Lake Dreams

Story Info
Some memories haunt you for a long time.
5.1k words
3.22
32.8k
6
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

I'm not sure this story qualifies as erotica, but it is certainly adult in nature. I don't claim to have 'written' this story in the sense of it being made up totally in my mind. I lived it. Here, I have just written it down.

Have you ever had an incident that just stuck in your head and wouldn't go away? Even after 30 years or so? Follows a true story based on such a memory-sticky event. Names have been changed.

Boone was a fellow I worked with in the '80s. He was cocksure and confident and had the looks and physique to go with that attitude. Boone was smart, too. Unlike many on our work team, he had completed a bachelor's degree at a good school prior to joining our group. He wasn't using much of his 'school learning,' though, as that college degree was in divinity, and Boone was far from being a choir boy.

He was the first to the bar after work and would be the leader in the drinking songs as an evening wore on. He liked Monty Python songs and was especially fond of Bruce's Philosophers' Song. If you don't know this song, you should look it up on YouTube as it is great fun. His most recent marriage was deep into the process of ending, and he had a reputation as having a wandering eye and roaming hands. The wife had been a green-eyed, raven-haired petite beauty who called herself a witch and was known for liking to sunbathe topless in her back yard in the company housing neighborhood where we all lived.

In the bar, at the end of the day when she had moved out of their shared home, one of the guys asked him, "So, Boone, what are you going to do now that you're single again?"

Boone chewed his snarl for a few seconds, spit from the side of his mouth into an empty Shiner Bock beer bottle, looked the questioner in the eye and said, "Fuck all a' your wives."

In the brief lack of oxygen in the room, not a one of the dozen or so of us doubted that he meant what he said. That was Boone. As one who had already seen Boone flirt with my wife, Claire, and seen the quickening of her pulse and the increase in her color it caused, I was one of the ones not breathing. Boone's comment was, I am sure, soon known to most of the wives even if they didn't hear it directly from his lips.

This was Texas, in oil country. The company we worked for expected us to work hard and to get a lot of work done—sometimes that meant long hours and an always on-call environment. On the other hand, they knew that such a work environment required good team morale and allowed for us to have some down time to blow off steam.

We were a rough-and-tumble but family-oriented group. Mostly men, although there were a handful of women working with us, even some that worked as hard and long as the guys. The good, hard workers were always good sports and liked to play hard just as did the men. The old cliché of work hard, play hard was true for this group, men and the few women alike. A couple times a year, we would plan a group get away, generally over a 3-day weekend.

Most of us had tents or RVs and the rest could generally rent a cabin or trailer at the selected spot. We would take up a collection to handle costs for ice, drinks, rental boats and so forth. Our company would fund some of the costs. We would bring spouses, kids, pets, the works. Some rode in on motorcycles, most in sedans or pickup trucks, while others drove motor homes. While on the outing we would generally share meals around campfires and tales would be told under the stars until near morning light. Liquid adult refreshments were never in short supply and the dress code was casual to the extreme.

Over the years we had company outings at state parks and private reserves. This particular year, in early September, we had chosen the marina and campgrounds at Lake Amistad about 20 miles northwest of Del Rio, Texas, and had reserved the entire campground for the weekend. Lake Amistad, a man-made reservoir, straddles the mostly barren U.S.-Mexico border, and in years with normal rainfall is a beautiful lake. This year was one of those years and the lake was gorgeous, though the South Texas weather is still pretty hot in September with daily highs running around 90 o F. (32o C.) and shade in the region is always hard to come by. Good weather for boating, lazing, and swimming. When it's that hot, clothing tends to become minimal.

This outing was over a long weekend a few months after Boone had made his pronouncement in the bar regarding wives. Rumor was that he was already having some measure of success.

I had gone out to the lake campground a day early with three other members of our work crew—two guys, Don and Frank, and one of the hard working gals, Sharon. Sharon had brought along her two immense Black Labradors. For years, the four of us seemed to be the ones called upon to make things happen. Our job here was to serve as the advance team – make sure everything was ready for the long weekend, sign the rental agreements, take the mandatory boating-safety course for operating their rental boats, haul up the firewood and drink coolers (stocked, of course), rig up a large Coleman shade canopy near the main fire pit, make sure fire extinguishers and first-aid kits were stocked and in place and just scout the area in general making sure we knew the closest place to get ice and replenish other needed supplies.

That evening after dark, relaxing with drinks around a small campfire after a light dinner, we all decided that to wash off the day's dust and sweat, what we really needed was a swim. I don't recall whose idea it was, but it was quickly agreed upon by the four of us there. The dock was a few dozen yards downhill from our relaxing spot. Frank started it – running down the hill to the dock, beer in hand.

By the time Don, Sharon, her two black labs, and I got to the dock, Frank was pulling off the last of his clothes and yelling, "Last one in is a...."

We didn't hear the final part over the splash. The three of us glanced at each other, shrugged, and proceeded to strip and jump into the lake. As the moon was only a slight waxing crescent, and there was no other light nearby, it was pretty dark, anyway. Sharon's dogs joined us—they had no clothing to be concerned with—and a good time was had by all.

We greatly enjoyed the cool water for a while, swimming, floating, splashing, continuing our tall tales from the fireside, laughing and hooting. Sharon was a blonde beauty, shaped by hard work and the harsh Texas sun, and it surely didn't hurt my feelings to be treated to the view of her naked and wet body in the very minimal moonlight. We had worked together for three or four years and I had often wondered just how she would look undressed. I even got one really good close-up view as I offered her a hand up out of the water.

Once we were tired (and perhaps a bit less intoxicated) it seemed time to retire, so that we did, straggling up the hill in various states of undress to our own separate beds. I spent a few moments making sure the campsite was secure, and the fire was completely doused. My sleeping spot was a decent bed in a screened pop-up rental tent trailer Claire and I had secured for the weekend. I remember aiming my head for my pillow, but I don't remember it actually making contact. I slept the sleep of the just, whether I deserved it or not.

I awoke to a bright, already hot morning, my ears filled with blood curdling screams. Vaulting out of bed in my boxers, I burst out or the tent-trailer and looked for the source of the sound of violent distress. Looking toward the lake, I saw Sharon standing on the dock, but facing the campground. Her hands were at the sides of her head, her mouth agape, she looked much like the character in the famous painting, The Scream, by Edvard Munch. But her screams, interspaced with sobs, were no work of art. Each new cry seemed louder and caused my skin to prickle and chills to run across my chest in spite of the bright, already hot sun.

I ran down to the dock trying to avoid the worst rocks with my bare feet and reaching out my hand, said, "Sharon, Sharon. What's wrong?" She couldn't speak but just pointed to the shore near the north side of the dock. Following her gesture with my gaze, I found a large plywood sign, painted grey, and lettered in red. The message:

'CAUTION!

NO SWIMMING NEAR SHORE!

WATER MOCCASINS!'

Why we hadn't seen that sign the day before while launching and retrieving the boat, or the night before, as we stripped and swam with abandon, I can't tell you. I can tell you that it certainly upset Sharon there in the severe morning light. To be truthful, I felt a bit queasy, myself. But maybe that was just because of what we had eaten and drunk the night before. In any case, nobody had been bitten, and that, I thought, was a good thing. Sharon's dogs were OK, too, so she was soon calmed.

By noon, the rest of the families were arriving. The afternoon was spent getting campsites set up and preparing for the communal evening meal and bonfire. Most of the families set up near my rented tent-trailer in cleared campsites with electricity, water, and easy access to the restroom and shower facility. Claire arrived at about two o'clock and I helped her put her few things away in our tent-trailer, then I set up the chaise lounge chairs while she changed into a swim suit for an afternoon of relaxing. Children played basketball and on the playground equipment, with frequent breaks for shade and hydration. Parents were busy keeping sunblock slathered on the kids. Boone, traveling alone, set up a small two-person-size pup tent at a primitive area about halfway down the hill to the lake shore. His tent seemed as much a loner there as Boone himself often seemed. Don, Frank, and Sharon were busy getting ready for the big cookout and bonfire.

As evening approached the area quieted a bit as families gathered at their campsites for a bit of clean up before our evening gathering. The evening meal was a big success. We had grilled chicken, sausages, prime rib-eyes, and hot dogs. Families had brought salads and casseroles. Our company fund had paid for the firewood and charcoal and all of the condiments, utensils and paper plates and cups. Of course, we all had plenty of liquid refreshment, as well.

After dinner and clean-up we gathered around the bonfire like a real Norman Rockwell outtake. One of the guys took it upon himself to tell some mild ghost stories just right for the younger kids. Of course, a few of the teenagers had snuck away to the dock or who knows where. If you were paying attention, you could hear occasional laughter from them or perhaps see the subdued glow of something being smoked. At about nine o'clock, families started to put the younger ones to bed.

Shortly, someone suggested that some music would be nice. Boone walked to his car and came back with an old acoustic western guitar. He sat and began to play. Soon he was teaching us the lyrics and we were singing along to some of his bawdy and funny songs. As the music, the laughter, and the drinks flowed, couples got cozier and double-entendres and flirting seemed to become the lingua franca. Boone, with his physique and musical talent gave and received more than his fair share of the comments and flirting. I could tell that Claire was captivated by her blushing and averted glances.

A little before midnight we sort of all wound down, what with the day's activities in the heat, the good food and company, and, of course the drinks. One by one, couples excused themselves and headed off to retire for the night. Finally, Boone put his guitar away and bid us goodnight, but not without loudly and jovially proclaiming that any or all of the ladies present were invited to join him there. I noticed Claire watch him swagger down the path to his tent. Now the night closed in and it got truly quiet. She and I were the last to go in for the night, and, as usual, I was responsible to ensure the fire was properly dealt with and safe.

Our tent-trailer was just open-screened with no air conditioning; it was still very warm inside from the day's heat, which led us to prepare for bed by stripping off nearly everything. I crawled into bed first in just a pair of light boxers. Claire joined me on the side of the bed nearest the door wearing only a nearly sheer cotton-blend turquoise-colored shift. I admit that I enjoyed watching her strip off to change to her sleep attire, and wondered to myself if anyone else had watched through the screens of the tent. I turned the battery-powered lights off and we talked softly and briefly, but fatigue and drowsiness very soon claimed me. I was too quickly gone to even contemplate romantic activity.

Some time later, I don't know how long, I rolled toward where I expected Claire to be and reached out to drape my arm over her soft body—but found only empty space. That pulled me quickly from the land of the sandman. Pushing myself up I looked around and could see that I was alone in the tent. My first thought was that perhaps she had gotten up to go to the bathroom. But as my eyes found their focus through the tent's screen, I could see her outside in the weak, pale moonlight, sitting quietly on the nearby picnic table with her feet resting on the bench and her arms on her knees.

I don't know how long she had been out there, or if she had even slept at all. Silently watching her, I realized that she was staring out toward the lake. If her gaze was high, she'd be looking at the horizon of the lake and its far shore. Drop the gaze a few scant degrees and she would be staring directly at Boone's tent. Butterflies quickly claimed my stomach and I could feel my pulse quicken. For a long time, I simply sat there and watched her stare – in the very dim light she almost appeared to be a statue.

Remembering her earlier light flirtation with Boone, I thought I knew what she was must be going through mentally. At that time, we had been married for over a decade. We had married very young, just out of high school. She had never had a chance to experience much of the ways of the world and I know that sometimes she felt the need for validation of her beauty and value. We can all be subject to seduction. I tried to provide her the assurance she needed, but probably fell short more often than not. So far as I knew, during our marriage, she had never been untrue.

I knew she had flirted (sometimes shamelessly), danced some "slow and close" dances, and even fooled around with kisses or light petting with an attractive and attentive other from time to time. She always had the discipline to stop things and come home. Our marriage and her vows were important to her. I wish I could say I had always been so faithful. But Boone was just so damned physically attractive, virile, and just a bit dangerous.

Agonizing over what, if anything to do, I came to the conclusion that it had to be her decision, as painful as that might be—she had to know herself—if I took action to stop her now, she would be surely be tempted again without knowing her own strength.

I thought, "Well, If she gives in now, we'll deal with that. We will have to."

I had not been a perfect husband and she had forgiven me. Could I offer less to one who had given me so much? I was not afraid of losing her permanently to Boone. She was smart enough to see that he was not good husband material.

At one point she took a visible deep breath, slowly stood up, straightened her spine, and walked away from the table toward the lake. I could not breathe, considering the implications. But after only a few steps she stopped and sort of drooped. There, she stood for what seemed like the longest time before finally turning back and once again seating herself on the picnic table with what seemed to be a sigh of resignation. And there she sat, for what seemed to be an interminable time. My left arm finally got tired of holding my upper body weight so I laid my head back onto my pillow and involuntarily but almost instantly drifted off back to sleep.

In a time, I don't know how long, I felt Claire ease herself back into our bed. She put her arm over my waist and snuggled into a spoon position behind me, her breath warm on my shoulder. I felt extremely comforted and had no fear that she had strayed or physically broken any vows.

The rest of the long weekend seemed more or less normal for our rowdy group. We all had a great time, and there are a number of stories that could be told of overloaded pontoon boats, strange tan lines caused by accessories worn in the blazing sun, car keys dropped into the lake, swimsuits lost while diving from a boat, a tent collapsing on an amorous coupleen flagrante. Those stories all deserve their own telling at another time.

Claire was a bit subdued Sunday morning. She was, after all, at least a bit short on sleep. By late in the day she was her usual smiling and unfiltered self. We actually enjoyed a very amorous night Sunday (and it was not our tent that collapsed!) Boone was Boone. Seemingly everywhere and always mellow while still managing to be arrogant, helping with whatever needed to be done, always winning in one-up verbal bouts, and always, always, flirting with any and all of the women. By mid-afternoon Monday, the camp site was empty, the rented gear all returned, and everyone was on their way home. One lone car remained parked, only to be retrieved after spare keys were fetched from someone's home a four-hour one-way drive away.

Still, some things just seem to stick with you.

My lake dream

I had this dream just the other night. Thirty years or more since the lake outing.

In my dream, everything initially seemed to pass at light speed. The lake outing was just the same until that late second night when Claire was sitting on the picnic table and staring off toward Boone's tent. At this point, the dream seemed to slow to a crawl. Rather than eventually drifting off to sleep as I had in real life, I watched and agonized along with her for a very long time. Even in a dream, I felt the same strange fear and excitement that I had felt that night so long ago. I saw her bravely stand only to retreat to her seated position on the table.

I got up from the bed and silently went out to her. I looked her tenderly in the eye, wordlessly took her by the hand and led her down the hill on the path through the sagebrush, to Boone's tent. I called his name and got permission to enter. Stooping through the flap we entered the tent on our knees still holding hands. There was not enough head room to stand.

As we entered, Boone turned on a soft electric lantern. His small tent was filled pretty much wall-to-wall with his bed made of sleeping bags zipped together to make a full-sized bed over a soft, but thin and light foam mattress pad. Boone was seated on the side of the bed away from the entry flap to give us room. Bare-chested, he was partially covered by a portion of the joined sleeping bags. As far as I could see, he may have been otherwise naked as no waistband was visible around his taut waistline.

I told Boone (and Claire – for I had said nothing to her since leaving our campsite) that I was giving her permission, if she wanted it, to spend the night there with Boone. But with my permission came a set of ground rules that all had to agree with.

(1) She was to be in charge. She stayed or she went, as and when she chose.

(2) She and Boone could do whatever she wanted to do, no more, no less. Should she at any time say, "No." that absolutely meant no.

(3) In case of intercourse, if it came to that, protection was to be used. I knew Boone and knew he would have condoms with him, and sure enough, he quickly pulled one out of his tent's small hanging storage pocket and held it up for all to see.

(4) She is to be safely escorted back to our tent before daybreak.

12