Date: Sun, 9 Apr 2017 16:51:27 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 20

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.

*****

"None of us can sleep. We all know why. What do we do about it?"

Jim's voice was strained and high, "I don't know, but I'm dying."

*****
Canvas Hell 20: To Compare & Contrast

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery; masturbation; mutual masturbation;

As expected, I said nothing, paralysed with fear. My two tentmates just
announced their apparent horniness right when my own dick was about to snap
off.

Jim turned to me. "Patrick, if you just freeze like that, you know Karl is
never going to say anything. Either admit you're boned or leave,
please. I'm about to explode over here."

I laughed, a single mortified bark. "Yes. Me too. Now what?"

Karl's voice, "Well, I know for true that both of you know how to jack off,
and know that I do it. Let's just take care of business and skip the
awkward silence part, okay?"

I look over. Karl is staring straight up to the slightly-luminous
canvas. Jim is just staring at me. I sighed and said, "I'm in. Jim?"

Jim didn't answer, but a sudden fap-fap-fap made his vote pretty obvious. I
freed my own raging boner and started to tug, highly distracted and a bit
less hard that I expected. I looked over. For the first time, I got a
relatively-clear view of what Karl was packing and my dick flagged in
inferiority then popped HARD in interest.

Jim's dick seemed really big to me. Karl's? It was like a tree branch had
popped up. I could see it in profile since the moon shone on that side of
the tent and the canvas glowed. I watched his small, strong hand go to the
tip and diddle, then stroke the shaft several times, then back to the
tip. I was mesmerised. My own stroking is an absent-minded teasing as I
watched, cock practically spewing dogwater.

Suddenly, my trance is shattered. Jim grabs my hand in his and drags it to
his erection and I begin to stroke him even as I watch Karl. I can't wrench
my eyes away, I just can't. I feel Jim start to tense and he puts a sock
over the end and begins to erupt, making some small, adorable squeals as he
spews under my ministration. His noises make Karl moan and speed up. Jim
moves my hand back to my dick and I start to flog my log.

I watch Karl getting closer and closer and he suddenly reached over his
head and grabs The Bandana and shoved it into his mouth. As he did, Jim's
agile fingers attacked my balls and the space behind and I whined
piteously. That sound appears to be all Karl needed and He exploded. Even
in the dim, silhouette-style view, I could see his cum volcano spew his
creamy lava across the landscape of his belly.

With each eruption, his hips launched toward the stars as he arced his back
in tetanic ecstasy. As he recharged, his ass hit the mattress hard enough
to shake the tent before lunging upward again. He was stifled-screaming
into the bandana, whimpering and straining with each spasm. When he finally
subsided, he sounded like he was actually sobbing to get his breath
back. He pulled the bandana out and began to wipe away his mess.

Suddenly, my own desperate need butted in and Jim's teasing hands sent me
into orbit. I've always been a quiet cummer (for reasons of parental
self-preservation), but now I found that I cannot stifle a loud squeak with
each jet of cum. I noticed that Jim's hand is over my dick, each loud
SPLAAAAATs followed by a noise as the cum-shots rained down on my
crotch. As soon as I tapered even a little, Jim began to chuff hard and I
hear the tell-tale uhn-uhn-UHN! that signified a second orgasm into the
sock he never had removed.

"Fuck. You guys are the hottest people on this planet. Thank you thank you
th..." it became a whisper then nothing then snores. Jim was out. I looked
over and saw that Karl was watching me clean up as he finished his own
repairs.

I didn't have any idea what to say, but couldn't just leave it. "Um? Jim
was right. Thank you, Karl, thank you." I was suddenly in dreamland d with
that phrase driving the action. I was walking down a line of people, all
naked, all guys, thanking each in turn for... who knows what.

We all awoke early, as usual. I was first out to water the beeches and Jim
joined me, dick half-hard as he whizzed onto the trunk (I was still
watering the lower branches). Karl stumbled to the other side and we both
heard his firehose let loose, and shared a sly smile. We reconvened, Karl
smiling shyly at both of us, and we hit the Hygiene Hut well ahead of the
crowd. As a matter of fact, the few guys left just after we started,
leaving the three of us alone in the showers. For the first time in my
life, I actually looked at other men naked.

Karl was across from me and Jim next to him, and I let my eyes rove
each. Jim was a Shakespearian Puck; Robin Goodfellow made flesh. Slightly
turned-up nose and sparse body hair, but the most mischievous smile. He was
so smooth and luscious with the trace of baby-fat remaining under the
skin. It set everything within me afire. The rather large endowment only
added to the appeal, but it was the soul within that set me on a course to
doom.

Karl could not be more different. He was actually the same height as Jim,
but out-massed the younger by almost double with Karl's
musculature. Borrowing terms that didn't exist then, Karl was not 'ripped'
or 'stacked', instead, he was the masculine ideal writ small, with ample
hair and curves... everywhere. His soft-furred ass, as it had before, made
me gasp. I got my first look at his, well, boy bits when he turned. I met
his gaze and he smiled, so I went back to looking. His soft member was
nearly as long as mine was hard and it was thicker to boot. His balls were
nestled in a thick forest of hair, but were, if anything, smaller than mine
so a small sliver of manly pride remained.

I nearly wept as I looked at the two of them. I was a scrawny, too-tall,
too-gawky, too-everything kid. That unshakable certainty that these two
perfect creatures -- men perfect in body, spirit and soul -- needed to be
together struck me. I turned back to the wall and rinsed, feeling tears
prickle the corners of my eyes. A sharp and painful SMACK on the back of my
head spun me around.

Jim was there, eyes narrowed and hands on hips. "If you ever think that
again, Patrick -- ever ONCE think that -- I will chew your nuts off when
you sleep. Do. You. Get. Me. Patrick?"

I looked, wide-eyed and stunned to Karl who just shrugged with a 'can't
help ya' grin. I looked back at the fierce and intimidating face over a
foot below my own and simply nodded.

"Good." Patrick turned and both Karl and I watched is some amount of awe as
he marched out and began to dry himself. We both followed sheepishly.

Breakfast was a... strange affair. The food made lingering at the table a
survival threat -- the miasma lurching forth from the Corned Beef {we
thought 'Horse' was more likely} Hash was like a living thing ready to
sneak up and throttle the unsuspecting. But it was also one of the most
comfortable breakfasts so far. Jim chattered and chirped through the meal
and Karl and I were neither beaming nor scowling, just content. Our flight
from the existential threat of Chef's culinary crimes meant we were
extremely early to the dock. Two of the Leaders were already there, far
ahead of Sea, and authorised us to board our three-man but stay close for
the instructions.

We paddled about a little, just 'noodling' as we called it. There were four
other boats on the water when Sea arrived, shortly followed by the other
guys. Today was free-float. We were given rods, reels, a tacklebox and a
choice of bait. We got shrimp for Jim; Karl and I would use lures. Sea told
us the there was a Leader in a kayak well up- and down-stream and we could
do whatever we wanted between those extremes. That left us the chance to
canoe, race others, fish in any type of water or just mess about. He and
the Leaders would announce when we had to return.

We headed upstream and, thanks to Karl the Outboard Motor, soon were alone
on the river. We had passed a creek, perhaps a fork, on our previous trips
and decided to explore it. Perhaps a hundred yard later we crossed under a
bridge and, just past, found a wide and sheltered section. Apparently, the
creek used to split around what had been an island. The air was warm and
still today, and the area was alive with birds feasting on the insects that
had colonised the former-island that served as a driftwood-collection
filter for the river system.

We threw out the plumb-bob anchor (basically a rope with a big metal weight
shaped like the baby-toy on which you stack donut-shaped rings). Jim
performed his ritual shrimp-sacrifice to the Gods of Fishing and Karl and I
started to cast our lures. We made an agreement that we wouldn't keep
anything unless it was the creek equivalent of Moby Dick and just set into
a nice, if sweaty, fishing experience.

Perhaps 20 minutes went past in quiet contemplation, which must have been
silently killing poor Jim. Karl pulled in a small trout that fought like
the devil. Jim caught a short but immensely-plump thing that I guessed had
to be some sort of bass. Apparently, the birds were not the only things
getting fat on the insects on the little brush-island.

I got... perhaps the most perfect morning of my life. I cast to keep up the
illusion of fishing, but what I caught were glimpses of my two best friends
in a moment of simple, relaxed, tension-free and unpretentious... life. It
was a blessing that I cherish to this day. Some things, like the older boys
or even Karl in the shower would fuel one-fisted-fantasies for years. There
was nothing sexual here, though, just memories of a purity of spirit that
would carry me through some of the darkest times of my adult life.

We heard a loud whistle and moved back to the main watercourse. Turns out
that it wasn't from a Leader but from something on shore, perhaps a farmer
with dogs or a kid out playing. We passed a couple of two-man canoes racing
each other, boys laughing and teasing as they pushed upstream, so we knew
we will had time. Jim was determined to murder as many shrimp as possible,
so Karl and I took turns paddling and fishing. We were only one turn from
the dock when Sea's deep and penetrating voice shook through the
largely-still water; we could see the ripples of its passage. We were
perhaps the third canoe to unload.

Sea gave us a very careful and appraising look as we unloaded. It was
perfectly clear that he was still extremely wary of the "handthumb"
incident when what I'd said had left Jim in tears. Sea was clearly going to
make damn sure that Jim did not have another "accidental injury" of that
type. Jim irrepressible and effervescent demeanour apparently passed
muster. He nodded to us as we headed to Tent Canvas Hell.

We were sweaty and probably stunk, but since we'd all been the same kind of
hot, none of us really noticed. Well, the other two didn't. Any time Karl
or Jim got near, my nostrils flared in a bid to trap a few more scent
molecules that went straight to my dick. I was becoming a connoisseur of
their scents. Karl's musky tang, redolent of power and earth. Jim's sharp
spice and almost-sweet, spring-green scent the essence of youthful
exuberance. Me, I just stunk.

We lounged until the triangle rang for lunch. Today offered something new
and unexpected (and edible). Ham or Turkey sandwiches that had been
griddled like a grilled cheese. Pretty tasty actually, and we wondered if
Chef had taken ill. That was until we saw the accompanying
soup. Apparently, all of his culinary vindictiveness had been channelled
there. It appeared to be sauerkraut and white beans in a ketchup broth. It
was labelled 'Minestrone' to the vocal abhorrence of those boys of Italian
descent.

Leatherworking was a blast, as we began the decorating phase of the
project. Jim's spike-pestle flower was turning out nice and my Escheresque
abstract angles were looking great. Karl sat for about ten minutes, staring
with his head cocked one way or the other, considering each of the tools
and waving off any offer of assistance. Suddenly, he started to work with a
tool like a dental-pick with a curved, sharp end. When the class wrapped,
the Leader passed out the laces we'd use over the weened to finish up, and
punching the snap-clip into the ends.

Karl had his in his pocket before either of us could see the design. Jim
went off to Wilderness Survival and Karl and I looked at each
other. "Reading, maybe?" ask my tentmate of few words. I nodded and we
headed back to Tent Canvas Hell.

This was my second straight Free Period of reading, and it could not be
more different. I had finished Jonathan Livingston Seagull when reading
with Jim the day before and pulled another tome out, Doorways in the Sand
by a perineal favourite, Roger Zelazny. I looked over and was a bit taken
aback. Karl was reading one of the more challenging books I knew, and I'd
read it only a couple years earlier: The Beast that Shouted Love at the
Heart of the World. Harlan Ellison, the author, also wrote 'City of the
Edge of Forever', one of my three favourite Star Trek episodes. His stuff
is... dense, and deep. One of the stories, 'Shattered like a Green Glass
Goblin [ED: Shattered like a Glass Goblin] still gave me bad dreams.

So why so different a day? Well, for one thing, Karl and I weren't rubbing
legs and giggling. For another, I found that I couldn't concentrate on my
book at all. I found Karl... enthralling.

Karl's face came alive as he read. Brow furrowing or smoothing; lips
pursing or frowning or smirking; eyes slitted or wide or askance. That
impenetrable mask he wore was there in some ineffable way, but it was no
longer opaque. I was 'meeting' Karl for the first time as Ellison bombarded
him with ideas, complex phrasing and raw emotions.

The morning's head-smack came back to me as I found myself wondering why
Jim bothered with me when this utterly-amazing, complex, beautiful and
fragile man was a hand's-breadth away. Thoughts of Jim left me fluttery and
breathless and high, desperate to be with him, looking, holding hands,
talking (well, listening; any conversation with Jim tends toward
monologue). Karl was the opposite. I wasn't breathless and fluttery, but
hungry and itchy. I felt a fire, a burning need to touch instead of a
desperation to be 'just close'. Most of all, I didn't want to hold hands; I
wanted to run my hands over him and have him do the same to me, his hard,
strong, furred paws finding their way to...

When the Triangle pealed, I jerked like I'd been shocked. Karl looked over
with a raised eyebrow and I muttered something about an ant bite, trying to
think of wrinkled nun sex and puppies drowning to get my throbbing boner to
go down before I had to stand. By the time Jim arrived, I was just
miserably-chubbed, a condition considered social awkward but not actually
fatal in Boy Code of Conduct.

Dinner was nothing short of a torment. Thoughts of Karl and Jim jumped back
and forth, leaving me almost seasick with the constant shift in
utterly-conflicting emotions, desires and needs. Apparently, there was
food. I honestly don't recall. Singing practice was a complete train wreck
as, for the first time, we tried to put the entire thing together. I longed
for a dental emergency; anything would be preferable to that.

Night was a long and utterly-painful ordeal for me. Sleep eluded me
completely, as if it were a far-off country I'd once heard of but never
actually seen. Jim's embrace, Karl's kiss; vague, dreamy images of spending
sexual time with Jim, hard and specific images of rutting with Karl. Every
fantasy and its resultant horrible calamity played out, my humiliation
inescapably assured at every pass. Each pleasure and happiness overwhelmed
by an inevitable future pain and loss. Tent Canvas Hell had regained full
title to its name.

*****
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 20 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 11 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 12 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 6 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 5 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 1 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/