The Sex Kitten – Ch. 2 “Campfire Thongs”

If you missed Ch. 1, check it out here: [The Sex Kitten – Ch. 1 “Mexican Candy”](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/44dur3/the_sex_kitten_ch_1_mexican_candy/)

Being one of the few seniors on the trip, I had the special privilege of getting to sleep in the pastor’s tent with the other student leaders. Pastor Steve was one of the guys; our church was super laid-back and he would even let out the occasional “what the hell” or “damnit” which always left us grinning. Those first two nights in Mexico felt like a kind of fraternity. Of course I didn’t know that then. This is based off of living in an ACTUAL fraternity a couple years later, but… Again. Another story.

The four of us in Steve’s tent stayed up late swapping stories and giggling at everything the way you tend to do when lightly sleep deprived. An hour after Katie had blown me less than six feet away from said pastor, however, and that special privilege felt more like a special kind of perpetual guilt machine.

I laid in my sleeping bag clutching the edge tight against my chin. What the hell was she thinking, pulling that kind of crap on a church trip? It wasn’t just risky, it was irresponsible. It was immature.

*It was impossibly fucking hot.*

This line of thinking happened a lot back in those days. I would shift the guilt and blame onto her plate, completely ignoring the part where I wasn’t just a willing participant, I was actively complicit. Well, it had gotten to this point. I set about thinking about how I would be able to repay her while the guys laughed and joked well into the night. If they noticed my silence that night, they didn’t show it. Years later, conversations with Phil and Matty would confirm that no one had suspected anything either that night in the van, or the following night around the campfire.

***

We spent that day on our worksite erecting the walls we had built the day before. Thankfully, my pastor was on a different site and I didn’t have to worry about looking him in eye. Katie, however, was on my site and while I spent the afternoon clambering around the framework of the house installing the roof, she helped to install the chicken wire along the perimeter of the building while constantly eye-fucking me and doing that thing where she pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek when she saw that no one was looking.

I don’t know if you’ve ever installed a roof, but trying to do it with a raging erection is more than a little difficult. Eventually, we had the plywood covering the entirely of the roof, the chicken wire stretched across the outer walls, and the site cleared for the final push the following day. This meant, of course, that this would be our final night at the campsite.

We got back to the site just after sunset and I saw that our agenda for the evening was dinner at 6:30, worship at 7:30, talent show at 8, free time at 9, and bed check at 10:30. I had considered using the free time to sneak into a van again, but I knew how ridiculously lucky we had been the previous night to have not been caught. Worship at 7:30. Talent show at 8. That was a solid 90-minute block until free time. My plan wasn’t perfect but I was confident it would work.

***

Dinner came and went and the temperature obligingly dropped to under 45 degrees. Everywhere I looked, kids were grabbing blankets and sweatshirts and pulling their chairs close to the massive fire that raged in the middle of our site, the dozen or so tents surrounding it in a semi-circular perimeter with the kitchen RVs situated at 11 and 1 clock. Right at the top, the high noon of our circle, was a large mat spread out with two small benches and little metal music stand that the pastor would use for services. Tonight, it would be our stage for the talent show. I looked at the campfire and smiled. So far, so good.

Katie sidled up next to me and put her head on my shoulder. I looked over and she glanced up at me, her face spotted with new freckles from a week in the sun. She had on a squishy college sweatshirt, low-rise pajama bottoms, and her ratty Chuck Taylors. Her hair was swept back in a tight ponytail hidden under a red bandana.

“Like Rosie the Riveter,” she mumbled, that wild grin creeping across her face again.

“We can do it,” I said. I winked, and returned the manic smile.

She pulled her chin down slightly, cocking her head to look at me sideways.

“Trust me,” I said. “Go find my chair.”

She scampered off with a couple furtive glances back at me while I made a beeline for my tent. I gathered up my sleeping bag and undid the zipper about halfway down. We met back near the campfire about halfway between the stage and the back of the chair circle. She plopped my chair down close to the fire—I had one of those fancy cloth chairs used for tailgating—and I sat down. I popped my shoes off and slipped my feet into the bottom of the sleeping bag like the start of a potato sack race. With a nod of my head, I smiled and beckoned her to hop in. Shoes off, feet in, she sat on my lap and I gathered the lumpy sleeping bag around us like a blanket.

“Hey, you two!” called one of the counselors. “Hand check!”

We laughed and quickly shot four hands toward the sky. The counselor smiled and shook her head before walking off to find her own blanket and chair.

“Keep both hands visible,” I whispered.

She sighed and leaned back into me, her little ass wiggling against me. She pulled her hoodie up over her head and gathered an armful of sleeping bag. I rested my right hand underneath her arms and quickly slipped my left hand inside the sleeping bag. I hoped and prayed that my stage-side hand would go unnoticed during the talent show while my right hand could be seen by anyone who cared to look. I slid my hand under her shirt and ran it across her flat tummy and could feel the goosebumps rising on her skin.

“You hand is cold!” she hissed quietly.

I didn’t say a word as I slid my hand down and pressed my fingers under the elastic of her pajama bottoms. I was surprised when I was met with fabric.

“You’re wearing underwear?” I asked, almost inaudibly.

“Seriously? I thought you’d wait until after,” she said just as quietly.

We sat like this for a while, my hand resting against her left thigh—over the thong, but under the pajamas—waiting for worship to start. It should come as some surprise that, this time, the guilt did not rise as it had before. Last night, hidden in the darkness, Katie went down on me while I was playing the damn worship songs. Tonight we were just spectators in a small crowd, the dancing, leaping flames of the fire making it difficult to see anyone sitting exactly opposite. Tonight, we were practically hiding in plain sight.

Steve opened with a short prayer, slung his guitar over his shoulder, and began the worship set. I silently intoned my own prayer, slid my hand over Katie’s crotch, and began my own worship.

I started softly, playing the tips of my fingers around the edges of her still-covered vulva. I lightly dragged my nails across the smooth skin of her thigh and she slipped her right hand over my own, interlocking her fingers over the top of mine and squeezing. Tight.

And so our little game began in earnest. I ran my hand against the little peach fuzz on her navel: squeeze. I slid up her torso and found that while she *was* wearing a thong, she had decided against a bra. I cupped one of her boobs and ran my thumb and middle finger to her suddenly hard nipple and pinched: *squeeze.* Emboldened, I palmed her full breast and lightly squeezed before sliding my hand back down across her navel, sliding down and under her thong, and cupping the whole of her crotch with slightly bent fingers. I didn’t squeeze so much as I pulled against her body, pausing only to slip two fingers into her slick, wet pussy: *squeeze, squeeze, SQUEEZE.*

I held my hooked fingers inside her as she spread her legs just slightly, rocking her ass forward and back as she did so. I pulled my hand back and cupped her ass before sliding my hand into my own pajama bottoms and adjusting my uncomfortably erect cock. I pointed the tip toward my stomach and let the elastic of my boxers hold it down. Thinking I was looking to go the full distance, Katie grinded her ass against my dick.

“Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t. Move.”

She nodded, imperceptibly I hoped, and craned her neck forward to look at the fire. I let my hand resume its place against her now soaking pussy. We kept at this for a few minutes. With my left hand motionless, I bent and unbent my two fingers as I slid in and out of her wetness. **Squeeze, squeeze.** I could feel as her legs began to tremble, little pulsations in her thighs as the orgasm slowly built inside her. She slid one of her bare feet atop mine and I could feel her toes curl as they lightly scratched the top of my foot. ***Squeeze, squeeze.*** I hooked the two fingers as deep as I could and pulled against her pelvis again. Her little toes curled tight and her foot spasmed a bit as her fingers dug deep into the back of my hand.

None of this, mind you, was visible to anyone else. Amazingly, Katie kept the rest of her body completely still and limited the throes of her orgasm to her furthest extremities. I clamped my hand tight against her pussy as her vagina made little flurries against my fingers. The final, long squeeze of my hand with hers was still subsiding as I felt it.

While I had been slowly, silently coaxing her to orgasm, I had *not* been paying attention to what was happening inside myself. Right at she was coming down from the wave crashing inside her, my cock twitched and I ejaculated onto my stomach. Katie turned her head sharply toward me.

“Did you just—”

“Yeah.”

“But how—”

“I don’t…”

I couldn’t help but begin to chuckle softly as I wiped my left hand on my pants and slid it back out into the open, Mexican air. Worship, it seemed, had just ended and people began to stir and mill about as Steve announced a ten-minute break before the talent show.

“What are you two doing?” asked Phil, who had appeared suddenly from around the edge of the fire.

“What. What?” I asked dumbly back.

“For the talent show. Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“I think I’m done,” said Katie. “For tonight. I just want to sleep.”

“Yeah I don’t think I’m—”

“You’re not bailing on ME are you?” asked Phil, his voice full of mock pain.

As it turns out, it is difficult to remember plans made with Person A when Person B has just orgasmed onto your hand mere moments before you ejaculate onto yourself and are busy trying to figure out how you’re going to clean yourself off without anyone noticing. In this particular situation, Person A was Phil and I had told him we’d perform one of our silly songs during the talent show.

“What? Oh! Right! No. I just. I just meant I’m not doing anything *other than* our bit. I just wanna change out of my PJs first. I’ll come find you.”

Phil nodded and walked off. The murmur of voices surrounding us was just loud enough to properly whisper and not be heard.

“First of all,” Katie said, before interrupting herself by planting a long kiss on my lips. “THAT was incredible. Did I really make you cum?”

“Yeah,” I said, my eyes widening. “You just, there was this pressure…on my junk the whole time. And then you, well getting you off, and I…” I trailed off.

She kissed my forehead and sheepishly grinned.

“I’m gonna go the bathroom. You… Well. Good luck.”

Katie neatly stepped out from the sleeping back and popped her shoes back on. Frumpy little pajama bottoms and an oversized hooded sweatshirt. Those ratty Chucks. God help me she was gorgeous. As if she could hear my thoughts, she glanced over her shoulder with that wicked, lopsided grin and puckered her lips in a little kiss. She winked and trotted off to the port-o-potties as I watched helplessly.

What THE HELL was I going to do. I was thirty feet away from my tent and covered with my own rapidly drying semen. Think. Think. Lightbulb. Silly songs, right? It’s fine. I’m fine. Class clown. That’s me: class clown. I reached down and zipped the sleeping bag all the way up. I leaned down and grabbed my sneakers, stood up, and began hopping back to my tent like I was an entrant in the comfiest potato sack race.

“You alright there, Jake?” heckled a voice.

I didn’t stop to see who it was.

“Too. Cold. I refuse to relinquish the heat of this bag!”

“Don’t trip!”

With a final effort, I hopped to my tent and popped inside, zipping it shut behind me. I didn’t risk waiting for any of my tentmates to pop their heads in. I pulled my sweatshirt off and examined it briefly. No jizz. My shirt, however, was a different story. Eh. I hated that shirt. I ripped it off and used it to hurriedly clean myself. I rummaged in my bag and pulled out a plastic bag meant for keeping my dirty clothes separate from my clean ones. Desperate times. I sealed the shirt tight in the bag, popped on a different shirt, put my hoodie back on, and grabbed a ballcap from my backpack. I shoved the evidence into my hoodie pocket right as the tent zipped open. It was Phil.

I never had time to throw away the bag as we were the first act. I don’t remember what we did. I just know that I performed the bit with a cum-stained shirt wrapped in a plastic bag in my sweatshirt pocket. Throughout our relationship, Katie and I would look back on that night and laugh ourselves silly at the thought of me sack-hopping to my tent to clean myself off. I told Phil about it years later and he just about lost his breath laughing. No one, it seemed, was ever the wiser.

Next time: Ch. 3 “Saying Goodbye – Sloppy, Messy, Crying Sex”

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/450i67/the_sex_kitten_ch_2_campfire_thongs