Educating Laura

Second of five chapters. Laura hadn't been expecting sex when Richie came to alleviate her loneliness working at a kids' summer camp.

Future chapters will be in Group Sex, with mild mentions of BDSM and a couple bits of same-sex contact in Ch.5.

________________________

When I awoke, the sun seemed higher than usual. Yes, it was nearly eight already! Normally I'd be working on breakfast by seven.

Instead, I saw Richie, bending down to enter the tent.

"Mug of tea for you. Andy said it's how you like it."

"Wow! Man! This is great, thank you! I'd best come help."

"No hurry. We've fed the horde. You can supervise washing up, once you've drunk that. What do you want for breakfast? There's eggs, mushrooms, bacon and sausage. Oh, you know that." He ran to a halt, looking awkward.

"Egg and bacon inna bun, please. I'll be there in a bit."

I sat myself up to savour the tea. Richie savoured my naked body for a moment, gave an almost invisible smile, then let the inner fabric fall as he ran off through the dewy grass.

I couldn't dress to impress, so I settled for clean. Baggy shorts and hairy legs it was, then. But then, Richie clearly didn't care about body hair. I had a wider range of tops, so picked a more fitted T-shirt, shoved practical buckled sandals on my feet and went in search of breakfast.

Andy gave me another tea, Richie passed a large bread roll filled with egg and bacon.

"Mm. Heaven. A girl could get used to this!"

"Nice having your boyfriend around, is it?" Sam sniped.

I chewed, managing not to laugh as I let Richie answer that one.

"Boyfriend? Hardly! Laura's a mate, from college. Would you like a filled cob, too?" He proffered another bread roll.

The gobsmacked expression on her slappable face was perfect.

"I'm free and single," I confirmed. "But he clearly has more talent for cooking than I was aware of!"

Rich looked at me, then away, that closed-off cautious expression. I guessed this was as complex a conversation with people as he could handle, especially first thing in the morning.

I ran around the site, checking all the kids' possessions ended up at least in one van or the other, and waved at Ali as she started to drive away, Pete by her side, Sam and Jude in the minibus behind.

Andy yawned. "Aah, feel that peace! I'm off fishing the day. No offence pal, love, but you're not invited. All them kids do my head in. I need the quiet."

"I know what you mean! See you later, Andy. Rich, you up for a wander around the sights? It's about five miles to Symond's Yat, and we can come back past the falls south of here. Or we could cycle into Ross or Monmouth, but they're just towns."

"And full of tourists. River and woods is fine by me. Should I pack up lunch for each of us?"

"Please. Take all the fruit that needs eating -- Andy won't."

"If you're lucky, there'll be trout for tea," the man remarked.

"If we're unlucky?" Richie asked.

Andy shrugged. "What you see." He gestured at the spuds, pasta, and tins.

"OK."

I left the two men in the cook tent. They seemed to be getting on remarkably well, despite neither using more words than necessary.

I poured a mug of water from my large bottle to brush my teeth, spitting on the grass. Then I put on socks and trainers, grabbed a fleece, and filled two water bottles from the standpipe in the main field.

Richie had efficiently packed two daysacks with provisions and waterproofs. "Map?"

"You really can't get lost here. You're either walking along the river, or it's obvious which way is down to it. Got your jacket?"

He collected it as we headed to the rope bridge. Stopping in the middle of the river, he leant on the rope, making the whole bridge bounce. "Good view," he commented, after two peaceful minutes.

We continued mostly in silence after that, along the path above the river for a couple miles. We didn't hold hands, like a couple would. The river rounded a bend.

"Huh. Nice."

Most people said 'Wow!' when the gorge appeared. It was stunning, even before you noticed the waterfalls.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"Bit further." It was starting to get more crowded, so I led him away from the river, but where there were still good views. A stop for a drink and finishing the soft fruit, then we returned along a higher path, further from the river but with even better views across the valley, in between a few dips into green fields.

Richie was quiet, but clearly enjoying himself as his eyes darted to and fro, following birds and noticing plants. Finally he spoke.

"See that kingfisher, in the willow tree?"

I didn't, until it flew off, displaying its signature turquoise feathers, then diving into the water.

I grinned at him, and he let one of those rare smiles slip. I guessed he was relaxing, not having to worry now about how he came across to strangers.

"Lunch?" he suggested.

We stopped in the next field, where there was space to stretch out, leaning against a fence, careful to avoid sheep droppings.

"Thanks for coming," I told him, after some munching in companionable silence.

He seemed startled. "You're welcome." Which was the correct phrase for being thanked, I supposed. He hesitated. "I was worried -- did I offend you earlier? Saying I'm not your boyfriend?"

"No! I mean, you're not, right? Not wanting any relationship, you said. I figured you meant that?"

"Yes. I did."

"That's fine. I mean, I can't see us being all romantic and stuff. But what you were doing last night, in the tent..."

"Was that OK?"

"Hell, yes! It's not just guys who can go around having no-strings-attached sex, you know."

"Good. Then that's a plan for tonight. After Andy provides dinner."

"We hope. He may not catch anything."

"I suppose. Would you want to...?"

I gave him my best impassive face. "I've got a few condoms, but if you didn't bring more, that might restrict our activities a little."

He exhaled. "Good. And I did."

"Excellent. As long as we're in private. Don't want to shock Andy!"

"You wouldn't want him to join in?"

It must be another of Richie's jokes, and I laughed.

"Bit much for a second ... night together." 'Date' would be the wrong word, I realised.

"Fair point. Any requests for tonight? What would you be up to if I weren't here?"

Two very different questions! "Tonight -- eat well, have a drink or two, get fucked."

"I can assist with all that."

"Excellent. If you weren't here -- I would be washing my hair, literally. It takes a couple hours, heating up enough boiling water, diluting it in the bathtub, rinsing with bucket after bucket..."

"I could help with that too, if you wanted."

Which is how, a hour later, we were heating three saucepans full of water, arguing over how much cold water should be added, and laughing over how we'd always thought those thermodynamics problems asking 'this much hot and so much cold water mix in a hemispherical bathtub: calculate the resulting temperature,' were unrealistic!

With a bit more luck than maths, we ended up with plenty of warm water. I tried to lean back, standing by the tub, and let Richie pour water to get all my long hair wet.

My top got soaked, so it made sense to rip it off. A bra looks like a bikini top, right, perfectly decent? Rich tugged a picnic chair over for me to sit on, I leant backwards, and his next bucket flowed neatly back into the bathtub, drenching my hair in the process, almost like a professional hairdresser. Or their new promising apprentice.

So I passed him my shampoo bottle and suggested he do the honours.

Which he did. It was remarkably pleasurable. Over later years people learned how much I loved a head massage. It became a standing joke that I'd happily sit on the floor when a group of us were watching telly, if only someone would scritch my scalp.

He squeezed suds out of my hair, letting them fall to the grass. I turned away from the bath for one bucket of rinsing, which was reasonably effective, but while letting the conditioner soak in, I figured I might as well remove my soaked bra as well.

Richie squatted astride me; the folding chair would never tolerate both of us sitting on it. He had to stretch his legs wide to fit, his muscular thighs and package pressing his denim taut. He leant over my bare chest to comb the conditioner through my hair with his fingers, presumably as he did to himself -- probably equally efficiently and dispassionately -- but as my breasts grazed against his rough-dried T-shirt, I couldn't contain a gasp.

He stepped back, to regard me properly -- a wet, topless woman sitting before him. He grinned, ripping off his own top before shifting to my side, set on detangling every last lock of my hair. From what I could see out the corner of my eye, he was now working by feel, his gaze fixed on my breasts.

And why not? No-one else was likely to be within a quarter-mile; Andy had never returned before five from his previous fishing trips. The weather was Britain's best -- warm and sunny to an enjoyable degree, not too hot, not humid, a very gentle breeze blowing across my nipples.

Haircare was followed by Richie taking soapy suds and washing my chest, neck and underarms with them. He brushed the bubbles away as well as he could with his arm, then with my wet flannel. I'd brought out all my washcloths and dry towels for the purpose.

"Let's rinse you, before this water gets cold."

I moved the chair, leaned back again, and three half-buckets got the hair nearly soap-free.

"One more should do it."

"Mm. Yes." He obliged, pouring slowly, running his hands through every piece of hair, checking it would be squeaky clean. The water was cooler than I'd have chosen in a shower, but still pleasantly warm. "Just need to rinse your body, now."

There was probably two bucketfuls of water left in the bottom of the bathtub, though it was always hard to scoop up the last few litres.

Richie half-filled a bucket. "Stand up." Then he dumped it over my head, swinging it enough that water ran down all sides of me, certainly rinsing off all the soap, but my jeans were now soaked!

"Oops," he said disingenuously.

"You bastard!"

"Yeah, yeah. What you going to do about it?"

"You'd better carry on washing me, I think."

I held up one foot at a time for him to remove shoe and sock, then gestured for him to remove my jeans, my damp pants coming off with them.

I was naked, in the middle of a field, in broad daylight.

And loving it. This topless man might be mad, but this was the best weekend I'd had in ages. Including the night I'd pulled that guy for a one-off to celebrate the end of our first-year exams!

Solemnly, Richie soaked another washcloth, rubbing up and down my legs with it. Then he squirted shampoo on one side, and began to wash below my waist. I was reminded of my grandmother's instructions on how to do a strip-wash, with no shower nor hot water for baths. "You washes down as far as possible, then you washes up as far as possible, and then you wash 'possible'!"

'Possible' was getting washed very thoroughly. My overgrown pubic hair was teased apart, washed carefully, and released, springing back into neat curls a Seventies porn mag would have been proud of. I stood with my legs further apart as every fold was carefully cleaned. A firm wipe sent soap scrubbing up my arse-crack, as I held myself upright with an arm on his shoulder.

Then the non-soaped half of the flannel was used to start rinsing me off. Again, done with care and attention, more care and attention washing around my clitoris than might have really been necessary, then round again, all faithfully following the front-to-back rule. Once done, I was simply standing, bare, the wind picking up and tickling these rarely-exposed parts of my body.

Rich was stroking over my pubic area, thoughtfully, as he gazed into the trees separating the field from the farm track.

I was thoughtful, too. Knowing Andy might be back within an hour, I really didn't want to have sex out in the middle of this field, tempting as it was. Turned out, that wasn't what Richie suggested.

"You said you wanted a trim. Shall I?" He pulled a curl gently and let it spring back into place.

"A trim?" I was feeling the distancing effect of too much hair in the way, it was true. He produced a Leatherman multi-tool out of his pocket. "Well. Just a trim, though, leave maybe half an inch, a centimetre all over, no attempts at shaving..."

"My razor's back in your tent. I've never tried shaving anyone else, though. I don't think this is

quite

the place to acquire that skill-set."

"No!"

"Cool." He extracted the scissor blades. "Here goes."

Five minutes later, a small pile of dark curls near my feet was blown away in the wind. It could be mistaken for sheep wool, I reckoned. Rich brushed my now-sleek pubis free of any loose hairs, clearly approving of the dark elegant triangle. He passed me a towel, which I turbanned round my head, followed by a larger one for wrapping round my suddenly-shivering body.

"Come on, let's get you dressed again."

"In a minute. You might as well get clean too, while there's some warm water and privacy."

He looked uncertain about that, then stood with me between him and the unpaved road. I passed him a warm wet cloth. He took a deep breath, and dropped trou.

Like with me, his underwear came down in the same movement.

A naked man, standing in the field.

It improved the surroundings hugely, and I'm not dissing the beautiful Wye Valley by saying that.

I'd already seen most of his long elegant body when we'd been swimming the night before, his legs paler than ours. I now confirmed that what had been hidden under those shorts was similarly long and elegant. I immediately fondled his rounded little backside, all warm and muscular.

Richie seemed to be trying to convince himself his nudity was acceptable, muttering fiercely to himself,

"Sauce for the goose..."

He washed round and underneath his flaccid cock and balls just as carefully as he'd washed me, wiping any sweat away as he pulled down his wrinkled foreskin, letting it back up, protectively. I wanted to reach out, play with it myself, but he seemed oddly nervous. So I passed him a bath towel, instead.

"Ta. Back to the tent, get dressed?"

I nodded. Decently wrapped in towels, we picked up our clothes, left the footwear.

Two minutes later, we both lay, clean, dry yet still naked, in my tent. I found an elastic and secured my damp hair out of the way.

I didn't want to waste this opportunity. But Richie reckoned Andy would be back soon. That was his explanation why, after a few moments of exploration, he firmly removed my hand from getting anywhere near his cock and insisted on getting dressed.

I'd have been more miffed if he hadn't looked me in the eye, growling, "Hold that thought."

In his long cargo trousers and a black fleece, he looked like someone from an indie band. Bassist, most likely. The quiet one who writes half the songs, then has a big bust-up with the singer, making the group fall apart.

We moseyed back to the main field. To my surprise, Andy was there already, poking the fire back into life, then turning to a bag full of fish. Lucky he hadn't returned a half-hour earlier!

"Gutted them already? Ah, you must have done that when you caught them!" Richie greeted him.

"Mm," Andy didn't contradict. "You're in luck, grand fishing I had today. Two trout each. Laura, see what you can find to go with them, would you love?"

Butter, a bottle of lemon juice and a tub purporting to be 'Italian Seasoning'. I also found some tinfoil which might have only been used to cover a dish.

"Overpriced oregano, I reckon." Andy flattened the foil, added the skin-on fish, all competently opened out to show their bones, applied butter, lemon and herbs, then folded the parcel together. On the metal trivet in the fire it went.

"Thirty minutes should do it. Rich, pal, boil some water for the tatties, would ya?"

I was already on the case, chopping the spuds small so they'd cook quicker. I might fry them with some onions, if I could be bothered.

"Great stuff, Laura. Any of the veg is fair game, except the carrots -- they keep."

Within forty minutes, using no gas at all, we had dinner fit for kings. Even the local pub would have been proud to serve it to tourists, though I bet they'd have limited it to one fish per person!

"Ah, this is so good! Thanks, Andy," I told him.

"You got any wine left, to go with?" he responded. "You bought those bottles a couple weeks back."

I remembered. I'd planned to drown my sorrows one weekend, then realised getting hammered would be a bad idea, even with no kids about, just avoiding Sam and Jude. It was a rule my dad and sister had hammered into me, using my mum as an example: never drink alone.

I ran back to the others -- it was cold, away from the fire. "Here. D'you wanna get mugs?"

"Nah," Richie answered my rhetorical question. "Just pass it round."

Andy shrugged, so we did. A bottle between three worked well. I liked how the lads' throats became long and exposed as they poured wine into their mouths.

Andy's red-brown skin and dark hair made him look like a god made flesh from the fire, its flame illuminating him, his cigarette adding to the smoke rising near-straight into the air on this warm windless night. Richie would be more of a creature from air or water. Which left me earth or trees, I supposed. That fit.

We broke out the chocolate Richie had brought, and some whisky of Andy's, which resulted in my gibbering out loud about our resemblance to various spiritual elementals, to the boys' quiet amusement. They didn't say much, so it was mostly me filling in the conversation, my throat loosened by the booze.

It was a most pleasant evening around the fire, midges off away, evening chorus sounds of birds and insects all around. We couldn't see the sunset, given the angle of the valley, but I still loved the way the twilight grew on us each night, a hundred stars becoming visible. Once the fire was out, and any lights from the farm, thousands of stars would sparkle across the purple-black sky on a clear night.

It was worth the struggle to escape the tent for a night-time wee, to see that. I didn't bother with the Portaloo -- the grass could cope. Long T-shirts hid many sins. I was sure the lads did the same, only made easier by their superior anatomy.

"Not so bad, out of London, eh, Rich?" Andy clearly loved the countryside and the open spaces, thriving here. I loved it too, but I like the bustle and anonymity of cities even more.

"No. Way better than Coventry, that's for sure." Richie looked across the sky, nodding with satisfaction. He added a rare second sentence. "Only thing that would make it better would be zero midges, and maybe some fireflies."

"Midges! There's hardly any down here! Aye, a few, but never any of the big clouds of them." The lament of the long-suffering Scotsman.

"Fair enough. I get one or two bites every summer, no matter where I go. No more, even when there's swarms. I reckon I taste terrible, and they report back."

Andy flicked his eye to me and looked like he was trying not to laugh. I deduced his double entendre and ignored it. "Fireflies?"

"Mm. Don't get them here. But last summer I was in Canada. Lots of hiking, cabins. The fireflies arrive at dusk and they switch on and off, these little sparks of light, half their body lit up, about 20 seconds on, same off, on, off. They're fascinating. Just like in the Disney films."

Andy chuckled, "Didnae take you for a Disney fan!"

"Hardly. Popular culture."

Andy nodded and didn't argue.

Richie asked, "What was you up to before you joined this lot, then, Andy?"

"This is my second summer here. I run the youth club sessions, during the year."