A BOOK OF FIRSTS, Pt 14
My dad and I moved to the southern part of the state when I was ten. When I didn’t make friends right away, my dad thought it would be good to sign me up for the Boy Scouts. I had been active in cub scouts back home, and my dad had taken me hunting and camping since I was six.
I loved my dad, but he was not a very organized man, and he rarely arrived anywhere on time. For my first campout – a two-nighter; Friday night and Saturday night – Dad was late. The scout truck was about to pull out of the parking lot as we pulled in. (This was back before seat belt laws and kid safety laws. They just threw all the gear in the back of a large fruit truck and piled the scouts on the gear.) We scrambled. Dad tossed me up into the back of the truck and threw up my small bag. Neither of us would realize till too late that I’d forgotten my bedroll.
The “camp” was a wooded area on a cattle ranch. Once the gear was unloaded, the scoutmasters tied a tarp over the top of the truck and set up their cots under it. They had an extra cot and set it up for me with theirs, since I had no bedding. Elsewhere around the camp, several old-style, canvas ten-men tents were set up for the other scouts.
I had gotten to know some of the boys, but had not made close friends with any of them. There were a couple of boys my age with whom I was interested in becoming friends, and I hung around them that afternoon.
I barely noticed the breeze pick up from the north or the drop in temperature, as we set up camp, played games, learned camping skills, and prepared and ate supper. With twilight, though, it grew colder. We sat around a big campfire, and the scoutmasters told ghost stories, which I cringed at. I wouldn’t go by myself to the truck to bed down, and I waited until the scoutmasters did.
The wind died down, and deep cold settled over the camp. I kept my jacket on, and all my clothes, trying to stay warm under a blanket one of the scoutmasters had loaned me. But it was too cold to sleep.
Two of the scoutmasters were still up, playing cards, and one of them noticed me shivering on my cot.
“Why don’t you see if one of the other boys will share his sleeping bag with you,” he suggested. “It will be a lot warmer for you.”
I was more than ready to try that; I’d try anything. Climbing down from the truck, I went to the first tent. It was pitch black and quiet inside; same with the next tent. That’s when I heard boys talking in another tent, across the site.
I pulled back the door flap. A light was on, and I stepped inside, timidly, closing the flap behind me. Across the back of the tent, five of the older boys lay on cots arranged side by side, almost like one big bed. They had flashlights on and were talking. Another cot ran crosswise at the feet of their cots. Owen, a boy my age lay on it listening to the conversation of the older boys. He was one of the boys I wanted to be friends with.
At ten, I was a chunk; not fat, but solid before my growth spurt. My dad, who raised beagles when he was young, called me a dominant puppy. I wound up a string bean by the age of thirteen, but at ten, I was a strong little guy. Owen was just a little guy; a little shorter than me and on the thin side.
I went quietly up to Owen’s cot and knelt beside it. “I don’t have a sleeping bag and it’s really cold,” I told him. “Can I share with you?”
“Sure,” he said, opening his bag. I quickly kicked off my shoes and climbed in with him.
There’s plenty of space inside an adult sleeping bag for two ten-year-olds. Peter slid over to the side on his back and I lay down on my side next to him, but not touching. He shared his pillow with me, though, so we were close.
We listened to the older guys tell dirty jokes. Then they got into a farting contest, and the air inside the tent started smelling pretty bad. Owen and I ducked down into the sleeping bag, pretending to gag, and giggling.
“That’s bad,” I complained.
“You should smell one of mine,” Owen said.
He laughed. “I won’t.”
We listened to the older boys’ farting and laughing. With both of us ducked down inside the sleeping bag, it actually started to get warm.
“It’s sorta getting hot in here,” I said.
“Let’s take off our jackets,” Owen suggested.
We sat up, pulled off our jackets, and set them down beside the cot. Then we ducked back inside the sleeping bag, because of the smell. It quickly got warm again.
“We can take off our jeans,” Owen said.
Inside the sleeping bag, we kicked off our jeans, down into the end of the sleeping bag.
“Hey,” Owen whispered. “Let’s take off our underwear, too.”
Naughty. I was game for naughty. “Okay.”
We kicked off our underwear, also down into the end of the sleeping bag. So then we were in shirts and nothing but bare legs and butts.
“Now it’s sorta cold,” I said as we faced each other on our sides.
“Here,” Owen said, scooting up to me. He slipped his upper leg between my legs, taking my lower leg between his. His legs were warm.
“That’s better, right?” Owen asked as I pulled his leg tight between mine and he pulled my leg tight between his. Our little balls rested on top of each other’s thigh and we hugged on to each other’s bottom.
“Yeah,” I agreed, as we snuggled up in each other’s arms, legs interlaced up to the crotch.
We didn’t hear any more farts, but the older boys were still talking, so we stuck our heads back out from under the sleeping bag to listen. Though the tent, especially after the farting contest, seemed warmer inside than the air outside the tent, it still was cooler than inside the sleeping bag. Owen and I pulled belly-to-belly tighter, noses almost touching on his pillow. We grinned at each other in the near-dark, laughing at the punch lines to the older boys’ dirty jokes and stories.
Owen rocked his hips, and I realized he had a stiffy like I did. I rocked mine back. Owen grinned at that and reached down between our bellies, feeling stiffies. I reached down, too, and we felt each other’s. They were both just little twigs, of course, but it felt good, feeling them up while we listened to the older boys.
We rocked our hips, and, as the older boys began to grow quiet, we paid more attention to us. We rolled around a little and I wound up on my back with Owen on top of me, still belly-to-belly and now rubbing stiffies pretty seriously.
We held each other and wiggled and rubbed the insides of our legs against each other, while the sides of our faces pressed and our breathing grew ragged. I’d never had a dry orgasm, but Owen’s wiggling gave me one, and I briefly shook all over. He got one, too, and then settled down. Our willies grew soft, but we kept hugging each other for warmth.
When Owen finally rolled off me to his side, I rolled up behind him and hugged and spooned onto him to stay warm. His bottom in my lap felt good, and I got a stiffy again. He took my hand and put it between his legs, and I played with his willie. It grew hard.
We fell asleep that way. Through the night, we woke only a time or two to shift or roll, but we stayed hugging for warmth. And that worked. We stayed warm. We woke in the morning with Owen spooned behind me, his stiffy pressed on my butt.
Guys were getting up, so we hurriedly dressed inside the sleeping bag, grabbing at each other, giggling, and fumbling for clothes while trying to judge by feel, whose underwear was whose.
We took our morning piss, side-by-side.
“That was great last night,” Owen said as we shook off. “I was warm all night.”
“Me, too,” I agreed. “Can I sleep with you again tonight?” I asked.
“Sure,” Owen said with a grin. He threw his arm over my shoulders and I slid my arm behind his back and we walked back toward the campfire and breakfast, smiling at one another.
We stuck together all day. Overnight, we had become best friends.
The day started chilly, but the sun was out and the wind was down. It grew warm enough to remove our jackets.
I’d noticed that one of the older boys, named Greg, watched us a lot, and later in the afternoon, he followed us to the latrine when we went to take a piss. Greg must have been thirteen or so.
He pulled out his much bigger dick than ours, and, from the end of the little trench, added his stream to ours.
“You too looked funny this morning,” he said, with a laugh that sounded like he forced it. “You looked like you were playing dogs in your sleeping bag.”
Owen and I glanced at each other, and Owen asked him. “What’s playing dogs?”
“Haven’t you ever seen dogs fucking?” the boy asked.
We both nodded.
“Well, playing dogs is when one boy greases up his dick with butter or lotion or even slobber and sticks it up another boy’s butt to fuck like dogs.”
He watched our faces. We both blushed deep red.
“We didn’t do that,” Owen sad quietly.
Greg laughed. “I just said it looked like it.” He shook off and tucked in. “It’s not a big deal. Guys play dogs sometime. They just don’t talk about it.”
Owen and I shook off, tucked in, and got away from Greg.
We didn’t talk about what he said until that night in the sleeping bag. With darkness, it had grown cold outside again. While the older boys joked and talked, Owen and I undressed inside his sleeping bag. They didn’t have their flashlights on, but I thought I saw Greg trying to watch us in the dark. I tried to ignore him.
When Owen took off his shirt as well, I took off mine. Then we hugged each other, completely naked, and interlaced legs like the night before. He put his mouth to my ear and whispered very, very quietly so that only I would hear. “Do you want to try playing dogs?”
“Yeah,” I whispered back softly.
Owen rolled to his side and backed his butt into my lap, while the older boys on their cots, told jokes and stories. We ducked down into the bedroll. I didn’t have butter or lotion, so I drooled some slobber into my hand and put it on my stiffy. Then I scooted my hips forward and poked around in Owen’s crack. The slobber came off my stiffy.
Owen drooled some slobber into his hand and rubbed it in his butt crack and I put more slobber on my stiffy, and this time, it went in; we did, after all, have only finger-size erections back then. He shoved his butt back into my lap and I wrapped an arm around his belly, and I buried my stiffy all the way inside him. It was the first time I remember being so conscious of the full length of my stiffy, or the degree of pleasure it could give me. I tried to fuck like dogs fuck, and I found that my body was wired to do just that, even at ten.
Owen took my hand and moved it between his legs to cover his stiffy. So I rubbed on it while I pumped my hips, and he covered my hand with his, holding my palm to his stiffy. He pumped his hips, too.
I realized our cot was squeaking, though the older boys hadn’t seemed to notice, so I slowed down and ground more than thrust because that felt awfully good as well. We wound up more on our tummies. I pulled out my hand from under Owen, and he rubbed his stiffy on the lining of the sleeping bag, while I lay on top of him, wiggling my stiffy inside his butt.
I’d never been with another boy like that, so… close, so together; our naked bodies so perfectly fitted and all the sensations of him filling my senses.
A dry orgasm hit me, and I hugged him hard. By then, the older boys had quieted for sleep, so we were very quiet as we shifted and I got on my stomach and Owen moved on top of me. We did the spit thing again, and then I felt Owen shove his stiffy up my butt.
It was a funny feeling, but our stiffies really were just twigs, and it didn’t hurt once it was in. In fact, it didn’t feel bad at all.
When he was done, I spooned behind him, and, since I was hard again, I put slobber on my stiffy and stuck it back inside him, thinking I’d just go to sleep that way. But it felt good, and I wound up doing it until I had another dry orgasm. Then we rolled and Owen did it to me.
Owen and I later discovered that at ten and eleven, a boy's erection does not always go away after only one dry orgasm.
We woke up slowly the next morning, and really sleepy. With me on my stomach and Owen draped over my back, I lifted my head and looked around. The older boys had already dressed and gone out. I looked at Owen.
He rubbed my back. “What’dya think?” he asked quietly.
“I liked it,” I told him honestly.
He smiled. “Me, too. You can sleep over at my house next weekend, and we can do it again.”
“Or you can come to my house after school. My dad doesn’t get home from work until late.”
Greg came into the tent.
“Finally awake,” he observed. “I know why you slept late. You two played dogs last night. I saw you.”
Owen rolled off me. Neither of us said anything as we lay on our sides, looking at Greg
“I told you, it’s no big deal,” Greg said. “Just don’t talk about it.” He knelt beside the cot on my side and patted the side of my hip through the bedroll. “Lots of guys do it. They suck each other’s dicks sometimes, too. You guys can come to my house sometime, and I’ll show you how to do it.”
Neither of us said anything.
“You want to do it?” Greg asked.
I looked back at Owen. He nodded, so I nodded, too.
Greg smiled. “Cool.”
For once, my dad was early when he picked me up; and he met Owen.
“So you have a new friend now,” Dad said, pleased, as we drove away.
“Best friend,” I corrected.
Thank you, guys, for your positive feedback. I think I should clarify, once more, that by and large, these stories are bsed on genuine accounts of guys' first times. A couple have been largely fiction, but even those included elements of things guys told me or I experienced. Most of these accounts are pretty much what readers told me happened. Readers may exagerate, but I have no reason to think so. Over the last few years, I've heard almost everything about early experiences, from people whom I believe.
I've asked readers who've sent me their accounts to tell me what they can remember of the experience or experiences... the sensations, thoughts, and the things that were said. Then I try to reconstruct and dramatize the account. Usually, I add an enhancement or two; usually small. I've even left out a detail or two if I worried about how they'd be received.
I've received enough new accounts from you guys to be up to U or V in stories, so I could use a couple more you guys want me to make it to Z, but no rush. :) Do let me know from time to time that you're still with me. Remember, emails are my pay for this work. :) My email address is firstname.lastname@example.org.