Campfire Girl Fantasy #2


Sandy Beach

Copyright Dark Water, 1996

This is a fantasy typical of my pre-adolescent years, roughly age nine to twelve. At that time I was interested almost exclusively in Campfire Girl uniforms; a dark blue knee length skirt cut rather full, a white cotton blouse, and a red kerchief. All of my attention rested on the skirt, which I believed in some cases to be made of silk. In the seventh grade I redirected much of this energy towards white pleated skirts, but I never stopped thinking about blue silk.

All of my fantasies have lives of their own, evolving over time and incorporating new ideas and facts I pick up along the way. This one was born at a time when I knew very little about sex, and still less about female anatomy. At first I did not think about tickling a girl's cunt, only her thighs. As I began to masturbate to these fantasies I began to focus more on tickling a girl's cunt, and when I started having orgasms I found it terribly exciting to imagine a girl having them, too, just by tickling her cunt.

I had no idea that girls had a clit until I was about sixteen. I first heard about it from conversations with other boys, and its existence was confirmed first when I read the book 'Candy' and later when I finally got to touch a real live girl down there. (I thought I was supposed to pinch it, and did she ever set me straight about that!)

At the time this the version of this fantasy comes from I thought that the opening of a girl's cunt was smooth and slightly hard, something like an ear lobe, and that it was as sensitive to touch as the tip of my penis. I also thought that the opening was positioned high enough so that the seam in the middle of a Campfire Girl skirt would brush against it. In an interesting example of how new information so easily displaces old, less reliable information, after I had the opportunity to explore a few adult vaginas I decided that I had been dead wrong about this. Just recently, some twenty years after deciding that a girl's cunt was too far down for her skirt to ever brush against it, I happened to get a look at some nude photos of young girls and to my astonishment I saw that their vagina is right where I originally thought it was.

The introduction to this fantasy actually happened. I cannot recall when, but I am certain that my infatuation with Campfire Girl uniforms was well established when this event took place. I have included it here because after it happened I often started this fantasy by recalling what happened that afternoon, which was nice because it blurred the border between fantasy and reality. The fantasy begins when I meet the girl on the road. I really did meet the girl on the road, but I never turned my bike around. Perhaps I should have.

I was riding my bike home from a friend's house where we had gone after school. It was almost time for dinner, and dusk was just settling over the rolling mountains. I had a terrific boner and was enjoying thoroughly the pleasure of my cock rubbing against the inside of my jeans as I peddled up the long, gently rising road leading to my house.

My erection was born of a wonderful event that had just taken place at my friend's house. We had been sitting on the living room floor watching TV when his older sister came home from her Campfire Girl meeting. I had watched in stunned silence as she burst in the front door, strode quickly past us to dump her school books on the coffee table, then trotted down the hall to her room and slammed the door. My mind spun as I tried to soak in every last detail of how she looked in her uniform, especially the shiny, slithery dark blue skirt that danced around her legs. To me, any girl in that uniform was a goddess, and when the skirt looked as silky as hers did she was beyond goddesshood.

The moment she came in I noticed her expression, a blend of urgency and desperation. The look of someone dying to go to the bathroom or struggling to carry a heavy load. Her school books made a slim pile, and she did not dash to the bathroom. A tingle of excitement swept over me as I allowed myself to slip into my fantasy world, to imagine that her skirt was tickling her out of her mind and that all she wanted to do was to get out of it. The thought gave me a terrific boner.

A minute later she came out, dressed in casual shorts and a T-shirt. She did not go to the bathroom, but came and sat on the sofa. I was awestruck at being so close to a girl who had just been wearing a Campfire Girl uniform, especially one like hers. She looked completely relaxed, which only added to my excitement because it supported my theory that she wanted desperately to get out of her uniform.

Sensing that it was time to go home, I realized that I might have an opportunity to discover at last whether there really was anything special about the feel of her uniform skirt. Her bedroom door was right next to the bathroom. I told my friend I had to go home, but that I had to use the bathroom first.

My knees felt like jelly as I walked down the short, narrow hall. As I approached her bedroom I spotted her uniform strewn across her bed. There in all its glory lay her skirt, its surface sculpted by alternating hues of the darkest blue and lighter areas that followed the ripples of the fabric. The high-point of each softly curving ridge glinted in the late afternoon sun coming from the window, suggesting as always that the fabric was some type of silk.

I turned my head as casually as possible to see if anyone was watching. I could see my friend still sprawled on the rug in front of the TV. His sister was out of sight. I decided to go in. All I would do was touch it in order to tell if it felt as wonderful as I imagined it did.

As soon as I decided to go through with it a new thought sprang into my mind. I could steal it. Grab it, duck into the bathroom, and hide it under my jeans. Then I would have it at home, to play with whenever I wanted to. I was frightened by this thought, but it was too enticing to dismiss easily.

I still had not moved when suddenly my friend's mother came out of the kitchen. She saw me, but did not appear to react. I gulped and dashed into the bathroom. As soon as I had the door closed I heard her tell her daughter to bring her the uniform skirt so she could send it to the cleaners. Footsteps in the hallway confirmed that my friend's sister had come to fetch her skirt.

I congratulated myself for dodging a bullet, even though I had failed to discover the truth about Campfire Girl skirts. Two truths, at least: were they made of silk, and did they feel ticklish. That the most important question, whether or not the skirts felt ticklish to the girls who wore them, could not have been answered never occurred to me, because my view was that whatever a skirt did to me it would do to a girl.

As the pang of fear at being caught subsided my excite returned, stronger than ever. I even made up an explanation of what had just happened which reinforced my suspicions. When the mother saw me staring wistfully into her daughter's bedroom she knew at once what had my attention, that very special skirt, the highly guarded secret of the special, inner circle of Campfire Girls. Fully aware of the jeopardy it would put the girls in if a boy ever discovered that girls could be tortured by making them wear those skirts without underwear, and loath to be the one who revealed the secret and because of that ruining her daughter's social standing, she intervened at once. Sending her daughter had been both a way to make it look less suspicious and a stern reminder that her daughter had been told a hundred times never to leave her skirt laying around. The mention of the cleaners had been a ruse. Actually it was supposed to be locked it a special safe, and it could only be washed by hand, when nobody else was home. Not even the girls' fathers knew the secret tickling power of these skirts.

As I spun this little yarn I pulled down my pants, rubbed my cock until it was throbbing, then pulled it through the fly of my briefs and pulled up my jeans. I flushed the toilet to make it sound like I had used it, then rushed out and hopped on my bike knowing that all the way home I would be subjected to the pleasurable torment of my cock rubbing against the stiff denim of my pants leg, which was as close as I could get to the experience I wished upon Campfire Girls.

As I worked my bike up the long, gently rising straight-away I spotted a girl in the distance. A girl in a blue skirt and white blouse. Even from so far away I could see the characteristic bounce and shimmy of the skirts I loved. Soon I could see that her back was to me, and from the long, straight waterfall of golden blond hair that bounced in harmony with the motion of her skirt I could see that it was Carol. The prettiest girl in my class, possessor of the silkiest looking Campfire Girl skirt I had ever seen.

As I drew near she looked over her shoulder. Her expression reminded me of how my friend's sister had looked when she came home, but when she saw it was me her face softened into a smile.

"Hi, Carol. What'cha doing?"

"Hi. I'm on my way home."

I had just passed her. I had thought that I would just say hello and keep on going, but my bike turned around as if under a spell. As I braked to a halt I realized exactly what I was doing. I wanted to look at her some more. From the front. To spend at least a few seconds alone with her gazing at that small patch of blue silk that covered the soft mound were I thought a girl's slit was located, the spot I thought so feverishly about tickling.

She stopped. "Fantastic!" I thought to myself.

"Been to a meeting?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said with a slight giggle.

"How was it?" I asked, not out of real concern but only so that she would stay a little longer.

"Well ..." she began, rolling her bright blue eyes. Even though she had stopped walking her skirt had not stopped moving. The slight movement of her body as she spoke kept the glistening fabric rippling and swaying around her thighs. Hungrily I drank in the sight, picturing myself running my fingertips ever so lightly up and down her thighs and brushing softly over that intoxicating mound below her waist, and the howls of laughter that would ensue.

"Not so good, actually," she continued.

"What? Did you have to play some silly games?" I asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes. We always play the same games. I like them a lot, but I always lose."

"What kind of games?" I asked.

"Well, that's just it. I'm not supposed to tell."

She stood there studying me for a few seconds before continuing.

"I was thinking, maybe you could help me, so I wouldn't lose all the time. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not a word about any of it."

"Sure. No problem," I replied as seriously as possible.

"OK. Can you come over to my house tomorrow, after school?" she said.

"Yeah. Sure. But can you tell me what we're going to do? Like, do I need to bring a mitt or something?"

She laughed. "No, silly. Just bring yourself."

I said good-bye and peddled away. All the way home I kept asking myself why I had agreed so readily to go to Carol's house. If any of my friends saw me I would be ridiculed. Playing with girls. Tea parties. Dolls. That's what the guys would think. What had I been thinking about? Did I really think she was going to let me touch her? That she would even be wearing her uniform?

The next afternoon I dashed home, ditching my friends with an excuse of having to do some chores. When I thought the coast was clear I rode over to Carol's house. I actually was expecting her to be in her uniform, but when she answered the door she was still wearing the simple cotton dress she had worn to school. I tried not to let my disappoint show.

"I'm so glad you came," she exclaimed. "Here, follow me."

She led me down a narrow flight of stairs to the basement.

"My mom won't be home for another two hours. Even so, I think it's best if we do this down here. I don't want the neighbors to hear me."

A large part of the basement had been converted into a family room. There were no windows, but a couple of ducts near the ceiling indicated that it was air conditioned. It was very cool, almost cold.

I looked at her expectantly, too nervous to say anything. She stared back at me, looking perplexed.

"What is it? Something wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought that, well, ah ..."

I was terrified to say the words, to reveal any interest whatsoever in her uniform. Realizing that I had to say it or run the risk of blowing a once in a lifetime opportunity I swallowed hard and blurted it out.

"I thought you would be wearing your uniform."

There. I said it, and lightening did not strike me.

"Oh," she said laughing. "Of course. I have it right here."

I looked to where she was pointing. It had been hanging there in the corner the whole time. Only it was different. The skirt looked the same, but instead of a white cotton blouse there was a blue tank top, which appeared to be made out of the same fabric as the skirt.

"Why did you ask about it?" she said, her eyes looking at me imploringly. "Do you know anything about, well, about ..."

I must have blushed ten shades of red. "I, uh, well, I just thought that if this was about your meetings, well, you know, you'd want to wear it."

Sensing my embarrassment she relaxed, smiling a little. "Do you know about how they feel? The special ones like mine?"

My heart began to pound and my palms got clammy. "Feel? Special? Why, ah, no ..."

With the grace of a cat she went and undid the skirt from the clamps that held it to the hanger and brought it to me.

"Here," she said sweetly. "Touch it."

The room seemed to shrink. It almost felt as though it had begun to spin around. I reached out a hand and gingerly touched the limp, shiny fabric as though it might be red hot. She surprised me by giving the skirt a toss, and suddenly my arm was covered in slithering cold fabric. A rush of strange sensations swept up my arm. It felt vaguely like one of my mother's nylon slips but far more intense. I yelped and drew back my arm even before I realized that my cry had turned into laughter. The sensation was a mixture of many things. Most of all it felt very, very good, but there was no mistaking the fact that it felt extremely ticklish.

"This is what they make us wear. Not all the girls, just the ones in my group. We're supposed to be the elite. Our advisor, Mrs. Chun, says that being allowed to wear the silk uniform is a reward, that we should learn to enjoy its pleasure."

My mind was in total melt-down upon hearing that what I had suspected was in fact true. Truer than my wildest dreams. Somehow, amidst my confusion, an unexpected thought sprang up. Sympathy for Carol.

"How can you stand to wear that?" I said.

"Oh. At school we only wear the skirt, and under it we wear a cotton slip and panties. Even then there is about a three inch band that the slip doesn't protect, and that hits you right at the knees. Even that is hard to take. Except that some days, like yesterday, all we get to wear is the panty. That's almost like torture."

"Why don't you get to wear the slip?" I asked, my voice cracking on the word 'slip.'

"Sometimes it's punishment. Like if we were goofing around too much at the meeting. Sometimes, though, Mrs. Chun just makes us. She says it builds character."

By then my thoughts had settled down just enough to let an old, familiar thought appear. I found myself longing to be able to wear Carol's skirt. It was a cloudy thought that took two forms. In one, I wished that I were a girl, a member of Carol's group. In the other I wanted Carol to let me wear it, right there in her basement.

"So, you didn't know any of that, right?" Carol said. "That truth is, you're not supposed to. Especially boys. You promise not to tell anyone about this, right?"

"I promise!" I said.

"OK. What I want you to do is tickle me. That way I hope I can learn to tolerate wearing this uniform."

I had been shocked too much by then for her announcement to sound unusual, but a wave of pleasure still swept over me.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Why? Don't you think it will help?" she asked.

"Well, it sounds like it might. And it's worth a try," I said, trying to sound calm.

"I want something to hang onto, so I brought down some rope," she said, handing me a hank of cotton sash cord.

"I thought maybe we could use those hooks to hang it from," she said, pointing to where some potted plants hung from the ceiling.

She pulled a chair over, and I used it to take down the plant closest to the center of the room. I tied a loop in one end of the rope and hung it from the hook.

"Now, if you will be so kind as to step outside I'll change," she said, her voice small, as if she wear scared.

When I went back into the room my heart really began to pound. There she stood, right beside the rope, her cute little body drenched in shimmering blue silk. She looked tastier than anything in my dreams. Her blue eyes seemed unusually large, while her body seemed unusually stiff. She gave her long blond hair a toss as she reached up, wound the rope around her hands, and waited.

I went over and stood right in front of her. My eyes swept over her front, drinking in the sight of her in dark blue silk, studying the barely visible pattern of the woven threads, the lines formed by the seams, the soft folds where the silk hung down from her hips.

"Well, go ahead," she bleated, her voice so soft I could hardly hear her.

"Uh, where do I begin?" I asked.

"Wherever you like," she whispered.

I knew where that was, that mysterious slit between her legs. Certain that she did not mean there I reached out both my hands and began to stroke her sides. The tank top was not tight, yet the fabric offered no resistance up to the point when my fingertips touched the hollow place below her ribs. I could feel the weight of the silk, much thicker than what underwear is made of, yet it was so limp and supple that it seamed capable of molding itself to any shape.

The silk felt cold and extremely slick. It even tickled my fingertips, but not nearly as much as it tickled Carol's sensitive waist. Her eyes grew big and round, then she squeezed them shut. A gasp leaked from between her clenched teeth as her body began to tremble. I began to draw little circles over the silk, and all at once her body heaved away as she squealed, let go of the rope and clenched her elbows to her sides, pushing away my hands.

I thought that the first round was over. The joy of actually tickling a girl dressed in silk was irrepressible, yet I was dismayed that she had not lasted more than a few seconds. To my astonishment it did not stop there. Her body continued to tremble. Her knees were pressed tightly together and appeared to flex involuntarily, giving the impression that she was about to lose her balance and fall down. She was no longer laughing, but she was groaning and her face looked as though she was in great pain. Finally it struck me that her skirt was still dancing around her thighs, and even though she clutched her arms around herself I could see that her top was sliding around over her torso. The thought that the silk actually felt that ticklish gave me goosebumps.

After a minute or so she regained enough self control to apologize and ask me to try again. We repeated the same thing a half dozen times, but the best she could manage was two or three seconds.

"I don't understand what the rope is for," I said before we tried it again.

"That's how we do it at meetings," she said, still panting to catch her breath.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Oh. Didn't I tell you? No, I guess not, because it's supposed to be a secret. We play tickling games. That's why you're here," she said.

It had been exciting enough to hear her describe how they were required to go without a slip, but to learn that they played tickling games was almost too good to be true.

"Oh. Tickling games. Sure. What kind?" I said, acting unimpressed.

"All kinds," she replied. "Seven Feathers. Last Girl Standing. Laughing Derby. Wheel of Laughs. The Gauntlet."

The names meant nothing to me, but hearing her say them was electrifying.

"Oh. So, what's the rope for?" I asked, hoping to hide my ignorance.

"You know. Like in Seven Feathers, where we each get tickled by more and more feathers. You're out when you let go of the rope. We tried it once making it out when you laughed, but nobody could last long enough. I never make it past three."

"Three?" I exclaimed in mock astonishment. "Gosh, that's not very many."

"I know. Yesterday Mary made it all the way through, but she almost passed out and could hardly walk for five or ten minutes."

"How long does each feather last?" I asked.

"I don't know. We sing a song, and after ever verse another girl joins in. It goes like 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.'"

Carol started to sing, slow and soft, and while the melody was familiar the words were unbelievable.

Mary had a blue silk skirt,

A blue silk skirt, a blue silk skirt.

Mary had a blue silk skirt

That tickled her to death.

"Hmm. About fifteen seconds," I said in my best Mr. Roberts voice.

I was not sure if Carol heard me. Her eyes had a far away look in them, and her body was rocking gently as she went right on singing.

Everywhere that Mary went,

Mary went, Mary went.

Everywhere that Mary went

She struggled not to laugh.

"Oh!" Carol yelped. "Oh, that feels so good!"

I did not say anything. I just stood there staring inquisitively at her.

"That's the catch, you see," she said softly. "It tickles like crazy, but it feels so good. Sometimes I wish I could wear my uniform to school every day. You might find this hard to believe, but almost every day I rush home to put it on. Except on the day we do wear them. Then I can't wait to get home and get it off! That's because I always lose, and I have to wear my skirt without a slip. Up until first recess it's actually nice. By lunch time I feel like I'm going insane. By the time I get to the meeting I have no endurance at all, and I just lose again."

"Listen," I said, still sounding scientific. "I was thinking. If you really want to increase your endurance it might work better if I used the rope to tie you up. Just like you did it, only with the rope tied around your wrists."

Carol's eyes grew wide, her expression pure terror.

"No! No way!" she hissed.

"Take it easy," I said soothingly. "It's only a suggestion."

"No. That's what they do to punish someone. Like if they were supposed to not wear a slip, but they did. The other girls check, you know. We have to go to the bathroom before school, before recess and lunch, to prove we aren't wearing a slip. If you're caught wearing one they tie you up at the meeting and tickle you all afternoon. They say a lot of girls pass out during the punishment, and one nearly died."

"Whoa!" I exclaimed. "Hang on there. I'm not going to torture you. Just tickle you a little more than you can stand without being tied up."

"No. You won't stop. I mean, what if you don't? I won't be able to stop you."

"Well, look at me now. Am I trying to hurt you? I could just grab you and tie you up, and tickle you all the way up to when your mom comes home. That's more than an hour. If I were really such a bad dude I would be doing that right now, instead of asking your permission."

"Well, OK," she said cautiously.

I was doing mental handsprings the moment it sounded like she was going to agree.

"But let's agree on how you'll know when to stop," she added quickly.

We spent several minutes discussing ways to set limits. At first she thought a code word would work best, but I pointed out that if she was laughing really hard she might not be able to say it, and besides she would just say the word instead of letting go of the rope. We finally decided to use time. There was an electric clock with a sweep second hand mounted over the TV set behind her.

I tried not to think about the fact that I was finally tying up a girl to tickle her, a girl who wanted to be tickled, a very pretty girl in a blue silk Campfire Girl uniform. It was just too good to be true.

For the next half hour I tickled her much the same way I had been, running my fingers lightly over her sides and belly and chest. We started with an interval of fifteen seconds, and after thirty minutes we had stretched it to a full minute.

I was having the time of my life, and it seemed to me that she was, too. While I tickled her she howled and screamed so loud it hurt my ears, but as soon as she caught her breath during the breaks she always said how good it felt. Near the end I started giving her more time to rest, but she begged for me to start it up again and not wait so long in between.

Things were going so well that I decided to try tickling her legs.

"Do they ever tickle you here?" I asked as my fingers began stroking her skirt just above the knees.

"Oh God! Not there! Oh, ah, ..." she cried, her words dissolving into fits of maniacal laughter.

After several rounds of tickling her legs I decided to be a bit naughty. After an unusually short break I reached out as if to tickle her legs again, only this time I reached up under her skirt and pulled down her panties, all the way down to her ankles.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked, but it was too late. As the cold silk made contact with her bare ass she began to giggle, and her hips began to wiggle all by themselves. I just stood back and watched.

"Oh. Oh. Ah. Oh, that feels so good! Oh, it tickles so much!" she cried, the words choked and garbled by fits of giggling.

"Do they ever tickle you here?" I asked slyly as my fingers began stroking her silk covered ass.

"Ah! Not there! Ah, ..." she cried. Her laughter exploded in my ears.

I gave up tickling her for a set amount of time. I just stroked her here and there, little bursts of soft, feather-light touches, returning to all the other spots I had tickled before but concentrating on the places that had been shielded by her panties. All but one, that very special spot between her legs, the one spot more than any other I longed to try.

By the clock on the wall I knew we had been going at it this way for ten minutes. It was easy to judge when to tickle a little longer and when to shorten the bursts and lengthen the breaks in between. I knew she could still talk, at least some of the time, because every so often she would cry out something about how much it tickled and how good it felt.

It was almost time to stop. Time to try it, or never know. Was a girl's slit the most ticklish place on her body, or would by dream be shattered?

It was not an easy decision, because I knew that a girl's crotch was strictly off limits. How I had learned that I'll never know, but like every other boy I knew that if I touched her there I was taking a big chance.

At last I stopped, her first real break in over ten minutes. She just hung there panting and shaking and moaning, the most beautiful sight I could imagine.

Finally, in the faintest possible whisper I heard her say, "More."

That was when I made up my mind.

"Do they ever tickle you here?" I asked, as gently as possible.

As my fingers reached out towards the seam that ran down the front of her skirt, time seemed to slow to a crawl. I saw her eyes follow my hand, and when it was three or four inches from the front of her skirt they grew wide. She began to shake her head.

"Oh no. Never there! Please, not there!"

So softly did she say the words that to me it seemed more like telepathy.

I brought my fingers to the seam about an inch below where it met the waistband. From there I glided my hand slowly down, wiggling my fingers like Snoopy dancing, as though I were trying to scratch away some crumbs from the slick, shimmering silk. Peels of rich laughter filled my ears. She began to twist and buck, more than she had before, making my course difficult to follow. I struggled to hang on, to keep in contact with her soft, smooth belly, to listen carefully to the strain in her voice, and to fight back the guilt that made me want to stop.

I reached the place where the contour of her belly began to recede. Just as before, when I first tickled her sides, I found that the silk pushed effortlessly into the hollow space. One more inch, then another. As the fabric pressed inwards I began to see the shape of her there, the same shape of a girl in pants. Every ounce of my concentration was focused on feeling for the slit that I knew was there. I had seen it, but only on baby girls, and of course I had never touched a girl there.

Just when I began to fear that I had somehow managed to miss it I felt a bump, then a low spot. At the same instant that I was swept with joy at having found her slit I heard Carol cry out in a different way. She had been laughing hysterically the whole time, and it was laughter I heard still, but it was altogether different. Not just louder, but stronger and heavy with exasperation.

Having finally gotten to the temple I was not about to leave. The only thing that might have stopped me was if she had stopped laughing. That was my greatest fear, that she would not be ticklish there. In seconds I knew from her hysterical laughter that quite the opposite was true.

By now the rules of engagement were completely forgotten. I tickled her slit without pause, drinking deeply of the joy at having done it, and at having been so right about it being a very ticklish spot. I tickled her there for two or three minutes, and was just about to stop when something wonderful happened. Her body began to shake in an entirely different way. She kept laughing, but it sounded as though something in the machinery had broken.

"Ah! Ah! Oh, yes! Oh yes oh yes oh yes!" she sobbed.

I could tell that whatever was happening was altogether different than what had been happening. Then it struck me. What I was seeing was just like what happened when I rubbed by cock for a long time. I did not know it was called an orgasm, or that it even had a name. All I knew was that it felt extremely good, and I tried to do it every chance I had. I realized that tickling her slit must have had the same effect on her, and the thought filled me with a deep, profound satisfaction.

I thought about stopping. In fact, I did even as I thought about it.

"No. No. Don't stop. Please don't stop, not yet," Carol pleaded.

I sprang back to work, abandoning all my reservations, tickling the opening of her slit through her silk skirt as best as I could imagine. Swept up by her frenzy I began to use both hands, swishing them up and down the insides of her thighs, up over the top, then zeroing in on her slit.

"Harder!" she barked, the word almost lost in the torrent of laughter.

I pressed my finger a bit harder between the ridges of her slit, and to my surprise the silk slipped into the little furrow. I grinned in delight when I saw how the seam in the center of her skirt ran straight down her belly, disappeared into her, then reappeared a couple of inches later. I ran a fingertip up and down the tiny valley, exploring the firmness of it.

After another minute or so her body began to shake again, only much, much stronger than before. She did not stop screaming, but her screams no longer sounded like laughter. I looked up and saw that her eyes were shut tight, and her face looked as though she was in great pain. Suddenly she went limp, her body hanging from the rope like a rag doll.

Concerned that something had gone terribly wrong I stopped and rushed to untie her. As I fumbled with the ropes she looked dazedly at me, but said nothing. She looked totally exhausted. As soon as I had her untied she crumpled into a heap on the floor. I felt terrible. She groaned, as if she had been hit by a car or something, but when she looked up at me and smiled I realized that things might turn out all right after all.

For a minute or so she just lay there panting. Ever few seconds her body trembled, but as the time passed the trembling stopped.

"God, that felt good!" she gasped, smiling sheepishly.

"Are you all right?" I asked, still very worried.

"I'm fine," she murmured. "I'll be fine. Just help me get out of these clothes. They're killing me."

I held out her panties, but she waved them aside. She struggled to her feet, reached down with crossed arms and drew her top up over her head, shaking her hair free. I felt strange looking at her nude chest, even though she was still as flat as a board. Without stopping she dropped the top, fiddled at her hip, and before I realized that she had undone the button she unzipped her skirt and let it fall.

"See what you did?" she said, in a tone that to me sounded like praise.

My eyes felt like they were going to pop right out of my head. Right there, right between her legs was that wonderfully soft mound, and at its center the softly curved slit I had just ticked so viciously.

"Look, I'm all gooey" she said, her tone now more accusatory. She wiped her hand over her crotch and it came away covered in something wet and shiny.

I must have looked terribly sorry, because that was how I felt.

"What does that mean? Did I break something?" I said.

Carol laughed as she reached for her panties and slipped them on.

"I don't think so. I'll say this much. I've been tickled by all the other girls, even Mrs. Chun, and it never felt anything like that. I've never felt anything so good."

Carol picked up her skirt and examined the front.

"Look. There's more of that sticky stuff. I sure made a mess!"

"Do you think it will wash out?" I asked.

"Come back tomorrow after school and I'll tell you. Only, you have to promise me something."

"Sure. Anything," I croaked.

"You have to promise me you'll do that again."

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