I hate camping.

For thousands of years mankind lived in caves and mud huts. They hated it so much that they spent their time inventing bricks and mortar and running water and electricity. So every summer my parents dragged us off to spend a week in a rain soaked mud field for what they called a ‘holiday’.

For craft folk, camping is a necessary evil. Anywhere that is far enough from prying eyes is even further from running water, electricity and sewers.

By the time we arrived it was late afternoon. The cycle ride from the station had left me sweaty irritated and tired. The other women went in the car with the tents. I had to be reading Simonne de blasted Beauvoir and volunteered to be the one who cycled with the men. What had been exhausting work on the paved road became worse when we dived off into the forest. As I peddle the boneshaker along the track I remind myself that Sartre got the better of their open marriage as he bedded an unending succession of young females while she waited for him in her empty bed.

When we arrived there were tents to erect and food to prepare. Fortunately the men were eager to play boy scout and were only too glad to be left to it while I went to ‘commune with the mother goddess’ in the woods.

As my need for communion is urgent, I take a length of bog roll and soap.

The house we left this morning has a perfectly good lavatory. Did I mention that I hate camping?

Brambles and nettles make it a long walk to find a suitable spot. Eventually I find a fallen tree where I can squat. I try hitching up the skirt of my craft dress, but I need both hands to brace myself.

I decide to take the dress off. Once it is gone I realize I can piss standing up. I prop one leg against the tree trunk to spread my legs as wide as possible pull my labia apart with my fingers and squirt. A golden yellow stream of liquid pours out in front of me.

Just as I am congratulating myself on my success in managing to piss in the forrest without soiling myself or my clothes, I notice the pair of eyes watching me.

He starts to run, he is taller and quicker but I cut him off. I catch him by the wrist and he trips and falls.

“How old are you”, I demand.

“Sixteen”, he replies.

“Don’t you know not to spy on women?”

“I wanted to watch.”

At least he was honest.

I tell him to get on his feet and drop his trousers. He looks scared.

“Why?”

“I want to watch you. If you don’t I’ll tell people what you were doing.”

He looks nervous but complies. He starts to unzip his fly. I glare at him and he unbuttons his shorts and removes them completely. Another glare is required to make him remove his shirt.

His body is thin, like a sapling that has grown upwards but not outwards. His arms and legs look to long, too thin for his body. As I am watching him I realize that if he chose to he could pin me to the ground in an instant and I would be utterly powerless to stop him.

He holds his prick out in front of him as if he is trying to piss but nothing comes out.

“You owe me.”

He seems intimidated by the tone of my voice. I decide to take the bull by the horns. Or rather his horn.

“What the matter? Doesn’t it work?” I taunt. His cock, already semi-erect stiffens in my hand.

I pull him towards me by his cock. This is the final straw. He lunges at me. He is quicker, stronger and more determined than I expect. He pushes me against a tree and forces his lips against my mouth.

He breaks off and nervously touches my breast. I position my legs to accept him but his cock is wilting in my hand.

“You’ll have to make me”, I tell him. His cock begins to harden again.

I turn my head away from him draping my hair into his hand.

“Make me!” I order.

He grasps my hair and pulls. Not hard enough. I pull back. This time he gives a savage tug that causes me to cry in pain. I let go of his prick as he bends me over the fallen tree trunk.

I feel a sharp pain as he strikes me on the bum. I offer him the other cheek and he obliges with the back of his hand.

He tries to put his hand between my legs but I resist keeping them tight shut. He rettaliates, grabbing a calf in each hand and pushing me up and over the tree trunk so I lose my balance. I part my legs as I try to recover my balance and he has me wide open, both legs off the floor holding me face down over the trunk like a wheelbarrow.

He pauses and I taunt him again. He replies with his cock, thrusting it deep into my cunt with a single stroke. I try to twist away but he his body is between my legs.

With a sudden lunge forward I manage a forward roll up and over the trunk and scramble to my feet. I can see my arm is scratched but I don’t feel anything. We stand there staring each other in the eye for a minute then he beckons me back over with a jerk of his head.

I comply and return to his side of the trunk. I face him, brace myself against the trunk and spread my legs. He tries to slide into me but misfires squirting semen all over my cunt. I look at him in disgust.

“Clean it up”

He starts to wipe up the seed with his hand but I grasp his head by the ears and pull him down to my cunt.

“With your tongue.”

He touches my cunt with his tongue and I make encouraging noises. He is a quick learner and soon discovers that I give a bigger response when he touches my clit than my vagina. Already near the brink I scream as I come.

There is a sound of undergrowth cracking under running boots: People are calling my name, shouting for me.

The boy looks up in terror, grabs his trousers and runs. He leaves his shirt and his Y-fronts on the trunk next to my dress.

I pick up the dress as I call the pursuers over to me: I might have time to put it on before they arrive. Then as I hear the men come nearer I put the dress down again.

Maybe I won’t be needing it for a while.