Ever since one summer camp experience when she was thirteen, Leslie Groten's need to fantasize began to occupy her more and more. It would demand her attention at the damnedest times and could literally consume her if the didn't pay attention.
Her father called these moods "wool gathering" and although he didn't know what caused or spawned them, he was forever cautioning his young, attractive daughter of the potential dangers involved.
"Now, darling, just suppose you're driving a car and you fall into one of these deep moods. You could crash."
"Daddy Jimbo, I'm not old enough to drive a car," was a common answer to any of his admonitions. Nothing her father warned her of could possibly occur, simply because she was not old enough! That was that!
Until this experience at camp…
Leslie was alone in one of the wooden dressing cabins down at the camp lake. She was a swimming counselor for the younger girls. She'd just finished what seemed to be a "forever" afternoon with these brats when their dining room counselor came along to take them back for their baths and dressing for supper.
Leslie was left alone. Now it was late afternoon. The sun was very warm. Ml day the dressing room had baked in the heat. All was quiet, serene. There was hardly a sound except the chirping of a bird or the singing of a cricket in the woods behind the dressing rooms down by the lake.
Leslie squirmed out of her bathing suit, a one-piece thing she hated but was prescribed by the stuffy camp managers. Once her young breasts were flushed free, she felt gloriously naked! Her fingers caressed them. She cupped her luscious virgin globes with both hands. She rubbed her breasts together, watching as the two pointed nipples touched erotically.
Slowly, as she teased her breasts, her breathing began to increase. She knew this was a sure sign of her falling into one of the "wool gathering" periods. She chased the warning thoughts of her father away.
What could possibly happen out here on the quiet lake in an empty dressing room? No one knew she was there. No one ever came down this far this late in the afternoon.
Who would have any reason to?
She shrugged out of the bathing suit altogether. Now she was stark naked and again that wonderful thrilling sense of freedom overwhelmed her. She wiggled her petite toes and then sat down. From her shoulder bag, she removed the camp's first-aid kit.
No one knew that in one of the six-ounce medicine bottles, she kept a personal supply of cognac. She had learned to like this stuff when her father once gave her a taste. Now she looked forward to sipping it, but only when she was alone and when she was naked. It added something dramatic and thrillingly exciting to her nudity.
She sat down on the hard wooden floor. She loved the feel of the hot boards on her bare buttocks. She sipped from the bottle, then spread her knees wide apart. She looked down at her lovely brown pussy hair, so curly and growing so beautifully to cover her delicious mound. She opened her lips and let a bit of cognac-flavored saliva fall to her pussy hairs.
She did this several times, each time after sipping from the bottle. Now her curly pussy hairs were quite moist; she could also feel the delicious burning sensation of the cognac on her tender pussy lips.
She loved to do this and as she did, she would daydream, go "wool gathering", and if the world had blown up before she finished with her erotic fantasy she wouldn't have heard it.
Now her fingers were dancing madly inside her juicy pussy lips. She rubbed and rubbed. She would squeeze her breasts together. She loved the nude feel of her inner arms against her ripe mounds. She was in seventh heaven, when suddenly -suddenly – she bolted up!
There in the doorway, standing in the hot afternoon sun, and completely naked, was Miss O'Brien, the statuesque chief counselor of the whole Camp Summerlake!
"And what is the meaning of this, Leslie?"
Miss Augusta O'Brien was in her early forties. She was impossibly strict and smiled only at the children's parents or visitors. She was a harsh taskmaster and although the campers respected her, they also feared her, especially the punishments meeted out for any infraction of the many camp rules.
Augusta O'Brien was a woman of little patience, the camp's judge, the camp's jury. She lived alone in the elaborate tree-house that served as the camp's headquarters.
"I'm sorry, Miss O'Brien." Leslie knew there was no point of lying. Miss O'Brien had probably been watching her for a long time.
"Do you realize the seriousness of what you were doing, Leslie? Playing with one's genitals is not only a sin, it's unhealthy – and you are to be punished!"
Leslie hung her head. She knew that the counselors never suffered the punishment or the deprivations the campers did, such as no dessert at meals. Miss O'Brien had no authority to use her hands on any camper, and Leslie well knew this.
But when Miss Augusta O'Brien's sense of smell was somehow brought into play in the next few seconds while Leslie hastily struggled back into her swimsuit, Leslie feared the very worst.
"This is whiskey, Leslie!" Miss O'Brien stood up, her legs astride. Her bare mound of pussy hair stood out prominently. Her large naked breasts were heaving as she stood there towering above the cringing Leslie.
In panic, Leslie grasped Miss O'Brien's naked knee. "Oh, please… please, Miss O'Brien, I can explain. I can if you'll let me. Please!"
Both of Leslie's hands were in contact with Augusta O'Brien's naked flesh. Leslie's face, tearstained, was upturned, her eyes staring between Miss O'Brien's pendulous breasts. They were beseeching Miss O'Brien to be less stern.
"Leslie, there is little to explain. You understand, I know, that playing with yourself down there, your vagina, even your breasts," she said, touching her own tentatively, "is definitely out of order on the camp's premises. Drinking whiskey, or whatever this stuff is, is a crime here at Camp Summerlake! Do I need to emphasize that, Leslie? You've been here two summers now and you know our rules are made to be obeyed and enforced."
Leslie's grip on Miss O'Brien's knees was stronger now. The crying young girl was hugging her face to Augusta O'Brien's naked thigh.
"Please, please, Miss O'Brien, don't throw me out. Please, don't telephone my mother. She'll kill me if she finds out! Please, I beg of you. I'll not do it anymore, I promise. I promise you with all my heart!" Leslie cried.
Leslie kneeled up when Miss O'Brien instructed her to. Now her face was directly opposite Miss O'Brien's lush pubic hair, a veritable forest of thick curly black hair forming a large triangle between her thick thighs.
Leslie's sobbing and crying was bordering on hysteria. "Leslie," said Miss O'Brien, "what would your father do to you if he found out?"
"He'd spank me so I couldn't stand up," she sobbed.
For the next few minutes Miss O'Brien seemed to relent. She lectured her young counselor, but as she did she kept staring at her young body, at her quivery breasts naked inside the loosely fitting top of the bathing suit because one shoulder strap had fallen down.
Then suddenly Miss O'Brien said, "Suppose I forgive you this time, Leslie? Do I have your sincere promise that you won't try to inflame your genitals anymore… the way you were doing?"
"Oh, yes, Miss O'Brien, I'll promise anything to you. Just please don't tell my parents. My mother…"
"Leslie, would you promise not to steal any more of this whiskey?" she asked, bringing the bottle up to her nose.
"Oh, yes. Yes… yes."
Miss O'Brien backed away. Leslie was still kneeling on the wooden boards. Miss O'Brien looked out the door at the limpid lake. Her eyes searched around. She saw no one. She came back into the dressing cabin. She closed the door behind her. Leslie saw she had her own bathing suit wrapped up in a towel.
"Now, Leslie, do you understand what I'm talking about… about irritating and inflaming your genitals?"
"Oh, yes, I think… I think I do, Miss O'Brien, but I'm not really hurting myself… in fact…"
"In fact, what?"
"Well," answered Leslie, lowering her eyes, "it's not a hurt feeling, really, so much as it's… it's a…"
"It's a what, Leslie?" Miss Augusta O'Brien's voice was growing more and more gentle. She stood quite close to the trembling girl, who was still down on her knees. Now she put her hands on the girl's naked shoulders. Then she ran her fingers up her neck to her face. She wiped the tears still flowing from Leslie Groten's soft eyes.
"Well, it's a kind of nice feeling, Miss O'Brien."
"Do you play with yourself down there often, Leslie?"
"No, not too often. Just now and then when I'm alone and able to be naked… like I was when you caught me, Miss O'Brien. Oh, I'm so sorry. Please. Please forgive me. You are going to forgive me, aren't you, Miss O'Brien? I'll promise never to do it again."
"Now just be quiet," said the older woman. She felt and had to admit a series of violent quakings simmering through her towering nakedness. Her breasts suddenly felt heavier. She was conscious of a tickling sensation in her thick-lipped vagina. Even her large brown nipples were beginning to sting and to stiffen naughtily.
"Just be quiet, Leslie."
Augusta O'Brien pressed the young girl's damp face closer to her naked, muscular belly. She could feel Leslie's wet tears on her skin, Leslie's warm breath just above her forest of thick pubic hair. She pressed the girl's face even closer and began to stroke her head and neck.
As for Leslie, with her face now pressed intimately close to Augusta O'Brien's belly, she was also feeling strange, delicious sensations flowing through her trembling body. She forced herself to stop crying. But each time Miss O'Brien would touch her neck or her shoulders with affection – something Leslie longed for desperately – she broke out into hot tears all over again.
She was still kneeling. Miss O'Brien took her arms and arranged them around her own waist. Now Leslie's fingers could feel the firm, warm skin of Miss O'Brien's body, the soft curve of her waist and, as her fingers fluttered, the sloping curve of her heavy buttocks.
"Leslie, I'll forgive you… but only if…"
Leslie looked up, her eyes wide, her lips parted. A warm glow of happiness, of deep gratitude, was beginning to sweep over her quivering frame.
"Oh, if… if what, Miss O'Brien? I'll do anything for you. Anything… ask me anything!"
Miss O'Brien closed her eyes. Then she opened them. She spread her legs apart slightly, gently. She pushed Leslie back a bit. "Leslie, show me what you touch when you play with yourself. Show me here," she said, patting her own hairy vagina.