All standard disclaimers apply.

All characters in the following story are entirely fictional. And any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental.

The author does not condone the actions in the story. A strict line must be maintained between fantasy and reality. It is morally neutral to fantasize or read about minors engaging in sexual activity, providing the fantasy or story is entirely fictional. In real life, adults and children should never engage in sexual activity under any circumstances.

In the real world, no one under the age of eighteen--or whatever the age of majority in your area happens to be--should be having sex. In the author's view, few people under the age of twenty-one are mature enough for sex.

If you are seriously considering having sex with a minor, please read no further. Instead, seek immediate help from a trained and licensed professional.

Remember to keep your fantasy life and your real life very separate!

This story may not be reproduced without the consent of the author.

The author may be contacted at: RaziHaze (at) Hushmail (dot) com.





"Robert Appleby . . . ?" the counselor at the front of the bus began roll call.

"It's `Bobby,'" replied a boy, about thirteen-years-old.

There were about thirty boys on the packed bus. All of them between the ages of ten and fourteen. Chance sat near the back, looking out the window.

The counselor smiled. ". . . Michael Donoghue . . . ?"

"Present!" A ten-year-old boy shouted.

". . . Milo Hester-Morgan . . . ?"

"`Sup?" Milo replied from the seat directly behind Chance.

Chance took a deep breath and stood up. He walked toward Milo and took the empty seat next to him. "Hey," Chance greeted the other boy.

"Hey!" Milo grinned and winked at Chance. "I'm Milo."

"I'm Chance." the boy bit his lower lip. "My social worker said y--you're a nice guy."

"Well, I hope she's right!" Milo stuck his tongue out playfully. "Is this your first summer at Camp Ozland?"

"It's my first summer in foster care," Chance replied.

"Well, you'll have a great time: I'll make sure of it!"

The counselor continued to rattle off names. ". . . Jackson Poe . . . ?"

"Here!" Jackson raised his hand.

"Great," the counselor said. "Wesley Rhodes . . . ?"

Wesley's hand shot up. "Present." He yawned.

The counselor, Hank "the Tank" Freeman, was a very tall and muscular black man in his mid-thirties. He had a five-o'clock shadow and a sleeve of white tattoos running down his right arm.

"Do you think Tank works out a lot?" Milo asked Chance, pointing at the counselor.

"Probably," Chance replied. "I mean, look at his muscles!"

Milo giggled. "I think his bicep is bigger than my head!"

Chance chuckled.

". . . Chance Vanessa . . . ?" Tank called out.

Chance raised his hand. "I'm here!"

". . . Caden Vitale . . . ?" Tank continued.

Another boy, about twelve, raised his hand.

Tank looked at his list, ". . . and, Tyler Wilson . . . ?"

Tyler raised his hand and jerked his chin forward.

"That's everyone," Tank said. He motioned to the bus driver. "Let's head out."


"So, how old are you?" Milo asked about halfway through the bus ride.

"Actually," Chance began, "my birthday was two days ago. I'm twelve."

"No shit!" Milo giggled. "I turned twelve last week!"

There was the sound of a toilet flushing and water running from a sink shortly before Wesley exited the bathroom at the end of the bus.

"Jacking off to the thought of boys in there, faggot?" Tyler shouted out.

Instead of a verbal reply, Wesley abruptly turned toward Tyler and punched him in the face. And, before Tyler could stand back up, Wesley pounced on him, pinning him and head-butting him.

Suddenly, something pulled Wesley backward. He landed on the floor and looked up to see Jackson standing over him.

Wesley snarled and stood up. He stared down Jackson for a moment, then launched himself at the other boy.

Jackson and Wesley began trading blows in the cramped aisle between bus seats.

Milo slid over Chance's lap, landed in the aisle, and ran toward the brawling duo. "Cut it out, you two!" Milo grabbed Wesley by the shoulders and attempted to pull him off of Jackson.

Chance, after a pause, followed Milo into the action. He snuck behind Milo and Wesley, positioning himself between Wesley and Jackson. Chance tried to push Jackson away but found Jackson pushing back.

Wesley and Jackson--their eyes still locked on one another--fought against Milo and Chance's efforts, and reached toward each other's throats. Nonetheless, Chance and Milo continued to try to break up their tussle.

The end result was all four boys rolling around on the floor of the moving bus: Wesley and Jackson each trying to hurt the other, and Chance and Milo just trying to end the fight.

The battle came to an end when Tank shouted, "Enough!"

All four boys looked up from the floor at the giant camp counselor.

"That's enough, all of you!" His voice boomed. "Get up! Now!"

The boys complied and began standing.

"Back of the bus, now!" He shouted, pointing toward an empty row in the back of the bus.

The four boys and the counselor approached the empty seats. The boys sat down.

"Fighting is against camp rules!" Tank yelled.

"We were just tr--" Chance tried to say.

"--I don't care," Tank interrupted. "The four of you are in big trouble. I'm this close to calling your social workers and foster parents."

"No!" Jackson and Wesley shouted almost in unison.

"Milo," Tank said. "You know where Nevia Cabin is?"

Milo nodded.

"The four of you, that's your cabin for the rest of the summer," Tank explained.

"The whole summer?" Wesley's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.

"Until I see that you're all getting along," Tank replied. "We clear?"

Milo nodded. The rest of the boys didn't reply.

"I said: `Are we clear?'" Tank repeated.

"Yes," the four boys said at the same time.

"Good." Tank stood up and walked back to his seat at the front of the bus.

Shortly afterward, Jackson and Wesley returned to their respective seats, and Milo and Chance returned to their bench.

"What's Nevia Cabin?" Chance asked, his voice shaking.

"It's a run-down cabin on the edge of the camp," Milo explained. "It's like a ten-minute walk from everything else: the cafeteria, the bonfire pit, the craft stations, the rest of the cabins." He turned and looked at Chance. "We're isolated. It's just Nevia Cabin, a disgusting old bathroom, and one of the counselor's cabins."

"Which counselor?" Chance asked.

Milo shrugged.


"I hope so," Milo replied.


An hour later, through the firs, oaks, and aspens of the Camp Ozland woods, the bus pulled up to a yet unlit bonfire. Thirty boys piled off the bus, each carrying duffel bags or other forms of luggage, with expressions ranging from excited to frustrated.

Tank and the other counselors had to shush and organize the boys a few times during their discussions of camp rules and routine. Breakfast was at 7:00 AM, lunch at 12:30 PM, and dinner at 6:00 PM in the cafeteria. The boys were required to shower once a day--in either the morning or the night--and brush their teeth twice per day. There was to be no bullying, teasing, "dissing," or excessively mean practical jokes. Laundry was done twice a week, and each boy had to put his dirty clothes in a bag with his name on it, and leave it in the corner of the cafeteria on Wednesdays and Sundays. Dessert was to be served in the form of s'mores around the bonfire--also on Wednesdays and Sundays--but only for the boys who had responsibly brought their laundry to the cafeteria. The boys were expected to do crafts and activities between breakfast and lunch and were given more free reign after lunch and until dinner.

In the area surrounding the bonfire were seven cabins: three for the counselors (with three beds each) and four for campers (with ten beds each). The boys were allowed to split themselves up among the campers' cabins as they saw fit. The result was two cabins with eight boys and two with seven. Chance, Wesley, Jackson, and Milo, of course, were still condemned to Nevia Cabin, and Tank decided to claim the counselor's cabin beside it.

The boys, for the most part, yawned their way through the counselors' repetition of Camp rules (when not ignoring the counselors and talking over them). While each of the other boys retreated to claim his own bed, Chance, Wesley, Jackson, and Milo--guided by Tank--walked fifteen minutes to the other side of the campgrounds and the isolated Nevia Cabin.

Nevia Cabin was in decent shape. It contained a collection of six beds with metal frames and old, rubber mattresses, and pretty much only that. There were a few maps and woodland decorations adorning the walls in between a handful of windows.

The building to the right of Nevia Cabin was an old bathroom with a gang shower and stall doors that wouldn't close.

To the left of Nevia Cabin was what would be Tank's cabin. It was a room with one bed, a desk, and an office area. Unlike the boys' cabin, it had an actual electric outlet and an internet router. Additionally, it had its own, small bathroom.

Wesley and Jackson chose beds catty-corner to one another, on opposite sides of the cabin, as far away from each other as possible. Jackson's bed was closer to the front door, while Wesley's was against the back wall. Chance and Milo chose beds that were closer to the center: Chance's slightly closer to Jackson and Milo closer to Wesley.

"So, any of you ever been here before?" Chance asked, breaking the silence as the boys unpacked.

"This is my third year," Milo announced. "But you knew that. We're going to have so much fun! I can't wait to go hiking. Do any of you know any scary stories?" Milo barely paused in between words as he spoke. His face looking redder and redder the longer he talked. "I know a few, but I can make new ones up on the fly. Campfire tales are totally awesome! Did you guys here the one about the man with . . ." Milo paused to catch his breath, the redness fading from his cheeks as he breathed in heavily ". . . a hook for a hand?"

Jackson, Chance, and Wesley all chuckled following Milo's exasperated breathing. Wesley and Jackson then glared at one another from their respective corners of the room and promptly stopped their laughter.

"Is that the one about the guy who escaped from the mental asylum?" Wesley asked.

"In some versions," Milo answered. "But there's the other version where he's from Mexico and is really a giant rat."

"That's an entirely different urban legend," Jackson spoke through a laugh.

"Spoilers, dude!" Chance interjected, "Don't give away the ending!"

Milo's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, and last year I stole some of the extra marshmallows and chocolate from the cafeteria, then some of us stayed up late and made s'mores after the counselors went to bed!"

"What about the graham crackers?" Jackson asked.

"That's the sucky part of the s'more," Wesley answered. "Everyone knows that!"

"Um . . ." Chance said immediately. "What else did you do?"

"Well," said Milo. "We swam a lot. I wanted to try skinny dipping, but everyone else was too chicken."

"Skinny dipping with a bunch of dudes is kind of gay, anyway," said Jackson.

Wesley looked at Jackson. "Grow up, dude," he growled.

"Um . . ." Chance interjected, "Did you do any, like, camp activities?"

"Stupid macaroni art," Milo answered as he sat down on his bed and began digging through his bag. "Uh, they taught us how to whittle. I almost got in trouble last year for whittling a dick."

Wesley laughed.

"Why would you whittle a dick if it would get you in trouble?" Jackson asked, sitting down on his own bed and organizing his socks.

Just then, Milo pulled an eight-inch, carved piece of wood meant to look like a dick out of his bag and tossed it across the room toward Jackson. It landed on Jackson's bed.

The boys all started laughing at the fake cock.

"It doesn't even look real," Jackson commented, picking the wooden block up. "Yuck! It looks more like a tube." Jackson smiled and tossed the wooden cock toward Chance.

"A dick is a tube," said Wesley from across the room.

Chance picked up the fake phallus and examined it. "Yeah, it doesn't have a head or anything." He giggled. "It's smooth."

"I glazed it," Milo said.

Chance chuckled again. "Seriously?" He tossed the wooden penis to Wesley.

Wesley looked at the dick more closely. "Maybe it's supposed to be uncut." He traced his index finger along its shaft, his eyes locked on the veins haphazardly carved around its stem. Wesley stared for a few seconds before he tossed the carved cock back to Milo.

"How would you know what an uncut dick even looks like, Wesley?" Jackson asked.

Wesley glared back at Jackson with malice. "Are you going to flatter me with a guess or just make insinuations?"

Jackson mumbled but didn't respond immediately. "Insinu--what?"

Milo loudly cleared his throat and waived the wooden penis in the air, garnering the glances of the other boys in the room. Then he opened his mouth and aimed the eight-inch wooden phallus at it. "Dare me?" he asked followed by a quick giggle.

Wesley folded his arms, grumbled, sat on the foot of his mattress, and began removing his shoes.

Chance furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, "Go for it!"

"You have to say, `dare,'" Milo said.

Jackson's eyes darted toward the door then the windows. "I dare you!"

Milo slowly pushed the tip of the wooden penis toward his open mouth. He stuck his tongue out slightly. Then he slipped the dick between his lips and closed them. Milo pushed the dick further into his mouth; deeper until seven of its eight inches was inside his wet orifice. Adding to the imagery, Milo rolled his eyes back and released an exaggerated moan. He pulled the cock out an inch-or-two, then thrust it gently back in. Milo repeated the action as if the carved dildo was humping his blushing face.

Chance, Wesley, and Jackson stared at Milo's show, their mouths slightly agape and their eyes wide.

"Eww!" said Chance followed by a happy chuckle.

"No way!" echoed Jackson.

Milo continued to fellate the wooden cock for another twenty seconds before removing the member from his mouth and running his tongue up its shaft. He finished off his well-performed blowjob with a kiss on the tip of the fake dick.

"That was totally gay!" laughed Jackson. "Ow!" Jackson called out as Wesley's shoe came flying across the room striking him in the chest. "What the hell, man?"

Jackson began walking toward Wesley's bed. "What's your problem!?"

Wesley stood up and began bounding toward Jackson. "What's your problem?"

Chance jumped into the middle of the room and placed his hands up, trying to keep Wesley and Jackson separate. "Can we at least try to keep from fighting? That's why we were sent here, to begin with!"

"He started it!" shouted Wesley.

"I started it?" began Jackson. "You were the one who threw a shoe at me!"

"Okay!" said Chance. He turned to Wesley. "No physical violence." He turned next to Jackson. "No name-calling."

Jackson took a deep breath. "Fine," he answered. He looked to Wesley. "Fine?"

"Whatever," Wesley replied, then turned around and walked back toward his bed.