Chapter 16

The camp proceeded with fewer incidents now the working plans had been worked out. Clive wasn’t occupied every evening. Sometimes he thought or hoped he might recruit enough for a warm body next to his every night; but he knew he needed some rest. Marie was content to be very intermittent. She really wanted to be friends rather than fuck buddies. Sandie and Harry were content to share him and each other some nights, he enjoyed watching them making love to each other. Mandy was content to be stroked and caressed and sucked, and to do the same back; her visits were the easiest and most relaxing as they involved bringing a girl to delicious climax and often then just falling asleep in each other’s arms. And Jo-Lene, by generally accepted common consent, had priority in access to his body; but even she found once or twice a week enough. She liked to be overwhelmed with his slightly sadistic mild BDSM desires; the complete lack of control that was involved was a welcome escape from the responsibilities of running the camp.

He even procured a couple of hooks to screw into the top and bottom of the bed so he could tie Jo-Lene (and any other girl willing to try) naked to his bed and rotate her for access front or back. She squirmed as he used his electric razor on her pubic hair and then left it running; vibrating energetically across her skin and making her sweat with climax after climax. One post sexual morning, she took the morning off sick for the first time ever as her body was exhausted. Exhausted and delighted, deliciously enjoying the feeling of being tired out after hour after hour of love-making. She hadn’t taken time off sick even when she had the worst period cramps ever the previous year, but this was different. This was being off sick because she was a debauched and debased woman of no moral fibre; she loved that feeling, even if it couldn’t and shouldn’t last.

Sailing proceeded successfully. Each camp produced one or two girls who had a talent for spotting the minor adjustments needed rather than overcompensating; girls who would be good sailors if they had the chance. And each camp produced one or two who it was a pleasure to capsize into the water – usually because they were explaining how ‘Daddy’ (always Daddy, never Mummy), had a yacht with crew and could sail brilliantly etcetera, etcetera. It was good to see their perfect nails chip and their immaculate hair rise from the water like a mop head. Clive also found it was good hauling them in with a hand pulling on the base of their shorts or swimming costume.

Occasional amusements were caused by a ‘Missey’ losing her bikini bra in the water, or Petra-Louie sitting on an ant hill and ripping her clothes off soon after, or the resplendently named Marjorie-Aleskandia-May shouting out very loudly as the bow string struck her right boob with the noise of a slapped face. Clive wasn’t invited to put BruiseyOff on that bruised mammary. Mostly, though, things proceeded to a pleasant and contented conclusion for the summer.

When it was time to pack up, Mr and Mrs VanDaemon wrote inviting Clive to stay a couple of days before flying home. Harriet had suggested it and it fitted well with his plans to see Washington D.C. before leaving. Francis VanDaemon took him sailing on the last day and commented favourably on his technique; even though he had never sailed a boat with a wheel rather than a tiller. If he had any suspicion of what Clive had been doing with Harriet, he never said. Perhaps he had been brought to realise that Harriet was ‘a woman full growed’ as Dulcey says in Titus Gamble. She was old enough to make her own decisions; or perhaps he realised that she could do worse than explore her sexuality with Clive; or perhaps he thought Clive was gay, like half the campers had.

Harriet and he had travelled back in the bus with the others; Mandy had managed to nab the seat beside him and, despite intending all sorts of activities on the way back (involving hands down shorts), they had fallen asleep together as had most of the bus. It had been an exhausting summer.

At Penn Station in Baltimore, Charles and the Bentley waited to collect Harriet and Clive. They travelled in style to the house just outside with a frontage down to the water. Dinner was relaxed and pleasant. The following morning, Mr VanDaemon was out first thing, and Mrs VanDaemon left soon after for her Committee of the Congressional Women’s Equality Commission. Harriet ran along the corridor and into Clive’s room, slid into bed with him after telling the housekeeper she could leave that room for a long while. She re-appeared two hours later with shakey legs and a smile. Mrs Dagmouse, the housekeeper, shook her head with a smile, went in and told Clive she would be making the bed in fifteen minutes. She might stay out of the way for Harriet, but Clive held no such sway. She was tempted to pull off the sheet to see what the attraction was, but didn’t; she was past all that silliness now, she told herself. Later, she wondered why, if she was past it, she had been tempted at all. Later still, in her bath, she discovered she wasn’t quite as past it as she thought. Later still she found the porn websites disgusting, hilarious, amazing, and unbelievable. She liked the ones where a girl was bound naked and assaulted from all directions. She was surprised to discover girls volunteered for this, and even more surprised to find that she dreamt of being the girl that night.

Clive flew back to the UK for the start of his new term. He just had time to go home and get all his washing done, kiss the parents, collect ‘a little something to help you’ and then head to university for his second year. He was reading the last of the Barchester Towers novels on the train, and struck up a conversation with a young first year about to start English; by the time they disembarked and shared a taxi to the campus, he had invited her for a meal at his flat, and was pretty sure she was up for much more, in time. He had an easy confidence with girls now; something that several of his science colleagues, and a few of his lecturers, envied.

University rooms were usually limited to first years, disabled students, and foreign students – in that order of priority. On the last day of the last term, Clive had finally found somewhere to move into for the new year. It wouldn’t have been his first choice.

His flat was not a swish condo – like Harriet would have, no doubt – it was a room with rotting window sills, a single bed and shared kitchen and bathroom. His posters of the USA brightened up his room, and his rewiring of the lights allowed for some more flexible lighting with dimmers and coloured bulbs. He had to upgrade the lighting circuit fuse too – and make a note to replace the smaller fuse when he moved out. The flat mates were variously neat and tidy (Tony, gay and proud of it – not one to accept a perceived disparaging comment about gays without an argument), Shana and Millie – one lesbian and one heterosexual (in a Goth way – not Clive’s type), and both as messy as only girls can be. The problem was that they liked cooking, all four did, but Shana and Millie thought there was a washing up fairy who would clean their plates and return them to the cupboard. Clive and Tony pooled resources, purchased saucepans, frying pans and the like and kept them in their own cupboards. When the sink was full, they simply picked up the basin and left it on the floor. After a week or two of this, a crisis meeting was held and the girls agreed to pull their weight. They would never make sweet little housewives vacuuming around hubby, but at least the kitchen floor was no longer sticky all the time.