This story is adult fiction with homoerotic episodes. If you are a minor or are likely to be offended, please read no further. If you are reading further, please consider a donation to to help keep this service free and available to all.

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by Macout Mann


You can tell how long a guy has been coming to Camp Lookout by checking his luggage.

The camp does send suggestions in the welcoming packet:

"Dress is extremely informal at Camp Lookout. In addition to personal items campers should bring shorts, including swimwear. Shirts must be worn at the evening meal. Since nights on the mountain may be chilly, a light jacket is also recommended."

Nothing is said about underwear or socks or anything suitable for Church or Sunday School. Yet first time campers can be counted on to have not only many pairs of shorts and shirts but clothes that will never be worn or even removed from their bags. Unless their mothers are still packing their stuff, by the time a camper returns for the third time, everything he brings will fit in a small overnight bag. No more than three pairs of shorts, cutoffs preferred. Two or three t shirts. Maybe a jock strap. A jacket and a pair of some kind of shoes. Some older campers even get away with wearing their jackets to supper with the zipper down to their navels, so they don't have to bring shirts. Everybody goes in the water with whatever they have on. It dries out soon enough or can be exchanged in a second. Whatever needs washing gets sent to the laundry once a week. At supper nobody is barechested, but the rest of the time most everybody is shirtless, except when they play shirts vs. skins. The camp provides plenty of sunscreen.

Personal items may be restricted to a toothbrush and toothpaste. Older boys who have started to shave will bring shaving gear, but most like to show off their fuzz. Choctaws and Chickasaws may bring along some lube. Tobacco or alcohol use is not countenanced at Lookout, but luggage hasn't been inspected since the late sixties. Older boys were threatening to stop coming if their weed was confiscated, and the camp is a for-profit corporation after all.

So Monday morning after breakfast, Winston is at the lake dressed only in a pair of threadbare cutoffs, cut to the fashionable length of maybe six inches down the inner thigh. He already has a nice tan. Like he says, "You need dark legs and body with white meat in between." He and the other two water safety instructors are there to qualify or requalify campers for swim sessions.

The lake is divided into three sections. The rope nearest the shore marks an area no deeper than four feet. Anyone can swim in it, but every camper is expected to learn enough during his first session to qualify for the main swimming area. It is much deeper, but during each swim period it is supervised by a lifeguard. A camper must be able to swim across the area twice and also be able to stay underwater for forty seconds to qualify.

Every camper can row or canoe under instruction, but to be able to take out a canoe or a rowboat with only another camper, both boys must have qualified for the main swimming area.

To be able to swim beyond the main swimming area or to take out a canoe or rowboat alone, a camper must qualify by swimming for five consecutive minutes in open water. Since these rules were adopted, Camp Lookout has never had a water fatality or a serious incident in the lake or the river.

All first time campers must be qualified, and many returnees are trying get a higher qualification. Things are going well, until one of the Chickasaw boys is trying to demonstrate his ability to stay underwater the required length of time.

He is the only fourteen-year-old who has not progressed from the kiddie pool to the main part of the lake, one of very few twelve or thirteen-year-olds who hasn't. Unlike his three older brothers who excelled at Camp Lookout, Blake Osborne is totally effete, has a high-pitched girly voice, and is undoubtedly the most unmasculine guy at camp. But he keeps coming year after year and he tries to keep up.

"Let me try just one more time. Please, Winston!" Blake lisps.

"Go ahead and drown the little faggot," the next boy in line cries.

"Watch your tongue, boy," Winston retorts. "We don't allow that kind of talk here!"

"You mean you all take up for queers? Shit. Anybody can tell he don't belong here."

"You may be the one that doesn't belong here," Winston replies. "What's your name and cabin?"

"Patrick Harwood. Cherokee. As if that's any of your fucking business."

"It's very much my business, Pat, and you must not have been listening when Mr. Partridge talked about bullying last night. Keep talking like that and you'll be sent down. Believe me."

"Nobody's sending me anyplace. My dad's a U. S. Senator."

"Your dad could be the fucking President, and it wouldn't make any difference to Mr. Partridge.

"And Blake, go ahead. Give it one more try."

This time the youngster manages to stay underwater longer than the required forty seconds.

"Good boy," yells Winston. "You've finally qualified."

There are shouts of encouragement all round. Blake looks like he just won a marathon.

"Harwood, you go to the end of the line," Winston orders. "Next up."

"I'm not going anywhere!" Harwood yells. At fifteen, like many sons of privilege, he feels his shit doesn't stink and he can get away with anything.

"Suit yourself," Winston snaps. "Stand there and wait for the end of the line to catch up, but I'm telling you, it gets longer every minute. Next up."

Harwood is still waiting when twelve o'clock comes around and numbers are handed out to those still in line. Qualifications will continue after the noon meal.

Winston discusses what has happened with the Cherokee Senior Counsellor, William Stanton. "Yeah, he's a problem all right," Winston is told. "Everybody already hates him."

During quiet time after the meal Eric Crawford sees Mark Tidwell in the common area. "Wait a couple of minutes, then follow me," Eric commands.

He heads up a trail leading away from the compound.

Mark wanders about thirty yards into the forest. He passes a large clump of brambles, when he hears Eric's voice. "In here."

Mark scratches his bare shoulders on the briers before reaching the open space inside the brier patch. There he sees Eric, hands on his hips, his well-worn cutoffs clinging to his bod, his already hard prong tenting into what is left of his 501s. Eric grabs himself and says, "You still want this thing up your ass, kid?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then strip."

Eric unbuttons and let his "loincloth" fall to the ground around his ankles. His tool seems even bigger in the daylight than it had the night before. Mark unzips. They are both naked and hard.

Yes, Winston has said there was to be no nudity in public, but there are places all around the camp like this one, where campers in the know can smoke or fuck.

Eric urges Mark to slobber all over his dick. He spits into Mark's hole and opens it as best he can.

"This is goanna hurt like hell," Eric warns.

"I want you up my ass," Mark responds.

Eric has the thrill of taking another virgin, Mark the thrill of being taken by his new hero. Eric is gentle, slowly sliding the full length of his big tool into the younger boy. Soon the pain is gone and Mark moans with pleasure on each of Eric's thrusts.

" like that...don't cha? Ain't nothin' that feels better than a dick in your ass...unless it's your dick in somebody else's ass," Eric pants.

He begins to pound harder and faster until he drops his load up Mark's chute and pulls out. "You wanna taste my meat after it's been inside you?" he asks.

Mark gladly completes his initiation.

Copyright 2015 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.