Exploring with Bartholomew

Things were different in those days. More innocent. I suppose that you would say that I was naïve. But there was no internet. A lot fewer television channels and we had people like Mary Whitehouse to make sure that what we watched on the telly was clean and wholesome. Of course, there were ‘top shelf’ magazines in the newsagent’s shop but they were mostly bought by people passing through. No ‘local’ would be seen buying them! And the closest that schoolboys got to pornography was surreptitiously looking at the pictures of topless African women in the National Geographic magazines in the library.

I suppose that you could say that I was a bit of a tomboy. I enjoyed the outdoors and one of my favourite possessions was my bike. I used to ride it far and wide. I usually went riding with friends but, if no one else wanted to join me, I was quite happy to go riding on my own. Of course, there was less traffic on the roads in those days and, in any case, I tended to stick mainly to quieter country roads and forest tracks. With my Bartholomew half-inch to the mile map, I had the freedom of the county!

So it was, one day, when I am cycling through an unfamiliar bit of forest that I stop at a junction of tracks to try and get my bearings.

I’m surprised to see what I take to be an old man sat beside a campfire, in a small clearing.

“Are you lost?” he asks me. I hesitate, but it is a reasonable question, so I answer.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. “Just a bit confused. There’s lots of tracks and junctions. They all look pretty similar.”

I notice, set further back amongst the trees, a shelter of some sort.

“Do you live here?” I ask.

“Some of the time,” he replies.

I see, now, that he is perhaps not quite as old as I had imagined. It’s just that his clothes are a bit ragged and dirty. My curiosity is sparked.

“Do you not have a house? A proper home?”

“I used to have those …” he replies, with a hint of sadness. “But now I have freedom to go and do what I wish,” he adds.

“Don’t you have a wife?”

“Not any more …” again, there is a hint of sadness.

“So, you live her on your own? In this forest?”

“Yes,” he tells me. He seems happy to answer my questions.

“In there?” I ask, indicating the rudimentary shelter that I glimpsed through the trees.

“Yes,” he says, again. “It’s not as bad as it looks. “It’s really quite comfortable.”

“Do want to see it?” he asks, apparently as an afterthought.

I hesitate, again. I’m alone in the forest, maybe lost, certainly disoriented, talking to a strange man. Should I be cautious? Probably, but I’m also curious. Besides, he seems like a kindly sole. He probably gets lonely.

“Yes, please,” I reply. “If that’s okay.”

“This way,” he tells me, and I follow him towards the shelter.

Close-up, I see that his tiny home is made from fallen tree branches, with some sort of tarpaulin stretched over them, and camouflaged by more fallen branches and ferns.

He pulls back the tarpaulin that covers a low doorway and crawls inside. The he turns back to me, holding the doorway open.

“You want to see inside, don’t you? Come in!”

I hesitate only momentarily, before my curiosity gets the better of me, then I crawl inside my new acquaintance’s den.

As soon as I am inside, he drops the tarpaulin and it is dark.

“Don’t worry, your eyes will soon adjust,” he says.

The floor is soft. It feels like a blanket maybe laid on top of ferns or straw.

I blink in the darkness, my vision slowly improving. I see him lying down, just a foot or so away from me. I’m still kneeling.

“Is this where you sleep?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Yes. Lie down. Feel how comfortable it is,” he tells me.

I do as instructed. We lie on our sides, facing each other.

“See. It’s not really that much of a hardship, is it?” he says.

“Just you? Alone?”

I see him smile. “Mostly …” he replies, still smiling. He looks me over, taking in my very short shorts and my vest-style top.

I shiver. It’s cooler in here than outside.

“How do you keep warm?”

“I’ve a sleeping-bag,” he replies. “Here, look,” he says, pulling the sleeping-bag out from behind him and showing it to me.

“It’s quite cosy,” he tells me. “You can try it, if you want. Just take off your shoes,” he offers.

I look at the sleeping bag and shrug. Why not?

I push off my shoes and he hands me the sleeping bag.

“What do you wear to bed?” he asks.

A bit surprised by the question, I answer, “My nightie. And panties.”

“I don’t have a nightie for you, but you can borrow a clean t-shirt. You don’t want to be getting in there in those things that you have been wearing all day, do you?”

“Oh, I suppose not …” I reply. It’s his sleeping bag. “But you’ll need to look away while I change,” I tell him.

“Fair do’s,” he says, as he rummages in a bag and pulls out a white t-shirt. At least it looks as if it is clean, as far as I can tell in the subdued lighting.

He passes me the t-shirt and rolls over onto his other side, so that he is looking away from me.

I remove my top and quickly put on the oversize t-shirt. Then I remove my shorts and my socks.

“Are you done? Can I turn around?” he asks.

I pull down the t-shirt so that it covers my panties, which it just does.

“Yes,” I say. He turns over and looks me up and down.

“That’s better,” he tells me. And then he takes another look.

“Are you still wearing your bra? You don’t go to bed in that, do you? That’s what you told me, before.”

“No, I don’t,” admit.

“Well take it off, then!” he instructs me.

“Sorry,” I say and blush. This time he does not look away.

I struggle a little, but I manage to take off my white cotton bra from underneath the t-shirt. I put it aside.

He looks me over, again. My nipples press against the material of his t-shirt, which has ridden up, exposing the crotch of my white cotton panties.

“That’s better,” he tells me. “Now get in!”

I take hold of the top of the sleeping-bag and lower myself into it, pulling it up, over my breasts. I’m aware of a distinctly manly odour coming from it.

“Is that cosy?” he asks.

“Yes, it’s cosy,” I reply, truthfully. but screwing up my nose at the smell.

“It might not be too clean in there,” he tells me.

I look at him, quizzically.

“It gets lonely at night. On my own,” he adds, a little wistfully.

“You mean …?”

He smiles back at me.

“Yes …” he answers, simply.

I imagine him, on his own, at night …

I’m suddenly aware of a certain … crustiness … on the inside of the sleeping bag.

“See, it’s not that bad, is it?” he says. “You could sleep here.”

“In here?” I reply, looking around the tiny shelter. “In the middle of the forest? All night? All on my own? That would be too scary!” I tell him.

“I would stay with you. There’s room in the sleeping-bag for two,” he answers. I look at him puzzled. It would be a tight squeeze!

“Do you want to try it?” he asks.

Before I can reply, he kicks off his boots.

“I generally sleep in my underpants,” he tells me, as I watch him taking off his pullover and vest and then his trousers, without asking my permission. “It’s okay,” he tells me when he sees me looking at his Y-fronts. “They were clean a few days ago!” he chuckles.

“I normally sleep in my socks, too, but for you I will make a concession,” he chuckles, again.

There’s not much room in the shelter and I have moved to the side to try and make space for him to undress.

He sees that I have noticed his state of arousal. I’ve never seen an erect penis.

“It’s not every day that I have a pretty young girl to share my sleeping bag with me,” he explains, still smiling at me.

“Now, bring that sleeping-bag over here and get to one side of it, to make space for me,” he instructs.

With his help, I position the sleeping bag in the middle of his improvised bed and lie on my side. There doesn’t appear to be much spare room.

I hold open the top of the sleeping bag and he puts in first his rather malodorous feet and then shuffles down on his bottom and gets inside. Eventually his feet reach the bottom of the sleeping-bag and he turns on his side to face me. I feel his erection pressing against my abdomen.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he says. “Have you ever shared a sleeping bag before?”

“No,” I reply, very aware of his erection pressing against me.

“This is what I think about, at night, on my own,” he tells me, as his hand goes down inside the sleeping bag, pushes down his Y-fronts, and takes hold of his cock.

“You know what I do then, don’t you?” he asks.

“I think so,” I reply.

“Tell me then,” he says.

I don’t answer.

“Tell me,” he says, gently.

“You wank,” I reply, using the word that I have overheard some of the boys use.

“Yes, I wank,” he confirms and chuckles.

“I need to wank, now,” he tells me, and begins moving his hand up and down his cock, which is still resting against my belly.

“Do you want to do it for me?” he asks.

I don’t reply.

Then he asks, “Have you ever held a cock?”

“No,” I say.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I reply, my curiosity in conflict with what I know to be wrong.

“It’s okay, he doesn’t bite!” he tells me, referring to his cock in the third person.

I move my free hand and tentatively place it on his cock, my small, tender, hand against his bigger, rough, calloused hand. His cock feels warm and soft, even though it is rigid.

“That’s good!” he tells me. “Does it feel nice?” He removes his own hand from his cock.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Now move your hand up and down. Stroke it!” he instructs me.

I do as I am told, in the tight constrained space between our two bodies.

“That feels good!” he tells me as he emits a low groan.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

“Not down there!” I say, quickly.

“Okay,” he replies. “What about your breasts?”

“Through the t-shirt,” I reply, as I continue to stroke his cock.

He squeezes his hands between our bodies and puts them over my breasts, above the t-shirt. His fingers find my nipples and he traps them between his thumbs and forefingers. It’s my turn to moan, as I feel him increase the pressure on my nipples. I feel my pussy getting wet.

“Faster!” he says, still teasing my nipples.

I increase the pace of my strokes on his cock and his breathing quickens. I feel his hips bucking.

“Now!” he cries as he squeezes my nipples particularly tightly and grunts.

“Owww!” I say, as it hurts but also, for some reason, feels good.

I feel his body stiffen and his cock spasm, as warm liquid shoots out of the tip and soaks through the t-shirt that I am wearing.

I continue stroking until I feel him relax. His cock begins to go soft in my hand. It is wet and sticky.

“Thank you,” he says, as his breathing returns to normal.

“Your t-shirt is a bit of a mess,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he reassures me, smiling.

I release his cock and wipe my hand on a dry part of the t-shirt.

“I think I better go home, now,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he says.

“Do you want to get out first?” he asks.

I wriggle out of the sleeping bag and kneel next to it.

“Take the t-shirt off and use it to dry yourself,” he tells me.

I do that, and wipe myself down, aware of him looking at my now naked breasts and my damp panties.

“Will you come back?” he asks.

“I might,” I say, as I put on my bra and then my shorts and top.

“I’d like that,” he says. “Maybe I will touch you ‘down there’, if you do?”

“Maybe,” I reply.

“Just follow the track to the right. It’s only about half a mile to the main road,” he directs me.

“Thank you,” I say, as I crawl out of the tiny shelter.

I hold open the tarpaulin door and look back. “Are you staying in there?” I ask.

“Yes. I might have another wank,” he tells me, as he smiles again.

“Goodbye, then!” I say.

“Goodbye,” he replies, as I drop the door and head over to where I left my bike.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/v7nsgf/exploring_with_bartholomew