Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Heterosexual, Cheating, Gang Bang, Oriental Female, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Just out of college, I was hired as a seasonal ranger to patrol the desert canyons of southeastern Utah. It turned out to be a summer of wanton lust and unrestrained promiscuity with my horny female co-workers, who like me, were assigned to a small isolated ranger station located at the edge of a vast unroaded wilderness. One of these was Brooke, who merely sought a respite from men, most of whom treated her as a fuck toy, or far worse, as sexual prey.
Definition of wilderness
1. an uncultivated, uninhabited region; wild
2. a large, confused mass or tangle
3. a wild condition or quality
During the summer I was a wilderness ranger in southeastern Utah, each definition took on new resonance, both personally and for the women I worked with...
I'd just earned a diploma from one of those effete and expensive East Coast liberal arts colleges, and my single-page resume largely boasted an esoteric line of coursework that prepared a person for virtually nothing requiring any common sense or real-world experience. I mean, what could somebody actually do with a B.A. in archaeology other than send applications to graduate school and pray that one of them would accept you, hopefully with some financial aid. Another summer working at yet another deadbeat job was something I really didn't want to do, so on a whim I fired off a job application to the federal government and then promptly forgot about putting it in the mail.
A week and a half later, literally two hours into my first day of work placing jars of pickles on shelves at a hometown grocery store, my cell phone went off, and after answering a couple of perfunctory questions, I was offered a job as a seasonal ranger in Utah. I ran out of the stockroom and never looked back! First stop, poring through an atlas at the public library. I mean, where exactly was Utah? A follow-up letter of hire described my assignment — a temporary six month posting at a small isolated ranger station located in midst of canyon country wilderness, working for a federal agency responsible for overseeing vast acreages of forest and desert not only there, but also throughout the American West.
I was truly confounded by the appointment, since up until then I'd never been away from my home state of North Carolina other than to visit Orlando and Disney World and knew little about the region of the country to which I was moving. Indeed, I couldn't even properly pronounce the funny Spanish sounding place names of the area's various rivers and mountains. It turns out the letter "J" is mostly silent and "G" sometimes sounds like a "W". Until I finally got the hang of it later that summer, people would laugh when I talked.
The pay absolutely sucked, and because I was only a seasonal employee there would be no benefits to accrue. As I would discover, my assigned housing also had some drawbacks — namely, a paucity of electricity and a very limited supply of potable water. But I was more than qualified for the job since it required little skill in anything other than a friendly smile and a demeanor that made folks think I actually knew what I was talking about.
My primary duty was to meet and greet backcountry hikers who at least during the cooler spring months of the year arrived in droves to explore southeast Utah's many narrow and deeply incised sandstone canyons, intent on discovering the eroded remnants of numerous cliff dwellings built by ancestral Pueblo Indians a millennium ago. Maybe my undergraduate coursework did have some relevancy after all!
The ranger station itself was not fancy, really nothing more than a rectangular sun baked mobile home with one small room converted into an office. It was located on a low sandstone bluff overlooking a dirt parking lot and nearly dry creek bed, whose water even during the wet season merely trickled from one small puddle to another in the pockmarked bedrock. Electricity came in the form of a wheezing and smelly Army surplus generator that all the rangers hated (its age was far older than any of us). So the thing was mostly kept turned off, save for an hour or two each day when batteries for the government radios needed charging. The generator was so nasty and noisy that it was actually preferable to rely on kerosene lamps and use a manual typewriter.
The Internet? Forget it! It was like moving back in time fifty years! My fellow rangers and I even planted a small garden down by the creek, not as a hobby but rather because limited refrigeration and great distances to the nearest store made growing what we ate a necessity. To offset the rotten salary, my job came with free housing in the form of another even smaller mobile home stuck into a grove of stubby pinion trees about a half-mile distant from the ranger station.
An identical trailer right next door was occupied by Hiram and Kate, newlyweds about my own age from someplace up near Salt Lake City. Like me, they had no prior experience as seasonal rangers. The two of them had first met at Brigham Young University, that Provo-based academic pillar of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. But unlike more devout practitioners of the Mormon religion, they never did try to convert me.
As was the case with most Mormons I would meet that summer, both were of Arian ancestry — blonde, fair skinned, and very fit, although Kate looked like she would plump out in future years if she didn't exercise and maintain a careful diet. But right now, I doubted there was more than an ounce of fat between them. In other words, they looked very similar to me in terms of stature and coloration. Hence we all sunburned easily, a fact pointed out by Kate who said I could have been her husband Hiram's brother.
My best perk was a brand new four wheel drive Jeep Wrangler with decals on the doors proclaiming to the world that I was an official government ranger. Fancying myself as a latter-day Indiana Jones, I posed for photos while leaning jauntily against this rig while wearing a pair of sunglasses and borrowed cowboy hat. These were sent back East to envious family members and college friends, the latter of whom were now mostly lazing around on an Atlantic beach somewhere down in the Carolinas. The implication was that I'd discovered a dream job in the midst of a wilderness nirvana.
But it could be lonely. Southeast Utah is a hotbed for the Latter Day Saints, and other than a few renegade biker-types or backcountry eco-terrorists, the non-Indians who called the place home were mostly descended from a band of intrepid Mormons who settled the place sometime in the 1880's. Needless to say, the Latter Day Saints proved universally unfriendly to newcomers (this had something to do with their continued practice of polygamy), and they eyed anybody associated with the federal government with outright hostility and suspicion.
As for the Indians, they were friendly enough but if one wasn't fluent in either Navajo or Ute, communication was nearly impossible -- lots of smiles and hand gestures had to be substituted for the spoken word. Even the local radio station — indeed, the only station — spent half the day broadcasting in these native tongues! I loved listening to Navajo Gospel Hour! The McDonald's commercials were a hoot, especially when promoting French fries or Big Macs to the backbeat of native drums.
Despite what I told my friends from back East, I struggled with bouts of loneliness since with the onset of three months of insufferably hot temperatures, only a handful of intrepid or very foolish souls bothered to visit the place. This isolation forced the seasonal rangers hired that year to bond closely, both for work and for play. Jerry, the mostly absent chief ranger, rarely ventured out from a cozy air conditioned government office in Cortez, a cosmopolitan city of about 5,000 souls nearly 100 miles distant. But wisely, he implemented a buddy system for our personal safety and to help us retain sanity.
The need for a partner wasn't due to local bad guys since most of them took a "live and let live" attitude, but rather that the desert could easily kill you, either through snake bite, thirst or an occasional rock slide. It was unnerving to be perched atop a sunny exposed rock outcrop, only to have one's body fall in and out of shadow in the blink of an eye, and then look up to see two or three vultures circling overhead. Even the healthy had to watch out!
Since they were married, it was natural that Hiram and Kate would be partners. So my assigned colleague for this six-month seasonal stint would be a twenty-six year old, third generation Japanese American oddly named Brooke. Slightly less than five and a half feet tall and on the thinish side, she possessed a thick glossy mane of raven colored hair extending nearly down to her well formed buttocks. Her overall anatomy was firm from years of hiking deserts and wintertime skiing up in the mountains. As a connoisseur of the female form, I decided immediately that the girl had no need for a bra since her breasts were small to the point of being non-existent. This was something of a disappointment because I'd always been a big tit man. Kate was much better endowed, but alas she appeared happily married.
On our first Jeep patrol out into the pinion and juniper scrubland, Brooke and I exchanged bios. She'd grown up in Denver and said that during the Second World War her grandparents had met while locked up in one of the many Japanese internment camps scattered across the western United States. I had always considered this incarceration an injustice, and was surprised that Brooke simply shrugged this off as an historical footnote. Despite her ethnicity, it seemed there was a full-blooded American girl packed into that lithe Asian body! I also learned she'd been on the six or seven year plan for a college degree, taking winters off to work at ski resorts throughout the Colorado Rockies.
Brooke confessed to liking marijuana and other harder drugs a little bit too much, saying this contributed to delays in her education. Although these habits would manifest themselves as the summer progressed, I wondered if something else had played a role in the length of time it took her to earn a degree. Over the next few months, I would witness many of Brooke's mood swings, which reminded me of a former roommate my sophomore year who'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder (that was one semester I couldn't wait to end!). At times, Brooke seemed to have a tremendous level of energy and when she talked, her mind would jump seemingly at random from one topic to another.
On other occasions, however, she would be downright lethargic and in the dumps. One day while she was not at the ranger station, I went into her living quarters and poked through a variety of personal effects, finding empty prescription medication bottles that I knew were used to relieve episodes of mania and depression. It was dismaying to learn that she'd discontinued taking this medicine as the labels directed.
There was another job-related issue that I was discretely warned about by our boss Jerry, on his very first visit to the ranger station. A year earlier, in what became known as the notorious "flat rock incident," some local Mormons out to embarrass the government had videotaped a couple of seasonal rangers screwing out in the middle of the desert and turned these images over to a sympathetic congressman. The entire program that now employed us was nearly done away with in the ensuing political flap. In fact, I had this job specifically because none of the prior year's seasonal contingent had their contracts renewed. Hiram and Kate had been offered co-ranger jobs specifically because they were married to each other; the fact that they were Mormon didn't hurt since it was hoped this would keep some of the local anti-government types off our backs.
Brooke, on the other hand, declared vehemently that this ranger posting out beyond the edge of civilization was an opportunity to dry out — a self-imposed sobriety, so to speak. The girl wanted a few months of abstinence, believing it would reign in an impulsive streak of risqué behavior. But as I would discover, one of the symptoms of Brooke's bipolar disorder -- especially during the manic stage -- was a compulsive need to have sex and have it often. Despite her name, she was anything but placid when aroused! Her unrestrained promiscuity would conflict with the number one rule of employment, stressed time and again by our boss, which was that carnal fraternization between the troops was strictly verboten.
As I got to know Brooke better and watch her behavior both on and off the job, I concluded that she was a skilled provocateur, capable of getting into trouble with virtually everybody she worked with, especially guys. She admitted this in a fit of candor on the next day long Jeep patrol, telling me that her exile to the Utah backcountry was also to be a respite from men, most of whom had so far treated her as a fuck toy, or far worse, as sexual prey. Although neither of us realized it at the time, by early summer Brooke would again succumb to both these perversions.
I tried adhering to Jerry's admonishments and initially kept my carnal thoughts in check, but heck, I was a single guy just past my twenty second birthday, who less than a month earlier as a college senior had my pick of dozens of undergrad coeds. So in truth, Brooke roused my carnal thoughts from the instant I laid eyes on her. One of these occasions early on was an off-duty bonding exercise for all the new hires, the event being an evening cookout at the far southern tip of Muley Point, an isolated sandstone cliff from atop which one could see a large spread of southern Utah's arid desert landscape.
Getting there was not easy -- after departing the paved road, we were led down an eight-mile dusty back country track before reaching the top of a sheer 1,500-foot precipice. I was awestruck, as were my colleagues, at the sheer number of buttes and spires dotting the Navajo Nation's Monument Valley, and far off mountains beyond the borders of Utah that dotted the horizon of three other states. Closer in were the labyrinthine goosenecks of the San Juan River, called this because of the entrenched sinuous meanders cut thousands of feet deep into native bedrock at least two billion years old.
All the rangers attended (including some I'd never before met housed some fifty miles distant at another ranger station), as did Jerry who was accompanied by Elisa, his rather cute but straight-laced Mormon wife. So booze was completely out of the question or at least well hidden out of sight. Brooke showed up last, wearing tight jeans and a faded, somewhat threadbare t-shirt cropped off several inches above her navel. She seemed charged up and excited and I wondered if she was on some type of drug.
Evenings in the high desert can get chilly and as the sun dipped towards the horizon, the day's warmth quickly dissipated. My new work partner had neglected to bring her jacket and soon broke out in goose bumps. Since she had no need for a bra, there was no hiding a set of nipples that became protuberant and erect in the evening chill. As the temperature notched downward another degree, they became easily discernable through the thin cloth of her old shirt, which had shrunk due to repeated washings and now clung tightly to her lithe torso.
These wonderful nipples more than made up for Brooke's nearly imperceptible breasts, since even when not erect they were the size of small thimbles. To my private delight, it didn't take much for these nubbins to stick straight out, which is something they did due to all sorts of stimuli including cool temperatures as was happening right then, but also due to physical exertion, and at times simply because they rubbed against the inside fabric of Brooke's shirt. One of my friends from back East referred to this "Erect Nipple Syndrome," a phrase he used when pointing out a woman who had pert, hard nipples poking outward from beneath a thin garment of clothing.
Despite her earlier vow of abstinence, Brooke snuck more than a couple of pops of booze out behind a tree with us other non-Mormons and became even more giddy and flirty. She was obviously showing off, but seemed oblivious to the effect this was having on all of us guys, even Jerry whose eyeballs were now mostly riveted to her chest. Our heads swiveled in whatever direction she walked. Then there were Brooke's outlandish tattoos. One of these was located on the smooth area of flesh just above her buttocks, comprised of what appeared to be cherry blossoms (she was Japanese, of course), surrounded by a series of geometric forms.
Brooke also sported a pair of blue green tattoos wrapping around each of her biceps — geometric configurations that I knew from my anthropology classes to be of a Maori design. I also noted that Brooke's belly button was adorned with one of those little barbell shaped pieces of jewelry, with each tip capped by a round knob of gold. Unfortunately, Jerry's wife also took notice of Brooke's rather dramatic anatomical alterations and to the guys' collective disappointment prudishly made Brooke pull on a bulky sweater that had been stashed away in her husband's vehicle.
Although the show was over, I concluded that my co-worker was a very hot ticket. And Brooke's nipples, oh my! Unlike a typical girl whose nubbins simply reacted to chilly air, this particular wench possessed a pair of fat, turgid, pointy, fearless suck-till-you-drop specimens. Despite any misgivings I had about her mental state, it was now my life's mission to fasten lips around those things. The prior year's Flat Rock Incident be damned!
Despite the loneliness, I really couldn't have asked for a more perfect summer job. It certainly beat stocking grocery store shelves back in North Carolina, and so far I'd managed to avoid cleaning out campground toilets — a task other seasonal rangers I met complained about bitterly. But vandalism of archaeological sites by looters digging up Indian graves in search of buried pottery and jewelry was an ongoing problem, and a big reason the government set up a ranger station out in the middle of this wilderness.
The folks in charge hoped the presence of rangers for at least part of the year would discourage this practice. As Jerry said, our job was to "fly the flag"! But despite daily backcountry patrols, grave robbing continued to happen and one morning a hiker entered the ranger station to report a recently torn up Indian ruin. Brooke and I were both on duty at the time and promptly jumped into the brand new Jeep Wrangler, speeding down nearly twenty miles of spine breaking dirt road to investigate.
The day was already warm, and Brooke wore a pair of denim jeans into which her uniform shirt was tucked, an appropriate mix of casualness and officialdom given our isolated location. It looked kind of sexy as well. About half way to the site, the Jeep hit a sharp rock which knocked a tire right off its rim. Replacing it with a spare proved to be a messy job, exacerbated by 90-degree air temperatures. After a couple of minutes, I removed my uniform shirt and risking sunburn, exposed my rather pale torso to the sun. Brooke loosened more than a few buttons on her blouse, tying it in a knot just above her midriff to show off a taut tan colored belly and ribs, as well as more of her tattoos. As I gawked, she explained their symbolism with a convoluted logic I found unintelligible.
As she squatted beneath me to tug on lug nuts, I discovered it was possible to look straight down the inside of Brooke's shirt while it hung loose from her body. My God! Her caramel colored nipples were in plain view, each crowned with small beads of genuine gold, virtually identical to that which garnished her navel. Again, they were in the form of barbells, apparently extending fully through Brooke's flesh at the point where the nipples and areola joined. I concluded that the girl was into either pain or the sexual titillation associated with body piercing — perhaps both. Right then, she had a very bad case of Erect Nipple Syndrome while I was getting a very bad case of erect penis. Perhaps it was the piercing that caused my colleague's nipples to be so perky so often!
I wondered if Brooke was being deliberately provocative. But heeding our boss's warning, I wasn't about to do anything stupid and instead tried to will down the thickening rise behind the buttons of my jeans. Nevertheless, one small breast and then the other peeked into partial and then full view, and I turned away from Brooke and with some embarrassment adjust my dick so its head wouldn't burst from the top of my pants. Then, while pulling off the old tire, my co-worker backed directly into my crotch and brushed her shoulder against my denim clad shaft. Was this the action of a cock tease, or was she truly oblivious to the effect her scantily clad upper body was having on me? I had fantasies of jumping her right then and there but chickened out, instead finishing the tire change nursing a bad bout of blue balls.
To add variety to our diet — indeed, to prevent scurvy -- we planted a small vegetable garden down by the creek at one end of the unpaved ranger station parking lot. Keeping the plants hydrated was an ongoing chore and one afternoon after returning from a vandalized archaeological site, Brooke said she would water the things so they wouldn't dry out. With adequate water, the little tomato and pepper plants thrived in the deep sandy alluvium, but so did weeds and it was a constant battle to eradicate these water gulping pests.
The dog days of summer were approaching and the temperature earlier in the day had reached the low 90's. Gardening was sweaty and dirty work, and my colleague changed into a pair of cut-off denim shorts stretched taut over nicely shaped buttocks that showed off her amber colored Asian legs rather nicely. She also wore that same tiny cropped off t-shirt I'd first seen at the barbeque. Just gazing at Brooke was making me horny and after the tire changing incident, I began to follow her around like a pet dog! I'm sure at times my tongue actually hanged out. Brooke's choice of off-duty clothing, or more aptly the lack thereof, was starting to drive me crazy.
By now, I was covertly stalking the girl when I didn't think she was looking, aided by one of the tools our boss had given us to search for people looting Indian graves -- a pair of monster World War II era binoculars clearly built for battle rather than bird watching. Despite advanced age, this gadget was superb and magnified distant images with crystal precision. And right now, my prey was three hundred feet distant, meaning I could easily make out beads of sweat on her forehead and even the shoelaces of her boots. To get an even better view of Brooke, I crept silently along the ridge top on which the ranger station was perched, using pinion and juniper trees to mask me from sight. Arriving at a vantage point with a good view of the garden, I perched the binoculars in the crotch of a small tree, confident that I would remain concealed while I spied on my colleague.
Initially, this Peeping Tom routine proved boring since all Brooke did was pull weeds and when the pile got large enough, toss them over the fence we'd installed to prevent jack rabbits from eating everything in sight. I was ready to pack it in when Brooke suddenly stood, shaded her eyes with a hand and peered intently first at the ranger station and then the parking lot to see if anybody else was around. She even looked in my direction, at which point I willed my heart to stop still! Then she lifted up the front hem of her t-shirt and used it to wipe sweat from her face, giving me a full view of her pert nipples and the little barbells that pierced them. The girl seemed to smirk, as if acknowledging the show she was now putting on. Now we were getting somewhere!
I stayed riveted behind the tree, and shortly thereafter was rewarded by another flash of titties as Brooke again wiped her brow. After the weeds were uprooted, it was time to water the vegetables. This required taking a few steps away from the garden down an embankment to the streambed where water lay in shallow algae covered pools eroded into the bedrock. After filling up a plastic bucket we used for this purpose, Brooke lugged it back to the garden and carefully poured water onto the plant roots. After repeating this several times, she again paused and looked up from the streambed towards the ranger station. Then she pulled her top completely off and dipped it into the water. Using it as a sponge, she rubbed the garment first over her face and neck, and then downward over her arms and now bare upper torso.
God, I couldn't believe the scene now unfolding! My coworker was a nymph! Still safely masked behind the pinion tree, I pulled out my dick and began to jack off. In the process I nearly dropped the heavy binoculars, holding my breath that this snafu wouldn't be noticed. The watering job wasn't quite done and Brooke made several more trips in that semi-nude state. She then paused at the edge of the garden, arms akimbo, to admire her handiwork. There would be lots of fresh vegetables later that summer! The show seemed to end, but then my co-worker did something completely unexpected. After again looking in my direction, Brooke raised both small hands up to her nipples and began to tug at the golden rods embedded through them!
Within seconds, they both were noticeably elongated and turgid. Then she closed her eyes and tilted her head upward towards the sky, her mouth formed an open "O". Even from this distance it appeared as if the girl were milking her nubbins, accomplished by wrapping a thumb and forefinger fully around their circumference to tug them back and forth, similar to what I was now doing with my own dick. I'd heard that women could reach orgasm simply by teasing their breasts, but until now had never actually witnessed it. But that's exactly what happened. As she was cumming, Brooke sank downward to kneel in the dirt.
The girl wasn't through, and it appeared she'd deliberately squatted atop the elongated wooden handle of a garden rake we used to poke at weeds. Good God, it was if she actually wanted to be seen! As I watched from my hiding place, Brooke pulled the shaft upward with one hand until it made firm contract with her denim clad crotch. She then began to writhe up and down the thing. With a free hand, she kept pulling first at one nipple and then the other.
By then, Brooke was in so deep that I doubt she'd have stopped even if somebody drove into the ranger station parking lot. But there was nobody out there and the girl kept right on dry humping the garden rake. From the expression on her magnified face, I knew just when she reached a second intense orgasm. So the isolation of the ranger station was getting to her as well! This confirmed my belief that Brooke would be the cure for my loneliness. Continuing to stare intently through the field glasses at the girl's now sweaty upper torso, I began to cum, spilling sperm out all over the rough tree bark in front of me.
Afterward when she walked back into the ranger station, I discovered that Brooke was highly susceptible to "sex flush," which I knew to be vasocongestion of the skin due to increased blood flow. I learned this from an old college girlfriend, who when approaching orgasm would develop pinkish spots under each breast which then spread to her torso and face. My ex would get embarassed when I jokingly exclaimed that I could tell the intensity of her orgasm by her coloring. In Brooke's case, I would learn that this physiological response to orgasm not only caused pronounced nipple erections (just one of many reasons they hardened), but also a very obvious swelling of her lips. These remained sensitive and susceptible to additional stimulation, often taking an hour or more to return to normal if she were high on drugs, which proved often the case later that summer.
What's good for the goose is good for the gander, so when it was my turn to water the vegetable garden, I decided to give my coworker a show of equal value. That is, if Brooke bothered to look my way. The girl was constantly provoking carnal thoughts, and by now I'd made several futile attempts to flirt with her only to be rebuffed. It seemed whatever charisma I once had with girls was left somewhere back in North Carolina, and my effort generated no obvious response from Brooke. Indeed, I was not really sure that she liked me. I mean, we were work partners and obviously had to be together much of the time, but did she actually like me?
Before heading off to water the garden, I set the tone by removing my uniform shirt and smearing on sun block to prevent exposed white flesh from burning. Due to a Northern European heritage, my skin was much fairer than Brooke's and if left unprotected it would quickly burn beet red. She on the other hand was turning very, very dark. It was the Japanese blood, I was told, but perhaps there was an African American gene or two in there she didn't bother to mention. I feigned having trouble reaching the middle of my back and asked my colleague to help out by rubbing some of the stuff in that location. This was done in a perfunctory fashion, so it was with disappointment that I ambled off toward the garden wearing just a pair of denim jeans and floppy hat.
Following the same routine as Brooke, I tossed weeds out of the garden before trudging back and forth carrying water from streambed potholes up to the dehydrated plants, which within minutes of receiving moisture began to perk up. The desert is like that — all sorts of plants thrive if just given a little water. After finishing this task, I glanced around to see if any strangers were in sight. Just a couple of empty cars baking in the parking lot and the lone trailer that served as a ranger station up there on the bluff. Save for a family of squawking blue tinged scrub jays, all was quiet. So I unbuttoned my jeans, slowly letting them drop to my ankles, and stood naked amid the young tomato and pepper plants.
I had carefully worked out this move in advance, and intentionally didn't wear underwear. My penis was already hard since I'd been thinking about Brooke's earlier performance right at this same spot. Then I began to whack away, closing my eyes and conjuring up erotic images of what I hoped eventually to do to my fellow wilderness ranger. Was she looking at me right now through those big government issue binoculars, much as I had done when it had been her turn to masturbate in the garden? It didn't take long for me to squirt jizz all over the vegetable plants, and I smiled at this natural type of fertilizer. Then I yanked up my jeans and sauntered back to the ranger station as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, not bothering to pull back on my shirt since by now it was the end of the workday.
Ironically, Brooke was sitting in the same chair I had quickly plopped into a couple days earlier, just before she walked through the office after doing her turn at garden masturbation. And like I had done at the time, she'd pulled one of the boring official government policy manuals down from a shelf, seemingly mesmerized by the thing. Glancing at the text, I saw it was a riveting retirement policy that as seasonals we were ineligible for. Then I noticed a slight reddish flush to Brooke's neck and decided that perhaps she'd indeed been looking at me while I jerked off. I didn't ask, but was dying to know if the girl had herself just reached climax, similar to what I had done when covertly spying on her from behind a tree. And why not? We were both bored and in the baking heat of summer there was little else to do!
Over the next week, this "gardening" activity became something of a ritual. Although we never discussed it and indeed, were careful to stay out of view while undertaking our mutually covert spy missions, the ever present binoculars sitting in the middle of the office desk made it clear we were keeping a very close eye on one another. It got to the point where we worked up enough courage to strip entirely nude when working down in the garden, daring someone to drive into the ranger station's parking lot. And Brooke lost that dare. It happened when Mitch, the government's regional range ecologist, paid us an unexpected visit. He'd been in the area doing plant inventories and dropped in to say hello.
Unfortunately for my work partner, her clothing lay on the ground next to the garden while she was down in the streambed. Fortunately, she'd heard the truck drive up and I watched with amusement through the binoculars as she squatted low behind the cover of a small sagebrush. How he could miss her nude frame was beyond me, but after climbing out of his vehicle Mitch marched straight up to the ranger station doorway where I stood to greet him. Exchanging idle pleasantries, I glanced over his shoulder to catch a flash of Brooke's small brown form dashing towards her discarded clothing and disappear behind an empty parked car to slip back into them. Another minute and she was trotting along the dirt path towards Mitch and me, panting for breath and trying to act casual.
The girl was not in uniform, wearing instead her trademark cut-off shorts and a floral print halter top of negligible proportions. Due to her panic a few minutes earlier, or perhaps because of the physical exertion of rushing toward the ranger station, Brooke had a very bad case of Erect Nipple Syndrome and her pert, hard knobs poked outward from beneath the scanty piece of fabric just marginally covering her upper torso. From secretly pawing through her personal belongings, I learned the girl had a tiny stash of cocaine for personal use and suspected she'd slipped a line or two before gardening.
Drugs gave Brooke a flushed, dazed look and my guess was that she'd nearly been caught masturbating when Mitch first arrived on the scene. Mitch outwardly appeared to be a good Mormon, but he was a red blooded guy. I thought his eyes would bug right out of his head as he gaped at the girl and her plethora of body tattoos then on display. He gave me a glance as if to say, you deal with this sexy little tart on a daily basis? I just shrugged. Fortunately, Mitch was not in the ranger corps' chain of command and he didn't bother to admonish my colleague for her outlandish choice of dress — or the lack thereof -- in the middle of a work day.
Brooke was in one of her manic moments, and excitedly described the garden she'd just weeded and watered. Although Mitch feigned interest, it was apparent that all he really wanted to do was stare at my co-worker's thin nubile body. She all but dragged him back down to the garden to show off her green thumb, but as I lingered behind and watched from the porch of the trailer, it appeared she was deliberately flirting with the rangeland ecologist. Indeed, at one point the back of her halter top became loose and she turned around to have the Mitch tie it back up.
I wondered if this would lead to anything else, but part of their lengthy conversation took place in the confines of his truck cab, and it was impossible to see if anything carnal transpired. As Mitch departed the parking lot in a cloud of dust, I wondered if the wench had given deliberately him a bad case of blue balls, similar to what she'd done to me while bending down to change that flat tire while we were out on patrol. Brooke may have taken a vow of abstinence from guys for the summer, but she was really pushing her luck!