The Compound
Copyright© 2025 by Pete Fox
Chapter 4
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4 - Hedonistic prepper nudists, Shoshone trial marriage customs, a group of like-minded families prepare a bug out community in Wisconsin. Government bureaucrats, doctors, former military, farmers, and actors. In the background gain-of-function research, H5N1 influenza, spy games, sex, story progresses to 2020 pandemic over several instalments. Pete, a State Dept employee prepares his cabin and family for what he does not know. Much sex, drama, family fun, 1st POV, NSFW.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Mult Teenagers Fiction Historical Sharing Incest Exhibitionism Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy Voyeurism Big Breasts Nudism Politics
Naked Spy Games
“Three wristbands for Cedar Falls,” I said to Mrs. Smith. She cocked an eyebrow.
“We’re going to lunch. You know how I feel about their cheese curds and bratwurst.” I said, heading off a comment.
Black Hawk Commons had a complicated history with its neighbors at Cedar Falls. One result is the ability to buy a day pass without going through their reception.
Mrs. Smith handed me the green wristbands and a brass gate key. “Have fun. Remember to return the key.”
As I turned to leave, “My husband and I enjoyed that little video. If you have more?” Mrs. Smith said.
On the hard drive, there were more videos, not shared. “Tell you what, give me a copy of Titty Tornado II or get me a date with Natalya and I’ll let you take your pick,” I offered.
Before the hot tub game, I had a good conversation with the attractive bartender, who had the cutest dimpled chin. She’d finished her freshman year at Baylor University and was working here for the summer, staying at her parents’ cabin.
I know for a fact Mrs. Smith, aka Sharon Tillage, had a short porn career in the late 80s. Her farmer’s daughter looks and 34DDs were popular. She disappeared from porn after a dozen films, mostly VHS titles. I was still tracking them down.
“I’ll talk to my niece. She’ll do it,” Mrs. Smith said, eyes all-knowing.
On the way out, I paused by a 24” tall copper Sacajawea statue. Her bare chest firm, youthful, a blanket low on her hips, an infant papoose on her back. Her full, upturned breasts, dubbed ‘Twin Peaks,’ gleamed with a faded patina from years of touch. A gift from the estate of a former member. Her Shoshone trial-union customs shaped our Compound’s charter, agreed to by all.
I ran a finger over her copper breasts; I’d never had sex with an Indian - Native American. “Sacajawea, give us luck today,” he said quietly to himself.
Tommy parked the Gator ATV on a wide spot off the dirt road, a quarter mile from Black Hawks Commons’ main gate.
I looked at Sarah’s update on the sat phone’s small screen. Per the asset, guests plan to arrive by 1300 for lunch at the pool. Both parties will wear red bows on a hat, the recognition sign.
My G-Shock watch said it was nearly noon. Exiting the ATV, I shouldered my Gregory daypack and carried a modified canvas beach bag.
I wore a red Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree design and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I had a beach towel over my shoulder; the shirt would come off at the pool. The air, warm on my cock.
Tommy and Sydney’s efforts at modesty were Badger tank tops and baseball hats. Tommy shouldered a gym bag and a towel. Sydney wore the modified JanSport fanny pack I’d returned to her.
“Any questions?” Do you both understand your roles?” I asked, one last time. We had gamed the plan over breakfast.
“Yes, Daddy,” from Sydney. “Yup,” from Tommy. Both looked relaxed. He hoped it would stay that way. Just lunch, pool time, and each kid had a simple task. So, did I.
Using the key, I opened the gate. I wanted to be at the pool well before the meeting time.
At the Cedar Falls (nudist) Campground pool, I chose a chaise lounge chair in the shade next to the café, where I had a good view of the pool. The kids got naked and made themselves at home in the peanut-shaped pool while I ordered lunch for us. It was 12:15 p.m.
I kept the beach bag by my side. At the bottom, using a cardboard box as a base, I’d cut a lens-sized hole for the SureShot camera. Cutting a small slit, I passed a cable release attached to the Canon so I could manually trigger it. I could also set it to shoot automatically every ten seconds.
By 12:30 p.m., I was nearly done with my first order of cheese curds. Sydney and Tommy, dripping wet, were on the chaise to my right, drying in the sun after playing in the pool.
“Daddy, I don’t know why you like these; they’re lumps of fried cheese. You’ll get fat,” Sydney said, taking one of my last curds.
I wasn’t paying attention to her. A Caucasian woman, nude with nice hooters, was organizing chairs around a low table. Almost directly across from us on the other side of the pool. Maybe thirty feet, she wore a sun hat with a red bow on it.
Game on. I placed the beach bag at the end of the chaise lounge between my feet. The lens hole pointed at her. I manually took a couple of pictures.
Sydney stopped talking. I assume she saw the red-bow lady. My guess is that she was in her thirties. Her pale body had not seen much sun and had visible tan lines. I was looking for an older male, in his seventies, short. It was the description Sarah passed on. No description of the Chinese agents.
Looking around, I saw maybe a dozen people at the pool, mostly adults. Like us, sunning themselves, having quiet conversations, or having lunch.
In a hushed voice, “Sydney, see that lounge chair next to them. That’s your spot.”
The waitress brought three bratwurst sandwiches. One for me, two for Tommy while Sydney got three chicken strips and fries. A beer and two soft drinks to wash it down. Surveillance was about patience and blending in. We ate and watched Sydney spread her towel near the little circle of chairs, placing her fanny pack on the deck. Sydney said something to the woman, who appeared to say, “No problem, sit, chaise not taken,” to the teenager.
I took pictures, and my watch read 12:50 p.m. Pale Woman, that’s what I call her, checked a message on a cell phone, then sent messages of her own. She glanced toward the pool entrance, to my right.
I covered the cable with my shirt and kept my book open in front of me. At 12:55 p.m., a short man with silver hair, wearing sunglasses, carrying a towel, and a brown folder, walked confidently to the circle of chairs. The camera was on auto now, taking pictures every ten seconds, plenty of space on the data card. I adjusted the bag, the lens set to wide-angle. Clear line of sight.
Pale Woman and Silver Hair greeted each other and sat side by side after he spread his towel on the chair. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her, an Asian woman, tallish, nude, with a nice body, walking confidently along the far side of the pool. Straw sun hat, big red bow, carrying a beach bag, green wristband. She wasn’t alone. I’ll call her Tiger Lady.
“Tommy, get in the pool,” I said as I casually scanned the pool area. My John Wells spy novel, The Midnight House, is in my hands. It was happening; Sarah had been right.
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