Summer Camping Ch. 01

I made time for Claire. I was in Heaven. Before June disappeared into the rearview mirror, I was routinely slipping my hand beneath her shirt and on the best 4th of July of my life, my hand finally made it under her bra. Claire's hands grew equally liberated. The feel of her fingernails lightly skipping over my belly, little finger brushing the waist of my jeans was enough to make me fear I'd shoot in my pants.

Soon, when her fingers played with my belly, her little finger rubbed over my belt. It wasn't fast enough for me. I had to fight not to buck my hips and shove the bulge in my jeans into her palm. I forced myself to learn patience. With every make-out session, my hand found her breast a little quicker and her hand inched lower. Then one night her little finger grazed the head of my dick, as it lay trapped and desperate beneath the cruel denim.

I seemed to me that a couple of more sessions and her hand would have to touch me. Nope. It was like the head of my dick caused a proximity alarm to go off in her head, or maybe in her hand. That damnable, yet longed for, little finger would coast over my pants, coast over the spot where my erection lifted the denim away from my skin, but it descended no further. We had plateaued.

As July gave way to August, I grew desperate. I didn't really imagine we would have sex but I want to feel her hand on me. I wanted to see her breast. Claire would let me push her tee shirt up over her bra, but the bra stayed on and my hand had to wiggle under it. When I wanted to feel really bold, I let myself imagine kissing her boob.

Her basement was our usual make-out spot. The door had to remain open, which despite the intention, did not put that big of a brake on our libidos. On weekends, I started work at 3 am, mopping, cleaning, firing up the grills and getting the restaurant ready to open. If someone called in for the breakfast shift I would stay and hopefully pick up some overtime. Her parents, grudgingly, let me hang out with Claire until I had to go to work. They were cool enough as parents went.

They were also old, ancient to my eighteen-year-old eyes, they had to be in their forties. If she didn't have to work the next day, they would let Claire stay up until 2:00 in the morning, but they were in bed after the evening news.

At first, I would hear them get out of bed every so often, pad around over our heads, hear the fridge open, hear water run and then a creak as whichever one it was went back to bed. I think they took turns getting up, wanting to make it clear they might be in bed but that didn't mean they couldn't materialize on the basement steps at any moment. Even that got to be too much for them and eventually the floor over our heads stayed quiet after 11:00 pm.

We were sitting on the floor, leaning against the musty smelling sofa, pretending to watch some 50's horror flick on Channel 30, the pre-cable local UHF station, my hand was already under her shirt but not yet under her bra. I pulled away enough to push her shirt up while staying close enough to keep my tongue in her mouth. I remember thinking I was becoming quite the sophisticated lover.

We had not heard a sound from upstairs for over an hour. Leaning back into her, I began to work my hand under her bra. We were both sweating, adding a degree of difficulty to the task. I noticed this bra was different somehow but was more focused on getting my hand on her bare breast.

I was still amazed at how soft her breast felt in my hand and how hard her nipple felt pressed into my palm. Once my hand found its perch, I relaxed and focused on the feel of her tongue in my mouth, and wondering if I should go ahead and wiggle my crotch into her hand.

Other than seeing my mom's bras hanging on the clothesline, I knew nothing of bras. Until a few weeks ago I had no idea the fucking things came armed with wire under the cups. I guessed it was to help support larger boobs but to me they were a pain in the ass. All the bras of my experience had clasps in the back, a row of barbarous metal hooks that looked and felt as if it would take pliers to unfasten them. I would let the hand on Claire's back fondle the clasps, trying to pretend I was going to unfasten them. Every time I thought of trying, the scene from "Animal House", of Pinto struggling to unfasten his date's bra, would pop into my head and I would start to sweat.

It occurs to me that a man who admits he could not keep random movie images out of his head while trying to feel up his date is not in a very good position to offer advice. Oh well, I already filed a disclaimer regarding dating advice.

That night was different. When I rubbed her back the metal hooks were missing. The cups still sported their damn wires but the back was smooth, no clasp. I couldn't figure out how she got the damn thing on without a clasp. Did she crawl into it, like a tight top?

My fingers left her breast and began to explore, moving from one breast to the other. I was enjoying touching Claire but I was also trying to solve the mystery of the bra. It was as my fingers stroked below her breasts I stumbled open the answer. The clasp was on the front, right between her boobs. It was plastic not metal and there was only one.

There was plenty of light in the basement. Her parent's had two rules: one, the basement door had to remain open and two, the lights had to stay on. I stopped kissing her long enough to look at the clasp. It looked woefully inadequate.

I sat there for a moment, nonplussed. Was this a signal? Was Claire making it easier for me to get to her bra undone? Those times I was pretending I was going to unfasten her bra had she been waiting for me to go ahead and do it? Or was there nothing more going on except this happened to be her last clean bra?

The impatient one for a change, she reached up and pulled my head back down, reaching for me with her mouth. She was an unbelievable kisser. As our lips found each other, I let my fingers trail between her breasts, casually, or so I imagined, exploring the mystery of this new clasp.

It was easy. The thing had to have been designed by a man who remembered what it was like to be a horny novice. All I had to do was press the ends back and toward each other, there was a click, and then one end of U-shaped clasp slide out of the other. Voila.

I stopped there. I waited for Claire to sit up, reclose the bra and pull her top down. I was no longer seriously worried she'd tell me to get the fuck out and never bother her again but it didn't pay to take chances. She was not shy about letting me know when it was time to stop. I waited. The clasp was open but the cups still cradled her boobs. That would do just fine for now. It was much easier to touch her now that my hand was not trapped under her bra.

I waited but Claire did not sit up. She did not pull her shirt down. Her lips and tongue grew more frenetic. If she was sending any stop signals I wasn't seeing them.

I pulled away from her lips and kissed the side of her neck. If I tried that at the beginning of a make out session she'd shiver and push me away, tell me it tickled. If I did it while she was all hot and bothered, she moaned.

She moaned.

I kept kissing her neck, then nipping at it with my lips and finally my teeth. Neither of us was into hickeys. I didn't suck. I just delivered light playful bites.

I sat up and looked at her. Her eyes were closed. I gently grasped both sides of the clasp and lifted the cups off her breasts.

They were beautiful. They were the firm full breasts that a woman is graced with for only a few short years. I thought boobs were a great argument for orbiting space colonies. No gravity. No sag. Beautiful breasts guaranteed for a lifetime.

It wasn't the fact they were my first in-the-flesh boobs that made them beautiful. They were simply gorgeous breasts -- end of story.

I was so enraptured by them, that for long minutes all I could do was stare. Claire's swimming suit was modest, most of her breasts were white, framed by the dark of her late summer tan. The areolas were small and pink. The nipples were hard and deeper rosier shade of pink. They looked like little candies. It was my hunger for them that woke me from my paralysis.

I was too afraid to kiss them; that might bring her to her senses. Touching was allowed. I rested my hands atop Claire's breasts. I didn't want to do a Mr. Whipple imitation, so instead of squeezing I began to move my hands in circles. I didn't graze my hands over her nipples, not at first, but pressed firmly enough to move her breasts over her chest.

Her back arched and a soft moan sighed from between her lips. I remember how we were always so quiet back then, half listening for steps on the floor, half fearful of being heard.

I missed the feel of her lips on mine and surrendered one breast in order to sway close enough to kiss her. Have I mentioned, she was an unbelievably good kisser? With her mouth occupied, and less able to say, "No, stop," I lifted my palm from her breast and stroked her nipple with my fingertips. She bit my tongue and her fingers clenched at my belly. Her other hand was under my shirt, caressing my back; she stopped the caresses long enough to pushed my shirt up in the back. The front rode up as well. Her hand moved from my belly and began to rub my chest.

I put one fingertip atop her nipple and pushed softly, moving it in circles, as I had done earlier to her breast. Her fingernails dug into the skin around my own nipple. I gingerly, very gingerly, trapped her nipple between my thumb and finger. Her breath hissed into my mouth.

My balls ached. My cock felt like it would explode. Despite all we had been doing to each other that desperate summer, this was the first time I clearly articulated in my mind that I wanted to have sex with this girl. It may strike some as absurd that a decade after the summer of love, an eighteen year-old guy would still imagine he wouldn't have sex with a girl until they were married but a lot of us still did. I did, until the moment my fingers on her nipple caused that hiss of passion to pass from her mouth to mine.

It was like blowing on a coal to start a fire, head sideways to the ground, breathing over the ember, trying to call forth a flame. Her breath did the same to my soul, or my lust or my cock or all of it together. A thought, clear as summer air after a rain, blossomed in my mind -- I wanted to be naked with this girl -- I wanted to be on top of this girl -- I wanted my cock buried deep inside this girl.

I did not lose my mind completely. I didn't start ripping at her clothes. As soon as the thought formed, I knew it would not happen that night, probably not for many nights yet but now that I knew that's what I wanted, I expected it to happen some night.

I commenced trailing kisses down her neck. I resumed massaging her breast with the flat of my hand. With her nipple shielded by my hand, I extend my kisses, kissing and licking the swell of her breast.

I went slowly, not wanting to startle her from the sensual haze that clouded her mind. I wasn't trying to take advantage of her, any more than she was trying to take advantage of me. I knew that we would not make love that night but I didn't want to bring the night to an early close by a thoughtless or clumsy move either.

I went slowly, allowing Claire time to adjust, time to get lost in the sensation, time to convince herself that here, at last, was the border beyond which we would not go. I was not sure where the border was. I was not sure where I would stop. Even with the advantage of years and experience, if not wisdom, I'm not sure where the line was for me that night. Had she slipped out of her clothes and begged me to make love to her, would I have done so? I had no rubbers with me that night. Would I have risked it?

I don't know. I'm conflicted to this day. Part of me would like to believe I would have made love to her. That for once, I would have had the balls, no pun intended, to take the risk, to go for it. Another part of me hopes that even at eighteen I would have had brains enough to weigh the possible consequences. I have no idea what I would have done.

Moving at what seemed a glacial pace, I managed to work my kisses lower and lower, until I was kissing along the side of my hand, the one guarding her nipple. I moved my hand slightly, never altering the rhythm of my kisses, until my fingertips rested atop her nipple.

I began to kiss the back of my own fingers. I did this several times and Claire made no response. Her hands continued to clutch at my back and chest.

I spread my fingers, cradling her nipple between them. I kissed the finger on either side, giving her two more chances to pull away, before I kissed between my fingers.

Her nipple felt much harder against my lips than it had against my hand and fingers.

A low growl vibrated her chest. She arched her back, nudging her breast closer to my mouth. I let my hand slip away to rest on her stomach and took her nipple between my lips.

Now that I had made it this far I had no idea what to do. I extrapolated from our kisses and treated her nipple like it was her tongue, pushing and flicking it with my own. Her response suggested that this was a reasonable approach. The hand that clawed at my chest moved to entwine itself in my hair and force my mouth against her breast. My own hand pressed against her back, holding her close.

With my free hand, I drug my nails up and down the inside of her leg, sure her jeans would protect her from any scratches. My hand roamed as low as her knee and back to her upper thigh.

I remembered the bra and its clasp in the front. I remembered how I had wondered if she was trying to tell me to go ahead. Had the same been true about her hand? Had she simply been too hesitant to touch me? Had she been waiting for me to do what I had wanted to do? To flex my hips, push the hard outline of my cock into her hand?

I rested my hand over the crotch of her jeans. I didn't press or squeeze. I just let it rest atop her zipper. My mouth was still latched onto her breast. Her hand pulled at my hair. I could hear her soft panting in my ear, nothing else.

I pressed softly with my fingers against her jeans. Trying to tell her without words to take her hand out of my hair and for God's sake touch me.

These days I'm an atheist, not an obnoxious one I hope, but an atheist nonetheless. I wasn't an atheist when I was eighteen. A few hours later, mopping a floor, a task that proved to be insufficiently difficult to keep my mind occupied, I wondered if I had damned myself for daring to ask God for help committing a sin.

He may not exist but her hand did move to my crotch and it did clutch at my denim-clad erection. I shuddered so hard I thought I had cum in my pants. My pants had been getting wet for some time by this point. As I shifted my hips, trying to press myself deeper into her hand, my jeans didn't seem to be much wetter. I felt no easing of the tension and ache in my balls. I hadn't cum in my pants. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I risked speaking; we hadn't said a word for an hour, maybe longer.

"Claire, that feels so good."

She didn't reply so I said no more. Instead, I began to rub my fingers up and down the crotch of her jeans, pressing as hard as I dare without worrying I would hurt her.

She moved her hand off my erection. I silently cussed myself for opening my mouth and ruining everything. Under the curses I breathed a sigh of relief. This had been getting too intense. As much as I wanted to do more, as much as I expected to do more at some point, I was still afraid. I was more afraid I'd make a fool of myself, of not know what to do, than I was of getting her pregnant. Pregnancy would have been such a terminal disaster my mind rejected even the notion of worrying about it, much as it had, up until a few minutes ago, rejected even the notion that what we were doing might lead to sex.

Almost before I had time to realize what was happening, her hand wiggled beneath the waist of my jeans and her fingers wrapped around my cock. I didn't wear underwear in those days. My fantasies lacked specificity but one detail was a constant, my erection springing free as Claire, usually Claire anyway, unbuttoned the fly of my 501 jeans.

I always meant to ask her if she would have put her hand in my pants if she knew I wasn't wearing underwear. I always meant to ask but never did.

There wasn't room inside my jeans for her to do more than squeeze my dick. She couldn't stroke it, assuming she wanted to. I certainly wanted her to.

I let her nipple slip from my mouth and rolled to lie with my back against the sofa. My head was thrown back over the edge of the cushion. I stretched my left leg out and bent the right, letting it fall away, spreading my legs as far as I comfortably could. All of a sudden tight jeans didn't seem so sexy. They seemed a total fucking nuisance.

The massive key ring I needed for work was digging into the side of my ass but I didn't care. If I had simply lain still, a few more squeezes of her fingers would have gotten me off. Her skin was blazing where it touched my skin. My dick must have been hotter because her fingers felt almost cool as she gently squeezed.

I wanted to cum, I was dying to cum but at the same time afraid to. I was afraid the mess would freak her out. She'd think I was a pervert or something if I came all over her hand.

I raised my head to look at her. She was staring at my crotch, watching her fingers move under the taut denim.

I had to get some relief, even if it was only from the physical pressure. I reached down and unbuckled my belt. That helped some. Her fingers kept moving. I thumbed open the waist button and then quickly open the second.

She jerked her fingers away. Her face bore a look of fear, as if she had nearly been bitten by a snake she had failed to see until it was nearly too late.

She drew in a shuddery breath and sat up straight tugging her shirt down over her breasts.

I scooted up so that my back was flat against the couch. Even today I don't know if I left my pants open hoping I could convince her to keep going, or because I was anxious to assuage her fear.

I wrapped my left arm around her and pulled her to my chest. She let me. Her cheek rested on my bare chest, my shirt was still bunched up under my arm on that side.

"Hey Claire, I'm sorry," and I was. "I didn't mean to push you. I got carried away. You are just so incredibly hot. I'm sorry."

I stroked her hair as I spoke. She was quiet for what felt like forever.

"It's not your fault," she finally whispered. "I'm not upset with you. I don't know what I was thinking." She was quiet again. "When you started to take off your pants all I wanted was for you to hurry up and get them off, then take off mine. I wanted to feel you inside me. I wanted you to make love to me." There was another pause. "I still do want that but we can't. I've always known I wouldn't do that until I was married." She shook her head against my chest. "Not because that's what my parents tell me or because the minister says it's the right thing to do but because I want to save that part of me for my husband."

What could I say to that? I didn't think it was a crazy idea at the time. Even now I don't think it is totally crazy, maybe a little silly but not a total whack job loony notion.

Her fingers began to trail over my stomach. Looking past her head I could see the head of my cock was visible. If she had her eyes open she had to be able to see it and the pre-cum that oozed from the slit to puddle in my pubic hair.

Should I button up? If I did, she would have to move and the evening, now early morning, session would be gaveled to a close. It was more comfortable with my fly part way open. That was the deciding factor. I left it open.