Date: Thu, 23 Feb 2017 20:03:22 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 14

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is
against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if
you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to
Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

Jim and Karl spoke in unison, and I almost died when I heard them. "You
can't lose us, Patrick." Jim went on. "You couldn't lose us if you tried."

*****
Canvas Hell 14: 1 Thessalonians 4:17

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery; kissing; frottage; masturbation; love

I just sat for a minute, panting, eyes wide. My heart was trying to burst
with love for these two and simultaneously shrivel at the thought of what
must come next. I was a study in such contradictions. My mouth was as dry
as a desert and my palms and armpits streamed with sweat. My heartbeat was
insanely fast and my breathing was a series of deep, slow shuddering
inhalations. My face was blazing hot and my spine tingled with cold. Most
of all, my brains raced with... nothing. I was as if my thoughts were
moving too quickly for me to catch any sense of their meaning.

I finally realised that I'd been sitting there for hours when Karl and Jim
had only had perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats. I sucked in a deep breath and
found that, after the monumental effort that I'd worked up to the prior
string of nervous chatter, my voice was steady. Either they were true and
what I was about to say would *not* destroy me, or they were false and all
I could lose was the *mirage* of their false and meaningless friendship.

"Karl, I have w-wanted to be near you, to see you, even hoped to touch you
since that first night when you said what you said. I wanted to comfort you
and hold you, and I knew it could never be." Karl simply stared, wide-eyed.

"And Jim, when you t-touched me, when you as-asked me to touch you, it was
the single g-greatest thing in my life. That is what has scared me, both of
you. Yes, I'm always scared, always afraid, have been forever. But the
thought of telling you th-that and losing any chance just by saying the
words, it's been ripping me apart."

Jim stood, a slim and small frame containing more strength than a mighty
army, came to me and hugged me tight. "It scares me, too, Patrick. I think
it would scare anyone. It's just that you're brave enough to keep something
so powerful and dangerous inside, willing to tear yourself up just so me
and Karl wouldn't be, I dunno, uncomfortable. You know that's brave, right?
Really, *really* stupid... but brave."

Karl swam in my tear-filled vision, but he moved to us as well. He didn't
hug me or Jim, but put a hard and heavy hand on each shoulder. "I, I, um, I
don't know what I feel, Patrick. I was so, so scared and worried about what
it meant to me, how I felt when you k-k-kissed me. Then I realised you were
shredding your own insides and that about killed me, seeing that. I, um, I
really don't know about the, you know, touching and such. But I know you to
are the more courageous people I've known si-since my, m-my Dad." With
that, he finally collapsed into our hug.

I swayed, floating, a balloon tethered to the ground by friendship, relief,
release and self-recrimination for hiding this from the two people who
meant more to me that my own family. Kept it from them and refused to
accept their needs to help me. Refused to admit that I, maybe, couldn't
handle something on my own. That maybe, just maybe, my greatest secret was
little more than a detail of who I really was.

Jim, my ultimate guru, brought us back. He snuffled a bit (he'd not been
the only one choked up, just the first to speak) and said, "We have to
learn the rest of that song. I'll die of shame if the only voices that come
out in our verse is Orson," giving the lad's name about sixteen syllables
each in a different key.

We laughed ourselves back to normal, a made a leisurely way back to Camp
Sin. By the sun, I figured we had an hour before the triangle would ring
for dinner, so the three of us took a circuitous 'behind the hill' route,
finding wonders and surprises at every turn. It was an afternoon of giggles
and comradery and shouts and secrets and laughter and... and everything
that boyhood memories should really be.

We were nearly back to camp when the dinner bell rang. Tonight's festival
of horrors was... special. Top item was green peppers steamed into
submission after being stuffed with a greasy meteorite of beef and rice,
served with a watery sauce of garlic, tomato and sadness. Next up Swiss
Steak, thin pieces of beaten and abused... 'meat?' in another reddish,
suspiciously-chunky sauce. We decided it was 'Swiss' because one would need
each and every implement on a Swiss Army Knife to consume it. Last was the
cold option, a pasta salad chock full of veggies and beans and swimming in
an oily sludge. Don't worry, it was far worse than it sounded.

Since we hadn't been as early as normal, virtually all of the fruits (and
none of the entrees) were gone when we got there. After a spirited
scramble, Jim came up with two apples and a banana and Karl was relegated
to dubious strawberries and an orange. I decided that today would be a good
fast day, and decided milk and bread (actually, rather nice hard rolls; I
don't think they were *meant* to be hard, but whatever) were my best
options.

We arrived at the fire-ring at Cabin 4 to a real surprise. Taking the
initiative and capitalising on the night's menu, the leaders had devised a
cunningly-evil incentive plan. They had a couple packages of actual hot
dogs! With BUNS! Whichever team was smoothest and clearest in our last
practice got FOOD.

We resorted to appropriate, healthy team behaviour in the best tradition of
teen comradery to ensure victory. The first person to forget their line,
get of rhythm, muff the handoff, break their voice or fade into the
background (the last two pointed glaringly at Orson and Willie) would be
ostracised, shunned and would live their life in utter and complete
disgrace for all eternity. We wanted the FOOD.

And the entire group was simply splendid. It honestly sounded like a
professional singing group. And this is when their evil genius paid
off. The leaders declared a five-way tie, and a shout of joy went up that
scared small game for several miles around. The leaders, smartly, stepped
well back from the cooler to avoid the carnage as twenty-five starving,
slavering teens descended on the cooler like the pack of uncivilised wild
beasts that we quite honestly were. Sticks and skewers were brought to the
fray and sizzling noises erupted as hot dog juice and boy-drool dripped
equally onto the coals. Ketchup and mustard magically appeared just as the
crispy (often incinerated) wienies came off.

We found out the next day that every Cabin had been thus supplied and my
estimation of Major Bachgen soared. I have never, before nor since, seen
teens played so masterfully. It is almost as if the Dinner of Death was a
setup to achieve the level of blissful repletion in which all of us basked
that starlit night.

The day had been a long one for all three of us. The tight tension of
separate breakfasts had wrong-footed us from the start. Jim's work at the
Hygiene Hut and Kitchen had been as gruelling as my
snake-and-centipede-haunted work, and Karl thought his back might never
straighten after litter patrol. The horrific tension in the tent between
that and lunch, then the Pepper Chihuahua and the long walk to the dell
where I nearly broke, which in turn nearly broke both of my friends. The
resulting catharsis and release and beautiful walk back. The unspeakable
horror of dinner, the singing and the utter elation of the hot dogs.

We got back to Tent Canvas Hell and all three of us sat for a minute,
staring out into the woods. Jim literally fell asleep and slumped into
Karl, so we bundled him into his bag, waking him up enough that he could
undress, and Karl and I were both fast asleep ourselves before we knew it.

As I drifted to slumber, a strange thought flitted across my mind. No
tears, fears, doubts, stresses or pain marred this night. Just warm, smoky
friends and soft, quiet night-time. And it was with that thought that I
slept.

I don't know what woke me. It was not yet light at all, perhaps a timid
glow to the East, but just as possibly an illusion. Jim laid, half out of
his sack, curled like sleepy hedgehog and just as peaceful. One of Karl's
thick, strong arms was flung behind his head and the other lay alongside
him. I laid there for the longest time with only a single word forming and
reforming in my mind: Friends.

I got up to relieve myself and realised that I could never get back to
sleep. I silently pulled on my trainers and yesterday's jeans and
over-shirt as the morn was foggy and had the slightest chill. I crossed the
camp and headed the way I'd not yet explored, to the upstream bridge of
land that connected Camp Sinnemahoning to the rest of Pennsylvania. The
river here was a bit wider and utterly silent. I watched ghosts and haints
of mist dance across the surface, tugged perhaps by the currents, or
perhaps by the sheer luxuriance of the dance.

Across the river, something too small to really make out but big enough to
notice came down to wash in the water. Racoon, I guessed. I got a glimpse
of soft brown and heard rustling to the other side, but never actually saw
what I guessed to be a small family of deer on the nearer bank. I thought
to the day before, my opening up to Jim and Karl. My confession, if you
will, and their absolution of me. I pulled in a deep breath of the damp
morning air, and blew out my breath in a long, soft stream. Guilt, fear and
self-loathing flowed out with it. I felt something that I'd learned in
catechism since I was old enough to go to CCD, but never really understood
or imagined: benediction, the true absolution that comes directly from
God's love.

I turned and walked back toward camp as the sun rose and the mist-ghosts
slowly fled to the banks to hide in the shadows before being consumed by
the dawn. I got back to Tent Canvas Hell just as Jim was stirring, which
woke Karl. After watering the trees, we gathered our morning kit and went
for the showers -- early, but not so bad as to preceded the warm
water. Clean, refreshed and well-rested, we wandered for a few minutes
before heading to the Mess Hall just as the triangle pealed.

Something was seriously wrong. All three of us could sense it instantly. In
the first tray were small pink slices of ham in a coffee-coloured gravy
(Red Eye, I'd learn to call it). Next were fluffy omelettes stuffed with
cheese. Grilled tomato slices were in a half-tray opposite a white porridge
none of us had heard of, something called grits. A little sign suggested
butter and salt instead of our assumption of milk and sugar. It was then
that we noticed that line and kitchen were staffed by Lloyd Dean and George
the Activities Master, assisted by a half-dozen leaders.

George winked and nodded to a partially-hidden niche where two cups of
steaming black 'milk' awaited me and Karl. By the time we got into line for
seconds, the Mess Hall was ringing with utterly-alien sounds like laughter,
Mmmms and Ahhhhs. Whispered rumours flew that Chef had (a) died of food
poisoning after eating his own food, (b) been attacked by his own utensils
in retribution for what he'd forced them to do and/or (c) hauled away by
the Department of Agriculture for Crimes again Foodmanity.

Major Bachgen stood and told us that Sunday was Chef's day off each week,
and he was polite enough to frown and tsk at the applause this evoked. When
he acknowledged the efforts of Lloyd and George, most of the boys would
have happily signed on to follow them to the gates of Mordor and a rousing
cheer went up.

The triangle sounded and the Major announced that religious services would
be held at the central Fire Ring in ten minutes. Jim and I headed there,
but a sombre-faced Karl strode off in the opposite direction.

I was a Roman Catholic and Jim was Episcopalian -- something we decided was
basically Catholic-sans-Pope but with nicer robes and fewer sins. The
service, therefore, left us both with a puckered half-frown. It was
something relatively new to the 70s, the Chinese Menu approach to
Christianity intended to offend no one without actually saying anything
whatsoever. You left wondering vaguely if the "minister" believed in God at
all, or just wanted to sing about rainbows and Fatherly Love. In a way, it
was like biting into a candy expecting the harsh but satisfying burst of
liquorice and instead getting the bland sweetness of stale marshmallow.

Once the service either ended or died a lingering and befuddled death (the
minster pretty well made it clear that either was an option), Jim and I
returned to Tent Canvas Hell. Karl was there, absorbed in a map and his
compass. Sunday was technically a free day, but they organised larger
events and expeditions on Sunday as well. Karl had immediately signed up
for a long "blind march" around the peninsula. Jim and I had hemmed and
hawed until pretty much everything was taken. There was the "strenuous
hike" still open, which appeared to be an opportunity for gruelling
self-torture. Another was an archery competition; Jim and I just laughed at
the thought.

We decided to join Karl as "unofficial" hikers -- after we all three
grabbed the heavy, luscious box lunches prepared by Lloyd and George --
with the stated agreement that we'd bail if we got bored, tired or
completely lost. Karl huffed quite a bit at the last option, feeling his
manhood had clearly been impugned. We actually stuck with him for over an
hour before we came into a stunning clearing on the "back" of the Camp,
bright grass and a shingle-shore along the preternaturally-smooth
water. Karl went on with his team and Jim and I started to skip the flat
shale-rock across the surface. I helped Jim with his power and he helped me
with my angle of attack until we were both able to skim the stones nearly
across the entire span of water.

It was a bit past noon and the sun had gotten hot, so Jim and I found a
shaded bower where erosion had turned a towering tree's massive roots into
convenient benches and left the interstices carpeted with a soft, resilient
moss. A jay popped up, apparently well-trained on the meaning of the white
paper boxes and added the entertainment to lunch as he kept trying to find
ways to snatch up or make us drop tempting morsels. He was a determined
fellow, but Jim and I were resolute in our desire to finish off the
absolutely scrumptious sandwiches, roast beef with a pungent onion and
horseradish sauce that we both loved (and regretted a little later).

We finished and satisfied the jay that every crumb was, indeed,
inaccessible and he left in huff.  We sank down to the cool moss, using the
roots now as sofa-backs, and started to chat about Hershey and our mundane
lives. I was green with envy when I found out that Jim had gotten a Pong
console for Christmas and we spent an enjoyable hour probing every
conceivable facet of the game that turned a boring TV into your very own
arcade.

Our lunch jay, or perhaps a friend, flew screaming over our heads as we
exhausted the subject and we started to talk about what might have scared
him, or what might have set him in hot pursuit. That got us to cop TV and
from there we laughed our way through shows and movies. It was probably
around two when Jim just went quiet, looking at me, head cocked to one side
and slight smile on his face.

In true teen fashion, I immediately brushed off my face, ran a hand through
my hair and checked shirt and short pants for signs of lunch spillage or
other potential social gaffes. "What?"

"Nothing. You. The difference between, you know, yesterday and now."

I blushed and stammered, mortified, then suddenly relaxed and looked back
at him. He was still smiling slightly, and I gave a tentative one in
return. "Am I, you know, better now?"

"Yeah, you laughed and just, I dunno, talked. I still can't believe I'm
lucky enough to have you as a friend, Patrick." He looked shyly down.

Him? Lucky? "But Jim, I'm just nobody; you're, I mean, beautiful!" I
stopped, shocked, horror writ large across my face. Jim finally looked up,
smile gone and I knew I'd blown it.

"Am I? Why? Patrick, you're a *junior*. You're older and tall and smart and
can do everything you try. And you're brave and you really care about
people. I'm just... me. Why would you? I mean?" His voice trailed away and
he looked down again.

I leant forward toward Jim and grabbed his hand. "I don't care what it
makes me, Jim, or what God or anyone else thinks. I have to say this and
you can hate me if you want. I think you are the most beautiful, wonderful
person I've ever met. You're, y-you're perfect, Jim."

His eyes met mine and got big. His lips parted slightly and I melted into
him. I felt his arms coil around my neck as mine locked around his back and
I kissed him like I'd always wanted by never knew I'd wanted to do.

Thursday had been a kiss of fear and desperation, on both of our parts. The
need had been hard and burning. Today it was more intense but less
hard-edged. This was the first kiss of unadulterated love I ever knew, and
the one I treasure above all others in my life, even from this far
remove. There was need and even hunger, sure, but it was not the need to
conquer or to prove or to snatch a moment of desperately-needed
contact. This was a kiss where my entire universe was focused on making Jim
feel as special and wonderful as I knew him to be.

It was also a kiss overwhelmed with onions and horseradish. I know that's
downer, but how can you taste it and NOT think how horrible your own breath
and tongue must taste? I prayed to Gods that I actually invented to make
sure that Jim couldn't taste it. I assumed that he was doing the same in
reverse.

My hands roved his back and his pulled my head deeper and deeper into the
kiss. I felt wetness between our faces and didn't know which of us were
crying (it was both). We pulled back, neither seeming to initiate the move
but both cooperating in it. We simply stared into each other's eyes, his
glowing in the blue of a deep, sparkling pool. I don't think I had really
studied the eyes of another person before. I knew that my mom's were
'bright' and Karl's were 'dark', but Jim's eyes held entire universes,
including the one in which beat my own heart.

I cannot guess what he saw in mine. I knew that my eyes were some sort of
nondescript hazel with green and gold in there, but expressive? Deep?
Infinite? Interesting? Never.

Jim closed his own and pulled himself up and into me again, and we melted
and flowed into each other. It was as if our bodies were mere shells
holding our true selves, and the latter had decided that the shells were
simply no longer relevant. I could feel but ignored his sharp elbows, gaunt
shoulders and hard hipbones. Jim burrowed into me, demanding contact at
every possible point. Years, decades, centuries sped along; I could not
manage to care. I was where I needed to be.

Lifetimes later, Jim pulled back. His eyes shone in a way I'd never seen in
any person, not even on movies. He pushed his hands between up and
whisper-shouted, "I'm sorry Patrick, I can't...!" His delicate and small
hands gripped my shirt and literally ripped apart, buttons flying. I sat in
stunned amazement as he flung his own shirt and t-shirt off in a single
movement and attacked my own undershirt. I finally 'got it' enough to
assist and our chests were suddenly rubbing against each other.

I moaned into a kiss I don't even know which of us initiated. I felt him
whine when my hands pried between us so I could pet his nipples, something
I'd prayed for since I first saw them, perky and taut under his shirt after
our epic orgasms. A massive whimper of high-pitched need suffused the
bower. I realised it was my own voice as Jim had found my own desperate,
hard, throbbing nips.

Suddenly and without preliminaries, like a spell of the forbidden Morgana,
our pants were simply... gone, our kiss unbroken and our need
undiminished. I pulled Jim to me and felt his cock slide across my belly
and mine between his thighs as he crouched there. Jim's hand left my nipple
and reached behind him, bucking a bit and abruptly forcing my throbbing
erection up his back as I thrust and his small hand teased the head. I
whinnied like a colt, whimpering again into Jim's demanding mouth.

I reached down and grabbed his balls in one hand and dick in the other. As
he'd done for me, I drank down his squeal of need and pleasure. We writhed
against each other, never breaking the kiss, desperate to bring the other
pleasure whilst ignoring and dismissing our own. I wanted this to last my
entire life, to bring Jim this pleasure, irregardless of whether I ever
came again in my life. His squeaks and moans were the only stimulation or
reward I would ever need or want.

That was, sadly, not within the biology of teenaged boys. Our voices rose,
rose again, redoubling each time we independently decided to ensure the
other exploded first. We were both determined, resolute, resolved to push
the other to the pinnacle of pleasure before exploding ourselves. We
both... failed.

We climaxed together, inventing and discovering this intense and forbidden
pleasure together. NO ONE could have ever known about this. NO ONE could
have experienced this. NO ONE could have had what we had, and given to each
other, because if they had, they never would have left each other's
arms. This was Patrickjim, Jimpatrick, something unique and special to
us. Otherwise, people would be crying from every rooftop, proclaiming in
every square, expostulating in every cathedral. It was... divine in a way
that no priest, deacon or minister could ever define or constrain. It
was... us. Holy, sacred, ours.

<eof>

Note on chapter title: 1 Thessalonians 4:17 is the (controversial)
scriptural basis of all sects that believe in The Rapture.

Please let me know what you think. Your comments (praise or polite
criticism) are the only way I will become a better author. Also, let me
know what other themes excite or intrigue you. I have a number of fantasies
'on the shelf' and am unsure which to 'deploy'.

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 16 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 14 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 6 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 4 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Turntable Rehab: 5 chapter .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/

New One-Off: .../historical/that-lion