KOI 04: Camping at Silver Mines

This trip is all over the map in terms of behavior, but some angry bits towards the end demand this episode of Couples Off the Interstate (KOI) be entered thru the NC/R Category.

KOI 04 Camping at Silver Mines

Summer, 1971

Dave had odd taste in women. Given his good wit, his dark, Mediterranean-styled handsomeness, and a well-muscled, not to say hunky body, he might have angled for just about anyone and had a good chance of landing her. To top things off, he was diabetic, and had to self-inject a dollop of insulin into his thigh once or twice daily. What a great, Byronian prop with which to engage feminine sympathy!

I remember two occasions from a wild freshman college spring semester when truly awe-inspiring girls, virtual strangers to Dave, touched on him as an instrument of therapy and revenge following collegiate romantic tragedies. But Dave never followed up on the beauties, and always preferred kids of unremarkable looks and often alarmingly housewifely personalities. By and large, the kids seemed to come to him, and to stick around for ridiculous lengths of time, so that Dave was often juggling two or three "active" relationships that were not always unknown to one another. A remarkably ethical cocksman, Dave enjoyed worrying about his lucky surfeits, and worrying us about them. ("I wish I had his problems," Jim Bean would complain from his dormitory bed.)

Loie was not far out of Dave's usual line... In the summer of '71, she was the only one he had going...

Dave had met Loie at the community college, to which he'd flunked following that wild freshman spring semester. Loie was a little older than any of us, maybe 23. She had an open, practical, South St Louis housewifeliness that contrasted strangely with her fairly heavy drugging. The drugging - some Sopors and Quaaludes but mostly just grass with occasional acidic holidays - had increased with the collapse of her premature marriage. The divorce had sent her back to her supportive but reasonably lassaiz-faire mother.

Loie's looks included a cute, expressively plain face, in the sort of Dylan'sLittleSister mode that I've always found to be fairly sexy, if sort of goofy... a little ferrety, with a pouty mouth and greygreen eyes that might have been called "flashing" in a prettier face. Ah heck, let's give Loie her due-her eyes could "flash", and if Molly Ringwald had a pretty face so did Loie. Her head was topped off by unruly brown hair, bobbed almost artlessly to float halfway up her neck.

There, at her neck, was where Loie's real appeal began. It was a smooth, long neck, sliding to Loie's thin tan shoulders, where the smoothness continued, to long arms, trim sexy hands, and from there attention dropped to looong legs for a 5'3" girl, beautiful feet... legs all extraordinarily slank, smooth and tan and wonderfully long-muscled along narrow bones, up to a well-defined, small but round, butt, and from there back up the thin back. (Loie was thin-chested, too; but you wouldn't even notice that. Her breasts were pert and round, young firm tan - check-off-your-own-list.)

Becca and I knew Dave too well not to have hinted about our recent discovery of our own polyamorous (omniamorous?) proclivities. Becca, for that matter, could press the amusing oddity of it all onto Dave with a quick sideswiping aggressiveness the poor guy had to use all his Southside Dutch dirtydozening skills to turn back. When Loie was around, there was some occasional couple-to-couple flirtation, but it kept free of danger as we maintained the fantasy on a light "theoretical" plane. Dave feigned anxiety at the very suggestion of, er, "orgy." Loie was more verbal, more aggressive, even, in her teasing parries. And I couldn't help but notice - or imagine - a flare of interest in her eyes as she snapped off her dismissive retorts.

So it's not that there was any real intention leading up to what happened later that summer. When the plans for the campout were made, the principal motivations were escape from familial surveillance, freedom to drop psychedelics in a lovely natural setting, and - mainly - the desire to entertain Jim Bean.

Jim was an aspiring hobo Dave and I had known since high school. He had left college and drifted north a year earlier. He wrote back to us after he was safely reclassified 4-F, letting us know that he intended to come home to visit, just for a while. Knowing Jim's love of canvas and dirt, we figured that he'd appreciate the chance to break out of his family's tiny tract house for a couple of days, fish his old haunts at Silver Mines Rec Area, and smoke a lot of gaggy black Parodi cigars along the river.

Jim had made something of a career out of shyness and social pessimism, but Becca had remarked on his sound resemblance to a soft-brown-eyed, bearded Clint Eastwood, and apparently one or two women had overcome his modesty in the year he spent up north. There were some allusions to his having had a traveling companion, either a grizzlybear or a girl, on the BN lines for several weeks the preceding spring. But it was the same crotchety, conservative young Bean we collected in Becky's Bonneville on our way to the campground.

It was an ideal summer for camping. The weather was warm, but dry, minimizing the number of mosquitoes with which we had to contend. In the course of our highschool camping career Dave and I had discovered a place upriver from the park that was known only to a few whitewater canoeists and some of the more enterprising fishermen. The sportsmen had cut a fairly discernible trail between the park itself and an obscure road leading to the canoeists' river access.

Today the location is an extension of Silver Mines and fairly well-known, though still little-traveled. In 1971 our campsite, a rugged quarter-mile from the access ramp, afforded exquisite privacy. It was in a flat, powder-silt hollow, a little above the fishermen's path and obscured from it by light brush. A steady breeze floated down through the forest from the overhanging hills, providing a natural air conditioning and further discouragement for the bugs downwind. No one had worried us about our campfires on previous trips. Camping there, we felt as if we were as alone as Jim Bean in the Canadian wilderness.

On our arrival at the canoe access ramp, Loie cleverly volunteered to drive the Bonneville and its hitch to a safe parking spot down in the public campgrounds, while the rest of us portaged the camping equipment to the hollow and set up. We installed a four-person tent and small kitchen fly at the site. Jim had opted to sleep under the stars, and given the good weather the rest of us anticipated doing the same. The earth was soft, there, and the air mattresses would be little strained by the freeform humping each couple looked forward to enjoying inside their zipped-together sleeping bags. Jim huffed stoically at the idea that his lone-stag status would cause him any discomfort.

Jim left with his tackle soon after camp was set up. The low water, he figured, would assure good fishing this trip. Dave and Becca and I chose more passive recreation, lighting up a spliff right after the fire was set. Cushioned by the duffles of spare clothing and miscellaneous gear, we lazed around on our soft, downy bags, enjoying the sound of the river below and the breeze from the hills. Halfway through the second joint, I noticed Becca was also enjoying the sight of Dave's smooth, muscular chest, which he'd bared in the course of our earlier work.

"This is good stuff," I remarked.

"Pure Colombian," said Dave. "Loie's source. She also got us some of these."

He retrieved a cloudy medicine bottle from the pocket of his tight cutoffs. Some little brown pills could be seen within.

"Synthetic mescaline. Supposedly."

"I dunno."

"We'll see how the trip goes."

Dave shrugged. "Loie's taking her time getting back." He took a final hit, and stood up a little unsteadily.

"Wow. I guess I'll go see if I can find her."

"Don't get lost," said Becca. "But don't rush back. I'm horny."

Dave gave her a goofy smile, flexing his brown abs in mock embarrassment. Then he turned to walk dreamily down to the river path, bare-backed in tight shorts.

"Wow, a little of this stuff goes a long way," Becca said, her eyes following Dave.

The tip of her tongue flicked a speck of marijuana from her full lower lip, as she turned her brown eyes on me.

"Are you in the mood?" she asked.

Becca's Bavarian-Indian face is any somewhat broad, high-cheekboned, full-lipped, bright-eyed brunette face you want to imagine. Her lank darkbrown hair flowed past her shoulders in those days, parted in the middle to frame her sometimes pouting, often laughing face. Her red-brown body was athletic, but well-formed, lean and quick to fuck. Her medium-sized breasts were not altogether obscured by the billowy peasant-shirt she wore this afternoon. Her broad, farmgirl hips gave me some pause, considering her mother's excessive weight, considering I'd almost made a kind of permanent commitment to the eighteen-year-old girl. Maybe I was turning into a perfectionist; no one else would find anything wrong, but Becca's legs were somewhat too sturdy for my tastes, also, though even I would have to concede they were well-shaped by the muscle. Flexing muscle, in redbrown legs smoothed by new shaving the night before, shaving in preparation for this trip... in preparation for me. Smooth redbrown thighs, flexing impatiently around the wad of denim and panty in the crotch of her faded, cunt- high cutoffs. Becca's high mound beckoned, rolling back into the breathing of her lean underbelly. I reached out for it, rolled the ball of my palm into the warm dampness just below...

I flowed over to Becca's breasts, and her thighs clutched at my hand.

Her pretty, strong hands pulled my teeshirt over my head. I unsnapped her pants and she helped me wiggle them over her broad, trim hips as she pulled off her blouse. Her breasts were as brown as the rest of her, their tuff nipples low and hard. She waited for me, legs open, eyes liquid and lazy, as I stripped off my jeans. Bec's eyes checked out my springing white prong, and then she just lay back flat, with knees a little raised, lifting her rear a little off the ground, showing me the primrose-pink of her sex, gleaming with love below the sparse tendrils of hair on her mons. The meaty inner folds opened a little, kissing at what was about to come to them. My hands placed to either side of her lean waist, I remained on my knees and hooked myself into her, watching her lips curl luxuriously as my eager dick pressed deep into her enfolding flesh.

It was fine. We just moved like that in the cool forest breeze, heads buzzing with the surrounding green and the sound of the river. Becca locked her legs behind my knees, but kept her arms free. Her mound bobbed into mine, as I moved in and out of her freely-flowing vag, feeling every fold, every wet roughspot, every pulsing ripple of her strong young twat. Becca flexed to her own rhythm, and I fluted countermelodies into her in perfect, natural harmony.

She knew just when to come to the bridge. A little crescendo was building in my pubis, above my cock, a little blast that was overflowing into my belly, and just leaking a little into the rod, below. And then Becca, eyes closed, reached out to my buns, and pulled me down fully onto her heavy-breathing body, so she could feel my quivering blast full to her own, and we squirmed slickly full-pressed belly-to-belly like that, kissing crazed and fucking at twice the earlier speed, without losing any of the earlier feel, the feel of buzzing cock in enlivened cunt.

Our mutual orgasm came of its own, out of the surrounding wilderness. We clawed into one another, as our heads just hung, side by side, feeling the warm fluid effusion spurting into, around our bodies. The release came slowly, rocking in the breeze. We rolled to our sides, then dozed.

"Aww, lookit the sleepy bunnies!"

Loie's thick, bluntly nasal voice drawled more mocking endearments as Becca and I slowly dressed on the crumpled sleeping bags. We were unabashed, and strangely loath to cover up. Dave acted more embarrassed, keeping his eyes averted. But Loie seemed to enjoy our little idyll, her cannabis-spiked gaze lingering over Becca and me as she kidded us.

*****

Naked after dark, in the cool water below the campsite. The river pooled there between two stretches of shut-ins, and we'd spent the daylight hours investigating every part of the pool. The water was shallow this year, little more than four feet deep at its deepest. The brushy trees drifted down to the water from the hills on the camp's side; a rocky, granite cliff lifted abruptly from the water on the opposite side. Mid-pool stood a collection of boulders, around which we could loll and take shallow dives into the water. Where the upstream water entered our big swimming hole, a patch of reeds grew from the same soft silt that floored our campsite.

Sex in the shallows was a throwback. Back in high school, Dave and I had enjoyed some of our earliest real sex in the same river, with our respective Wicker sisters. Becca still liked to assume the personae of animals in 1971 - an old, teenaged fantasy of hers - and it was the sleekest of bitch foxes I mated with, noisily and everywhichway among the reeds. Still another throwback: like highschool couples forced to make unprivate love in fugitive places, Loie and Dave and Becca and I did our stuff in the reeds in close proximity, close enough to be constantly aware of the others' comings and goings-on. When not pleasuring the fox, I could feel a sort of postadolescent nostalgia for the situation.

Except of course - the four of us didn't have to be doing it so close together now, did we?

*****

Jim found a sleeping spot well up the hollow away from us, with the tent obscuring his view of the campfire. The two couples separated their twin sleeping bags by only a few yards, heads pointed away from each other, to either side of the fire.

Becca and I kept our bags unzipped, snuggling under the downy tops to shelter from the dew and the occasional light breeze. Our teeshirts came off immediately - sleeping naked together was an indulgence rarely permitted home-bound kids - but weariness and earlier satisfaction staved off any further activity, as we fell asleep in each other's arms.

Until the first break of dawn.

"Morning wood," we both whispered. We'd only just heard the expression, from Jim's lips a few days before. Becca and I lay spooned on our sides, and my hardon lay stiff up the back of her thighs, pressing its head against the firm rolls of her buttocks-cleft.

"Yeh. Like this," Becca cooed, and I quietly rolled her prone and effortlessly pushed a hugely hard dick through dry lips into her hot, sticky-dry vag. She was characteristically quick to engage, her rear working against my belly as snatch snickered to lube itself against my long roll. The bedroll top fell away to expose my butt as I reared to fuck more fully, loving the sleepygirl pout of Becca's profile as her face began to redden and her broad lean back moved to stretch with awakening pleasure. We took care to stay silent, but the unavoidable slap of eager belly to ass and the snickering suck-noises of pestle pounding into juicing mortar sounded absurdly loud in the hollow. Some of the previous day's doping kept me sensitive to the slide of Becca's grainy meat around my cock as I moved, completely out and then completely into the girl's warm hole. A comforting smell of dried sweat, river water and coital mucus rose about us in the dew-laden air. I slammed and stroked, and Becca stretched, pushing up around me, wriggling to spread her natural lube down her thighs, up her crack, wriggling a tight squeezy circle around my column as it moved out of and slapped into her love-hole. Some of the last day's beer had prepared a big reserve of fluid inside me, which pooled in no less time than the girl needed before I could let myself unplug the dam inside me. Becca hissed in orgasm, struggling to keep silent. I reared even higher above Becca's back, pressing my palms to massage her slick, flexing buns as I ground, then just pressed into her meat, and flowed, and flowed, and flowed into her rippling womb.

I dropped lightly to Becca's strong, sweating body, and pulled myself out and rolled aside.

The sound of fucking still echoed in the hollow.

Twenty feet away, Loie's slender torso faced us as she straddled Dave, her body turned from him atop his erection. The early morning shadows were all but gone, and we had a clear view of the girl rising along Dave's shaft, combing him and herself with both her long-fingered hands and then plunging her fingers into her quim, over the brown prick, knuckles into balls as she hunched back down over her lover. Her face had an engagingly childlike seriousness, nostrils flaring, her mouth rolled into an "O" of pleasure. Her small round tits were squeezed between her long arms as she worked her hands around the melded genitals at her crotch, and I saw her light brown nipples bobbing, prominently erect in the dewy air. Snick, pop, the noises continued.

Loie raised her head to shake the wild hair from her face, and her mouth gaped with feral enjoyment. Her eyes were bright, and open.

"UH!" the extraordinary, animallike grunt escaped her from low in her throat.

"UH!"

Loie rode a reversed cowgirl atop a suddenly bucking Dave.

"UH!"

Loie's eyes fell to us, naked on our sleeping bags. And her mouth, still open, grinned wider.

"UH!"

Dave pushed the girl over to the ground, slipping out. Then quickly, angrily he wrestled her to the right position on their jumbled bags, and stuck it in again, his back to us, its muscles working desperately to stroke his relief into the thin ex-housewife.

"UH! UH! UH!" The mutual release came swiftly, both bodies arching up and then falling almost out of our sight, behind the heap of the campfire.

The four of us lay still a few minutes longer, then dressed under our sleeping bags and started breakfast without a word about what we had been doing.

*****

Mid-morning, Loie took her first dose of "synthetic mesc." Dave was in a macho mood, and downed two of the brown tablets. Becca and I divided a tab. The two of us were suspicious of off-the-street psychedelics. The drug could have been anything from diluted acid to that new form of speed, MDA or MDMA or something. Muttering something about "hippies," Jim had taken a pack of Parodis, a canteen of water, and a pony decanter of bourbon upstream with his fishing tackle, and wouldn't reappear before dinnertime.

Dave spent the late afternoon climbing in cut-offs and tennis shoes, up and around the river cliff on the other side of our campsite. In swimsuits, Loie and Becca and I swam about the rocks in the center of the pool, too wonderstruck at Dave's daring to worry about him.

I do remember a brief burst of mental activity as we reckoned the way out of the woods to the nearest hospital, just so we'd have a map hanging in the air there, in case Dave should slip. The number of alternate routes to the emergency room proved too infinite to contemplate, finally, so we dropped the matter. We were secure in the knowledge that any way we took would lead to a hospital and that, after all, Mescalito would never let his acolyte fall.

The three of us lay in various attitudes on the side of the rocks facing the cliff. Occasionally we'd turn to watch Dave leaping like a Gibraltar ape around the granite boulders above us. Loie was sunning her back on a rock, her legs waving lazily in the clear water. She wore a girlish one-piece with the back cut all the way to the top of her firm rear cleavage. The suit was kept on by narrow shoulder straps, easily slipped on and off. Becca had played Loie's wet hair into a sort of tight flapper bob, spitcurls pressed to her soft cheeks and again, down her smooth neck.