Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2023 06:11:20 +0000 (UTC) From: "wantstrat63@yahoo.com" Subject: Messing Around Buddy Training - Chapter Ten Messing-Around Buddy Training - Chapter Ten Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction which features sexual activity between pre-teen boys and teenage boys. If you do not want to read such a story, or it is illegal for you to do so because of your age or where you live, I'd recommend that you bail out right here. I'd love to hear from readers and I'll try to write back. My name is Zane. If you want to get in touch, please email me at wantstrat63@yahoo.com If you are enjoying this series, I invite you to read my other fictional story in "Young Friends," called "Boy Arena." If you can, please support Nifty with a financial donation - whatever you can afford - so that this archive of stories can remain free and available. Just go to http://donate.nifty.org/ +++++++ Remember the very first time you were naked in a group setting with a bunch of other boys? I do, and the experience was an awakening for me in a way that I couldn't understand at the age of 8. My first group nude experience was at Camp Lummiwanga, a day camp for boys and girls up to age 13. There were all kinds of sports, games and crafts to enjoy and that we did as soon as our vans pulled up and dropped us off in the parking lot. Some of the most fun was to be had in the huge swimming pool at "Camp Wanga" as the older kids taught us to say. Beside the pool was a large changing pavilion with separate sides for boys and girls. It had corrugated metal walls that didn't quite meet the concrete slab floor and a roof made of translucent panels that allowed the sunlight to give the interior of our changing rooms a bright yellow glow. There were wooden benches and hooks on the wall to hang wire baskets where we'd stash our clothes and sneakers after changing into our bathing suits. There were a half dozen cold water shower heads in an open area as well as a bathroom with one stall, plus a trough along the wall where around 10 boys could stand side by side to pee. Getting naked in front of everyone seemed so strange to me at first, because I was an only child and used to my privacy. During my first summer at camp, I grew to look forward to the group nudity experience, and I didn't know why. In fact by the end of the summer it seemed one of the best aspects of life at "Camp Wanga." I can still picture it. There were sounds of laughter and bare feet slapping on the wet concrete floor. Clothes tossed in baskets, towels being flung back 'n forth, and naked little boys... lots of 'em. When those nude boys were running around the changing room, it made their boy bits jiggle in such a delightful way. By the second week I'd developed what I feel was my first fetish. It was tan lines. Sleek bodies, brown as a berry, save for that pale outline left by the kids' bathing suits. I was constantly checking out the little pale butt cheeks and the smooth, tiny genitals, completely hairless and creamy-white. I was still innocent so it wasn't sexual for me, but those sights made me happy for a reason that I didn't understand. Nothing like the proud strut that a naked boy has in front of his buddies in a changing room. Joking around... shaking his bare butt at his friends, pointing at guy's peens and laughing! I'd linger as long as I could until a counselor came in and shouted for us to get moving because it was the next group's turn. It seemed like life just couldn't be better, you know? In a way that was true. I doubt all those boys grew up and kept those vivid memories as I have, but I bet they all remember the sight of 10 pale, naked little boy butts lined up, side by side as they were peeing into the trough. Oh what a time we had at Camp "Wanga!" Years later, thoughts like that about Camp "Wanga" would trigger the launch sequence and cause me to become erect, especially since my informative sleepover weekend with my buddy Jon. I'd seek a private spot, usually downstairs in a spare unfinished room where I had a train platform. If there was any danger of someone intruding on my little masturbation party, I'd simply slip my hand under the waistband of my pants and down inside the front of my briefs. I'd feel the smooth, hairless pubic mound just above my penis, then take hold of my boner between thumb and forefinger just as Jon had taught me. Then, it was "let the boy-pleasure begin!" If I heard approaching footsteps on the stairs, I'd release my turgid penis, stuff it sideways in my underpants, pull my hand out of my jeans and try to act normal. I was so good at finding my pleasure zone, and I could reach the twitchy, edgy, muscle-wrenching stage of dry boy-gasm with remarkable speed. (I had timed it). My personal best record was a timed run starting with handling my little peen until it was erect, then rapidly stroking it to climax. It took one minute. If both my parents were out, my self-love sessions would become quite leisurely and at times, elaborate. I'd strip completely naked and admire myself in the bathroom vanity mirror until my boy-peen was erect and pointing up to the ceiling. Then I'd retire to my bedroom and stretch out on the bed with the only stroke material readily available to most 11 year old boys of the era. It was a "National Geographic." There was a certain issue that I used and I'd page to the photos of the topless native women with large, hanging tits and off I'd go, beating my dick like it owed me money. I became pretty good at judging how close I was to finishing, and if there was enough alone-time, I'd slow the pace when I was getting close to the edge and my boy-sex muscles were starting to tighten, then resume jerking to get the feeling back. (Today I know this process as edging, but at the time, I thought I'd invented it). For the finale, I'd turn the pages until I reached a certain colorful photograph. It was of a beautiful native boy, standing in a river with his brown skin glistening wet. We'll call him "Rory." He wore a sort of leather thong circling around his slender abdomen with some colorful beads hanging from it, and nothing else. I'd never seen a photo of an intact penis before I saw Rory's. It was fascinating to me, just like a couple of the naked boys back in my Camp "Wanga" changing room days. The sight of Rory's brown little penis and curved right butt cheek would always make my own wiener steely hard and it would prompt me to masturbate with such urgency. There was never any holding back my dry boy-gasms with Rory. I likely jerked myself off to him 50 times before that old "National Geographic" ended up on the recycle pile, much to my chagrin. It's not like I could've said to my dad, "Hey, we gotta save that one, it has my picture of Rory!" Let's see, 50 stroke-sessions times 7. That's 350 dry boy-gasm pleasure clenches, give or take a few twitches. Those were 350 of some of the strongest dry contractions deep in my young loins that I've ever experienced without having another boy with me. It was all thanks to a cute, naked native boy standing in a muddy river on a cloudless day, cooling himself down in the equatorial heat with his penis out. I wonder if he's still with us. Thanks Rory.