tagExhibitionist & VoyeurEncounter in the Deep Woods

Encounter in the Deep Woods


Part 1: A Cold Wind

A rustle of wind blows in from the surrounding trees, making me look up expectantly to the deep blackness of the night. I yearn that HE might appear. I dream of his gorgeous, tanned body. I imagine him walk out of the darkness and into the clearing of my campsite, the campsite of this frail and very anxious young woman. But instead, I see only shadows, cast by the swaying branches, illuminated by flickering flame of the burning campfire at my feet.

The wind blows hard and cold, hard enough to sway my hair over to one shoulder and cold enough to form a momentary chill in the air. It tingles as it brushes against the skin of my naked feet, legs, and bare thighs. Two drops of cold water, one on my red, possibly sunburned shoulder and the other at my knee, percolate down from the moist leaves above, still moist from a brief and relaxing thunderstorm from just an hour before. This causes me a shiver and I am tempted me to reach for the blanket at my side, but then I remember the heat of the day.

As Papa liked to say, the day had been "hotter than a roasted jalapeno in Baja." The sun shined bright and the humidity made it unbearable. It was a typical hot Midwestern summer day, one of those days when the air so heavy you just knew it was going to storm. And then it did! Just as the sun went down, a thunderstorm roared in from the northwest, bringing with it the wind and thunder of an angry God through the trees.

I retreated into the confines of my stifling tent to let it pass; praying all the trees remained upright and no water gathered to flood my campsite and wash my little body away. I found myself wishing HE sat with me, protecting me, calming me as I sat helpless and alone, listening to the thunder crack, the wind roar, and the rain pound on the sides of my little tent like a thousand angry fists.

And then it was over. It lasted only a few minutes, and then it passed.

I crawled back out of the tent and into a different world. Small branches lay strewn around the campsite. My bare feet became wet on the soggy grass. It was a wet, muddy, but also a much more comfortable world. I think the storm dropped the temperature by a good 20 degrees, enough to cause a chill in the air as I...

...now sit alone in face of the fire. The chill, however, lasts only a moment before the roaring flame of the campfire rises to my protection. It swells upward in the breeze, flames leaping into the air and seeming to nearly touch the overhanging branches. It radiates increased warmth as though to apologize for the chill caused by its misbehaving cousin, the wind.

I feel proud of the campfire; even a little surprised at the ease it took to build. The last time I camped was as a child, probably ten years ago. We used to camp often as a family. I wished we still did, but the outings sadly came to stop after my parents needed start paying tuition for my five older brothers. Papa promoted education above all else. His own experience as a southern immigrant working in the farm fields of California and Arizona provided ample reason. He said we had to "cut the corners" in his own imperfect English, and the summer camping trip up from Chicago to the beautiful forests of Northern Minnesota, Wisconsin, and the Upper Peninsula were one of the saddest cuts I had to endure. It took a surprising lot of money to go camping with a family of seven, or at least that's what Papa said.

I discovered the campfire was surprisingly simple to build. "Kidder must first remember," I still remember Papa instructing my older brothers. "Must let fire breath. Gotta make open at bottom to suck air." I still remembered his words, and it was a lucky thing I did, for Papa never let me build a fire myself. I grew up in what could best be described as a traditional Catholic family where men did the hunting and the women stayed in the kitchen. Well, maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but Papa and Mamma did teach us very clear lines of division between the sexes. This applied to the summer camping trip as well as our everyday lives. The making of a campfire clearly lay on the "manly" side of the fence, as did grilling, fishing, and maybe even a little hunting if Papa and my brothers got the chance. The more mundane tasks fell under the woman's domain, like setting the picnic table and washing dishes.

I shuffle my chair back to escape the waves of heat from the first just as another breeze blows through the trees and makes it roar with increased vigor. Flames leap high into the air, this time high enough I think to burn of the leaves of the overhanging branches-or at least that's what it looks like when I gaze upward from my seated thrown-a lawn chair. Now I worry over too much fire. In my zeal to make a fire, any fire, I wonder if I piled on too much wood in my first attempt. Not that it had any chance of causing a forest fire, not in a green forest and certainly not after a thunderstorm. My concern revolves around the light.

I worry someone might see me. Although I sit alone and the campsites are spaced far apart, I can't help but recall the two-hundred-some other campers who also occupy the park. Some of them I can make out in the distance from the evidence of their own campfires. One sparkles through the trees on my right and another ahead of me. A closer campsite stands on my left, I knew, but everyone appears to be in bed.

The anticipation that HE might arrive and the knowledge of so many people creates natural, embarrassing thoughts in my mind. I can't help but think of a religious old woman (a woman very much like my own Momma, I can't help but consider) casually strolling into my camp. Maybe she comes in need of some kitchen ingredient. Or maybe she just wants to stop by to talk. The people in this part of the country-unlike Chicago, or any other big city for that matter-are known for their friendly attitudes. It would not be uncommon for someone to walk over to a neighbor's camp simply because it was the neighborly thing to do. Or even worse, a dirty old man might notice me from one of the surrounding camps or the gravel road that serves to connect the various sites. He might notice my top and my top-heavy proportions, and sneak up to catch me from behind.

My imagination shifts into high gear as I consider who might walk innocently into camp and discover me. I cannot risk being seen, not in my present state of undress. For last-ditch protection, the blanket sits beside my chair. It lay on a few remaining pieces of wood to keep it out of the mud. I can grab it if necessary and quickly wrap its protective fabric around my waist. If too late even for that, I think about using sunburned thighs as an excuse, but the excuse sounds too ridiculous for anyone to believe.

No matter what I say, it would be hard to explain my dress, for I am hardly dressed at all. I feel naked and I practically am. The only thing I wear is the top from my bikini; the bikini top HE complimented me so graciously on earlier in the day. The bottom half drips soaking wet from a makeshift clothesline tied between two trees.

HE is the reason for my present state of undress. It is a gift to him; a reward. It is a hint of what I desired.

Part 2: A Hot Body

I first met him by accident earlier that day. It was just after lunch and at the peak of the noonday sun. The campsite boiled in unbearably heat and humidity; hot enough to drive me towards to the cool water of the lake.

The lake was Lake Michigan, where the water's vast depth kept it cool and isolated from influence of the blazing sun above. Three miles of continuous beach hugged the state park, all of it covered with a gradual drop-off of sand that made it perfect for swimming. People to jump in anywhere along the 3 mile stretch, but a protected area stood roped off in the center of the park. It had locker rooms, showers, lemonade stands, ice cream fountains, and everything else associated with a public beach.

I stayed away from the public beach, deeming it too discomfiting to approach. My habitual morning walk showed me a more appropriate place. My walk took me along a hiking trail to a more private spot of sand. The trail came within sight of the lake, to a place where I figured I could cut through the forest, walk between the trees, and reach the water will little problem. That is where I hiked after lunch, and that is where HE first saw me.

I judged the bikini gave me good reason to be discrete. I originally bought it for William, my ex-boyfriend, or now more properly loathed as "The Bastard."

He originally came up with the idea to go camping.

"How about taking a trip up north to one of the state parks?" He suggested over our regular Thursday night pizza feast. "Couple times you mentioned camping with your family. How about a revival? I think I know someone who'll lend us the equipment."

I thought it a wonderful idea. Neither of us wanted to stick around a deserted campus over the long 4th of July holiday weekend. A camping trip sounded like a lot more fun. Just the two of us, alone up in the big north woods, going hiking, swimming, and whatever else caught our fancy. At night, we would sleep together in a small tent or maybe under the stars. It sounded so romantic; even kind-of daring and erotic. I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to do it outdoors; under the stares. The thought of it sent a shiver of excitement down my spine every time I considered the possibility. I am sure it excited William too. I think that is why he suggested camping to begin with, but I didn't mind. I liked William. He was special-or at least I thought he was-and I thought he liked me too.

We had been dating now for a solid three months and not yet "done it." He wanted to, of course, as did every guy who ever took me out on a date. Men, I've noticed, like to stereotype. When they see a short girl with big boobs, they automatically type her as a bimbo and assume she is easy. That may often be true, but the assumption did not apply to me. Momma raised me to be a traditional girl. That meant a guy had to earn his reward. And with the threat of AIDS and all the other sexually transmitted diseases going around these days, the passage of time only served to increase the sensibility of her advice.

Now don't get me wrong! I'm not one of those fridged Catholic girls that Billy Joel sings about either; the type that remain virgin until marriage. I'm proud to admit I've had sex with a half-dozen guys over the years, and I really enjoyed it too. I fooled around with William too, but only with innocent games like titty feels. The furthest it ever got was when I once allowed him see me topless. Immediately after-and after he lifted his jaw back off the floor-I bid him good night. I allowed him nothing more.

With William, I waited a little longer than usual. I liked him well enough and didn't want to let him go, but there was just something about him... I don't know what it was. I've tried to put my finger on it many times, but I can't quite pin down the issue. Part of it came from his drinking. He drinks a lot of beer and booze, but then the same can be said of most of the guys in college-and even a lot of girls. Drinking is part of the culture of college life. I think I maybe even liked William a little better because he drank. The guy became a hilarious comedian when he got drunk.

Another part of my caution, I know, came from his anxious attitude towards sex. He really worked at getting me into bed. All guys did, but William worked at it harder than most. He even got seriously physical with me once, holding my hands with one hand and grabbing one of my tits with the other. I screamed, but he just laughed and quickly let go as though it was all a joke. I'm pretty sure it was, but I still wonder. There is just something about him...

In the end, I decided to ignore my paranoid reservations. Three months of dating was long enough, so Sunday night I called to give him my answer. I told him I wanted to go.

The next day I went to see him. I walked up to his dorm room unannounced, anxious to tell him about the reservation I made that morning and to find out about his latest progress on the camping gear from some friend of his. And more importantly, I also wanted to show him a little present I bought myself for the trip. I anxiously wanted to show him the tiny article of clothing now wore cleverly disguised under my blouse; a present for me to wear but for William to see.

"But how will we know if you drilled Diane or not?" One of his friends asked from the other side of the partially opened door as I was about to push it open the rest of the way. I recognized the voice as Moog's, one of the rudest, biggest jerks on campus. The guy once grabbed one of my tits on a crowded dance floor.

"It's not as if we can go right up and ask her," Another voice spoke. This one I didn't recognize. "Say Diane, I have a question. You let William to fuck you on that little camping trip or not?"

I automatically stopped outside his door at the recognition of my name and the sound of four men laughing at the remark. I could tell they were drinking.

"Damn, you are so lucky," Moog spoke after he recovered enough to speak. "I can't believe that hot bitch even agreed to go along with your plan. Everyone I talked to says she's fridged as ice."

"She is," William agreed. "Why else do you think I've been going out with her this long? I'd drop that bitch a long time ago if she'd put out some. Her cunt just better be worth it."

"Worth a hundred bucks?"

"Worth a lot more than that," William countered. "The hundred bucks is just the fringe benefits. Her cunt is going to be the real prize."

It took me a moment to comprehend the words. I understood everything the moment I heard the words out of Moog's mouth, but it took several seconds longer for the idea to sink into my head. My boyfriend was taking bets on me. I caught him in the process of making a bet on weather I would let him fuck me or not.

It was terrible. I ran away crying. I cried all the way back to my room, and then cried for a long time into the night as I explained what happened first to my roommate and then to my best friend. William left me devastated, especially the way he called me a bitch, but at least I discovered the real man.

I slept little that night and lay in my room numb most of the next morning. The telephone rang a couple of times and there were two knocks on the door, but I refused answer any of them. I just wanted to think.

My roommate and best friend thought up a cruel, but very simple way to get back at him. They talked me into calling Moog the next night and simply telling him that he was a hundred bucks richer. Predictably, William tried to phone me immediately after. He called several times, but I hung up on him every time. Then even more predictably, he sneaked into the girl's dorm after hours and tried to apologize through the closed door. At this point, my roommate called Campus Security, lying to the police and telling them that William was some kind of pervert who she thought had been following her the last couple of weeks. I vouched for her validity, telling the police I thought I recognized the face from the one I caught looking into our window late the night before.

It was a mean, nasty little trick. But I have to admit, it bought me a tremendous sense of release. I felt a lot better after I heard the police try to question a confused William out in the hallway and then drag him off to jail. I wanted nothing more to do with the guy.

Meanwhile, the problem of the campsite reservation and the present remained. My first reaction was to return both, but the reservation was non-refundable. And as for his gift, well, I'm sure I could have returned it, but it seemed like such a waste. Growing up with five older brothers had always limited my options when it came to fashion. No words ever needed to be said; no directions given. I just knew what was expected. I always bought conservative clothing and made sure to hide all that might be of interest to a man. The most profound example of this was swimsuits. I just knew I was expected to wear a one-piece suite.

His present looked small and very hot. It was a two-piece string bikini made even smaller by my big boobs. I bought it because I thought it would be fun to get William a little excited and aroused. What did it matter if a man saw me wearing it at a campsite? So what if a stranger gazed down on me lying on the beach? The chance of meeting someone I knew at a campsite 300 miles from home had to be exceedingly rare. And besides, lots of girls wore string bikinis.

Well, maybe not too many young, good looking brunettes with a double-D cup size strolled along the beach every day, but I certainly was not going to be the first. So what if I happened to be one of them?

* * * * *

Glancing down at my own body illuminated by the fire, I almost feel sorry for William and at what he is missing- almost, but not quite. I see a tiny bikini package that seems to cover close to nothing. Two large orbs swell out of my chest, touching slightly in the middle, and then rounding around like two big melons to the outside. The only fabric is the strap that stretches down from behind my neck to the little white cups that serve to cover the furthest extent of my big boobs. The cups start so low I fear my nipples may become exposed, which they almost do. The top fails to cover perhaps half my boobs, and with boobs as big as mine, that is quite a lot.

This is what HE saw me in the first time we met. It is also the reason I chose to take the long way around to find a deserted stretch of beach. The public beach might have been okay if William was along, where I could use him as cover-like a safety blanket. But alone it was different. I knew my body well enough to realize I would get no rest. As soon as I sat down, every young guy on the beach would take turns trying to pick me up, and probably a few of the older men too. It happened whenever I wore a one-piece conservative suite, and I am sure this little bikini would amplify it a hundred fold. I looked easy, and that is exactly how the guys would treat me.

For this reason I took the hiking trail. For this reason I wanted to find a more isolated spot. And it was for this reason, luckily, I encountered HIM.

* * * * *

HE presented himself just as I turned off the trail and started the walk through the trees. Lake Michigan lay off in the distance, peaking through the trees, not more than the length of a football field away. I walked in my sandals and hung onto a cheap plastic bag with sun block, towel, hat, and a book inside. The bag also contained the matching cover-up to the bikini, the one I elected to remove while still on the trail. I wasn't too worried about meeting up with anyone. No one was mad enough to go hiking in this kind of weather.

I failed to notice him because I was practicing being an environmentalist. I was stepping cautiously, being careful not to step on and kill any of the new saplings that might be trying to peak their way through the soil. I was paying attention to the ground at my feet instead to where I was going.

It was obvious why HE didn't see me. He stood busily concentrating on other things.

Half way to the beach I saw him, up against a tree, not more than ten feet away. He was a big man, more than six feet tall and budging with muscles. I could tell he spent a lot of time in the sun because his skin was tanned a golden brown that made him look like one of those gorgeous hunk lifeguards that spend half the day working out in the gym and the other half on a surfboard. The first thing I noticed was his handsome face and the blond hair that came down to his shoulders. And the second thing I noticed was that he was butt naked nude.

"Oh my God!" I screeched in surprise, and then said it again as I realized what he was doing in the deserted spot between hiking trail and beach. His hand extended down between his legs and pistioned twice before detecting me.

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byJackBro© 1 comments/ 59345 views/ 7 favorites

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