aforementioned “excesses”.
‘Pete, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, my loving friend from our filled with sweet memories Childhood…’
‘Cut the poetry please,’ hiccupped Pete the Small, ‘I am too drunk to appreciate it in full.’
‘Don’t you think that it will be a marvellous sensation if we travel on the roof of Jerry’s truck?’
His eyes widened ‘What?’
‘Pete, my man,’ I slurred, ‘wouldn’t a journey atop Jerry’s chariot, beneath the vast canvas of the night sky, be an experience of unparalleled splendour? Imagine, dear friend, the wind whipping through our hair, the stars our only companions as we traverse the rugged landscape!’
His eyes were bloodshot but gleaming. ‘Charlie, you are a crazy sod, Let’s do it.’
And so, with the agility (or lack thereof) of seasoned acrobats fueled by fine beverages, we clambered onto the roof of Jerry’s truck. Gripping the headlight rods like sailors clinging to a storm-tossed mast, we settled in for our “unparalleled splendour”.
The wind roared in our ears, the music vibrated through our bones, and the world blurred into a tapestry of darkness, headlights, and the occasional screech of iron on stone. Whether it was an experience of “splendour” was debatable, but it was certainly an adventure — one likely to be retold (or misremembered) with exaggerated gusto and questionable accuracy in the years to come.
Jerry, bless his lead-footed soul, navigated the dusty road with all the finesse of a drunken bull in a china shop. Each turn felt more like a drunken pirouette, sending us lurching and weaving on the roof like laundry caught in a hurricane. The occasional symphony of crunching cornstalks added a unique percussion section to the already headbanging Manowar soundtrack.
Just as I envisioned myself becoming a permanent resident of the cornfield, Jerry’s voice, amplified by the night air and uncountable amount of liquor, boomed through the darkness. ‘Still up there, you dickheads?’
Miraculously, we were, although clinging to the headlight rods with the desperation of sailors weathering a typhoon. With a triumphant roar, Jerry finally brought the truck to a halt in front of the ruins.
The scene before us was straight out of a gothic novel. Crumbling stone walls, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, cast long, eerie shadows that danced in the headlights. Emerging from our precarious perch, we surveyed the landscape with a mixture of awe and apprehension. It was undeniably creepy, but also undeniably cool.
With newfound enthusiasm, fueled by adrenaline and possibly the residual Screwdrivers, we launched into a drunken exploration. We pirouetted between the ancient stones, our laughter echoing through the ruins like the ghosts of long-forgotten revellers. The truck’s headlights painted fleeting portraits on the cracked walls, transforming them into canvases for our impromptu light show.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a complete adventure without a near-disaster. As I attempted a particularly ambitious “leap of faith” between two pillars, my foot caught on a loose stone, sending me tumbling headfirst towards the ground. Luckily, Pete the Small, bless his drunken reflexes, managed to place his body conveniently on my way, the two of us collapsing in a heap of giggles and dust.
That night, amidst the ancient ruins bathed in the surreal glow of headlights, we danced naked, we stumbled, and we laughed until our sides ached. It was a night of questionable decisions, near-misses, and pure, unadulterated chaos — a night that would be etched in our memories (or at least the parts we could remember) as a testament to the absurdity and hilarity that can unfold when friends, alcohol, weed, and ancient ruins collide.
We finally got back to the camp and exhausted dropped to sleep.
Dawn arrived, not with a gentle caress, but with a sledgehammer headache and a body that felt like it had been used as a punching bag by a particularly enthusiastic grizzly. My chest and abdomen were a glorious kaleidoscope of blue, each shade a testament to the joys of rooftop travel. Yet, despite the physical indignities, my spirit soared like a drunken eagle.
‘Jen,’ I croaked, my voice like gravel scraping against sandpaper, ‘a little battlefield medic attention might be in order. Consider me wounded, in need of your healing touch.’
She giggled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Of course, darling,’ she purred, approaching with the cautiousness of a cat stalking a particularly large goldfish. ‘Anything for my valiant knight.’
Her fingers, cool and gentle, found my erect cock and she carefully took it inside her already-wet pussy and then started riding me slowly. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as the tension slowly unwound. My hand, in a gesture of reciprocating gratitude, stroked the slit of her bottom. With each soothing stroke, the aches and pains seemed to fade, replaced by a pleasant hum of well-being.
‘Anythin’ else your injured soul requires, love?’ she inquired, her voice a seductive melody.
‘Ouch!’ I yelped as her fingers brushed one of the more impressive bruises adorning my chest. ‘Perhaps,’ I stammered, a vengeful glint in my eye, ‘a different kind of artistic approach?’
A slow smile spread across her face. ‘My, my,’ she chuckled, ‘always the one for the dramatic flair. Very well, then…’
And then, she elegantly took my cock into her ass. It was a pleasure that burned away the remnants of pain, a balm for both body and soul. I cum a second after her and as we pulled away, breathless and grinning, I realized that sometimes, the best medicine wasn’t found in bottles, but in the warmth of another’s asshole, and the quiet intimacy of a sunrise shared between two that have had sex. The day stretched before us, promising new discoveries, hidden coves, and perhaps even more “artistic approaches” to wound management. After all, with girls like these, who needed boring old first-aid kits?
Noon arrived, casting not just its shadow but also a wrench into our sun-drenched paradise. ‘Urgent business in the city,’ Jenevieve announced, her emerald eyes shimmering with regret.
Two hours later, Jerry returned alone, a dubious grin plastered on his face and Maid Marian in tow.
Maid Marian, bless her heart, resembled a sun-bleached brunette bombshell sculpted by a master sculptor. Her husky laugh pierced the afternoon calm faster than a harpoon through a tuna. But hey, who am I to judge?
The afternoon unfurled like a silk scarf in the breeze. We basked on the hot sand, the sea a turquoise invitation, while chilled cocktails fueled impromptu beach volleyball games that would make clowns weep with laughter. Jerry, our resident braggart and questionable hunter, returned from his harpooning expedition like a conquering hero, dragging behind him a haul of fish that could feed a small village.
The evening saw me transformed into a culinary maestro, whipping up a Bouillabaisse worthy of Poseidon himself. The famished crew devoured it with gusto, their praises washing over me like a tidal wave. If the previous night the wine flowed like a river, this night it plummeted like Niagara Falls.
Soon, fueled by liquid courage and questionable dance moves, the fire became the stage for an even wilder spectacle than the night before. Bodies swayed, limbs flailed, and laughter echoed through the starlit night. Maid Marian, surprisingly nimble, was the undisputed queen of the dance floor, her gyrations rivalling a dervish on snow.
The witching hour found us, armed with flickering torches and fueled by questionable judgment (courtesy of that Niagara Falls of wine), on a naked quest into the heart of the ancient forest. Legend spoke of a hidden sacrificial altar, a relic from some forgotten ritualistic past.
Jerry, usually our resident tall-tale dispenser, swore he’d stumbled upon it years ago. Now, under the inky cloak of the night, his bravado faltered slightly, replaced by a nervous glint in his eye. Still, the prospect of uncovering some dark historical tidbit proved irresistible, even with our collective blood-alcohol level teetering on the edge of coherent navigation.
The forest, an emerald cathedral by day, had transformed into a maze of menacing shadows. Twisted branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and every rustle of leaves sounded like approaching predators. Maid Marian, usually the life of the party, clung to Jerry’s arm like a koala to a eucalyptus tree, her giggles punctuated by nervous whimpers.
And then, a break in the foliage revealed it — a weathered stone slab, tilted at an off-kilter angle, etched with channels that spoke of grim ceremonies long past. The sacrificial altar shrouded in an unsettling aura, stood before us, a testament to forgotten gods and spilt blood.
A hush fell over the group, broken only by the crackling of our torches and the chirping of crickets. Even the ever-effervescent Maid Marian seemed awed into silence. The air felt thick with history, with whispers of the past clinging to the damp stone.
Suddenly, a twig snapped. We all spun around, hearts pounding. It was just a startled owl, taking flight with a menacing screech. But the momentary scare had shattered the eerie tranquillity. Laughter, nervous and forced, erupted from Maid Marian, quickly joined by Jerry’s booming guffaws.
The sacredness of the place gave way to the absurdity of our situation — a bunch of naked, drunken stoned friends stumbling upon an ancient altar in the middle of the night.
Whatever it was, the night of the sacrificial altar became another bizarre chapter in our ever-growing catalogue of camping misadventures.
The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the weary campers. Everyone, except us three, was snoring like rheumy rhinos. Jerry, muscles as thick as his skull, and Maid Marian, fresh to the wilderness like a flower just breaking ground, were still up for an adventure. The moon, big and brassy, dared us to make trouble.
We were flitting around camp, collecting snacks and stuff when Jerry’s voice boomed like a foghorn, ‘Where the fuck did that Maid vanish to?’ He scanned the darkness, suspicion heavy in his eyes. Then, I noticed what was the real life-threatening disaster.
‘Jerry,’ I hissed, ‘we’re fucked! The Glenfiddich is gone!’
My Glenfiddich, a 21-year-old single malt especially reserved for a full moon like this, had evaporated. Jerry, the brawn, might be clueless, but I, the brains of the operation, quickly connected the dots. Movement on a nearby rock caught my eye. We crept like panthers on a prowl, Karl May novels our silent guide.
On the rock, bathed in moonlight, a sight unfolded that would make a saint swear. There she was, Maid Marian, the she-devil herself, reclining on an inflatable raft, sipping my precious amber liquid and gazing at the stars.
‘Gotcha!’ snarled Jerry, his voice dripping with murderous menace. Maid Marian, startled, nearly choked on her loot.
‘Took you long enough, boys,’ she chirped, a touch too innocent.
‘Crime demands punishment,’ Jerry hissed, brandishing a finger. ‘And yours is coming.’
‘Oh, come on,’ she purred, ‘you wouldn’t be so vengeful, would you? Share the whisky, share the view.’
‘Punishment isn’t about revenge,’ I interjected, my hand finding its way to her naked ass.
‘It’s about rehabilitation,’ Jerry smirked, flanking her from the front and cupping her tits.
Seeing resistance was futile, she sighed dramatically. ‘Very well, execute my sentence.’
Jerry, ever the sadist, declared, ‘Тhreesome!’
I, considering the severity of her crime, added, ‘Ass included!’
‘Ass?’ she scoffed, already huffing with Jerry’s mouth sucking her tit. ‘I do not do ass!’
‘Why so?’ I enquired intrigued.
‘Unbecoming of a lady.’ declared the fair Maid.
‘No escape, dollface,’ Jerry chuckled ceasing for a moment his enjoyable occupation. ‘Caught red-handed.’
She was a seasoned fucker that Maid, her left hand worked Jerry’s cock, her right mine. She stopped this delightful job with a sigh.
‘Fine,’ she huffed, then pushed Jerry onto the raft, mounted him and stretched her ass with her fingers for my more comfortable penetration. Then she proceeded to fuck us simultaneously, Jerry with pussy, me with ass with surprising grace and admirable agility. We fucked, commenting and laughing, our initial anger dissipating.
Finally, the unsatiable Maid Marian received her orgasm, followed by a second by Jerry and after a few seconds by me. We collapsed, panting on the rock, the Glenfiddich now shared, the moon our silent witness. The night ended with punishment, and laughter, the stolen whisky a catalyst for unlikely camaraderie. Just another night on this crazy camping trip, fueled by questionable decisions and the bizarre charm of cooperative fucking.
I lie sprawled under the velvet cloak of the night, my hand resting comfortably on Maid Marian’s Mound of Venus, a warmth that chased away the chill of the dissatisfaction. For less than 24 hours I have managed to pull two dames back from the brink of a fate worse than a tax audit — namely not to have a proper anal fuck. Still, the question gnawed at me: what cosmic dice roll had landed me this sweet reward, to know two hot assholes for such a short time? What deeds, in this chaotic life of mine, had convinced the Great Mother Goddess I deserved such bliss? Honestly, gents, with my track record, even the stars are probably scratching their celestial heads. But the sky offered no answers, just a billion twinkling stars swaying to the silent melody my soul hummed — Beethoven’s Ninth, no less.
‘Let the man who has had the fortune
To be a helper to his friend,
And the man who has won a noble woman,
Join in our chorus of jubilation!’
The words resonated within me, a bittersweet harmony. Enjoy this, I told myself, but don’t get too comfortable. Sunshine in this world is a fickle beast, quick to vanish behind thunderclouds. And Maid Marian, with her smile like poisoned candy and a figure that could make a statue blush, could just be playing us like cheap fiddles.
So I savoured the moment, but beneath the calm, a gnawing suspicion lingered. This “doom” I’d saved them from, might just have a vengeful sibling waiting in the wings. And what awaited us beyond the horizon, beyond the laughter and the shared sex under the moonlit sky? Another mess, no doubt, one I’d have to face with nothing but my wits, ever-ready cock and a healthy dose of reckless optimism.
The question wasn’t whether trouble would find me, but how much trouble I could stomach before the scales tipped and bliss turned into another sex-lent. Perhaps tonight, beneath the winking stars, I’d unravel a thread of this “glorious award.” Or maybe it was just another turn of the narrative screw, leading me down an asshole tighter than any I’d ever dreamed of.
One thing was certain: adventure never sleeps, and neither should I. After all, that’s the beauty (and the curse) of adventure — it never lets you rest easy, especially when you’re the kind of magnet for debauched women most folks wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot barge pole. So, My Willy, what song do we sing next? A erotic ballad under the moon, or a battle cry as we charge headlong into the unknown? Remember, partner, the crazier the ride, the funnier the story. Let’s write one for the ages, even if it ends with us singing our final chorus from a sex-drought ditch, surrounded by wanking and reeking of regret.
Because that’s just how we roll, wouldn’t you say? Now, where did I put that bloody glass…?