Thanks again to Editor Angel Love for my appearance of literacy, her good advice and a developing friendship.
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The cold water was causing my wife's nipples and areolas to jut forward like small proud cones in her halter-top as the wet terrycloth molded itself to her small breasts.
The beginning of June can be chilly for camping in north central Pennsylvania and the trout stream fed lakes stay fairly invigorating all year-round. We liked this area because it is fairly secluded and never over crowded. Our campground was virtually deserted with the exception of a few fishermen, two other families and a lone young man traveling on a bicycle.
The first morning I emerged from the "grown-up" tent into a beautiful, morning sun that promised to warm the mountains into a pleasant, late spring day. The boys were still asleep in their dome tent. The tent was new this year at the request of the boys who wanted private quarters. Joan and I were equally pleased to have "private" quarters.
I was building a small wood fire to take off the damp morning chill when Joan exited the tent wearing the white cotton shift she wore to lounge around the campsite. The chemise was ankle length, had long sleeves and a loose-fitting body. The steadily climbing sun gave sufficient back light to outline the body moving beneath. As the fire quickly caught, I shifted my attention to my bride of fourteen years.
Joan moved around the camp making coffee and starting breakfast. From my vantage point, with the sun abetting my voyeurism, my wife's body was a perfect silhouette.
Her small titties, just slightly sagging after three children, swayed and jiggled as she moved. She never wears a bra so I have to guess her cup size to be either a snug A or a loose B. They lay proudly on her chest and, I think, have improved with child rearing.
Nature's limelight continued drawing shadow pictures against the shift. I could see Joan's waist nipping down from her chest to the flare of her hips. When she turned sideways the slight roundness of her belly and the jutting roundness of her bottom were evident.
By way of a finale, it seemed, Joan turned to directly face the sun. Standing with her muscular, cheerleader legs slightly spread apart, her pear-shaped ass was perfectly outlined by an aura of sunlight. A shaft of light about two fingers across split the silhouette where her magnificent thighs meet. Giving a very slight hint of her womanhood.
I was jolted out of the sun's anatomy lesson by the clatter of the boys tumbling out of their nylon bunkhouse. I assumed the last of the breakfast chores while Joan retired to our tent to change into the uniform of the day. She reappeared a few minutes later dressed in the terrycloth halter and shorts. The faint smell of her "Windsong" perfume, a light touch of make-up and her fresh from the shower look belied the fact that her eldest son was one year shy of teenhood.
After a typical camp breakfast that resembled the menu at a truck stop the boys declared their intention to spend the majority of the day either in the lake or on the beach. Joan and I immediately capitulated envisioning a warm sunny day in a beach chair with some best seller prose.
Already in bathing suits the boys were putting on their sneakers, I was tugging on a pair of Bean's moccasins and Joan was slipping into flip-flops. I couldn't help but notice that the scarlet polish on her toe and fingernails screamed against the hunter orange of her shorts and top. Only my seductress wife would wear nail polish in the woods.
The day moved through the late morning and into the early afternoon with only us as any kind of permanent beach residents. A few people had come for a quick dip and left but we virtually owned the swim area. Joan and I spent some time reading and wading in the shallow water as the boys rotated between lake and beach, cold and warm. It was a very pleasant day.
About one in the afternoon the young man on the bicycle arrived at the beach area. He wrapped a chain, enclosed in tubing, through the frame of the bicycle and through an eyebolt embedded in the concrete parking lot. I smiled; there probably wasn't a bicycle thief within a hundred miles.
He started walking across the sandy beach toward the water. He was tall, about six feet, of average build, defined but not muscular. His hair was short, straight and satin black. He already sported a dark tan undoubtedly from his bicycle travels. The tan was evident by the white expanse between mid-thigh, where his biking shorts ended, and the thigh-high cut of his swimsuit.
Half way across the beach he dropped his helmet in the sand and sprinted toward the cold water. He entered the water still at a sprint and dove headlong for deeper liquid. It was the move of a man lacking the courage to enter cold water step by step.
The young man surfaced near the boys and within minutes new friendships were formed. There was a lot of splashing and cannon balling from the float. This went on until each rioter was a pale shade of blue at which time they headed for the warmth of the sand and towels.
Chris introduced himself as a college junior from the University of Maine traveling cross-country on a bicycle. He had stopped here for two nights and would be leaving in the morning.
He was a handsome young man with a healthy look and a compelling smile. You were immediately attracted to his friendly easy-going manner.
He stood in front of us and talked as we sat in the sand. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Joan was having some difficulty avoiding the eye level bulge in his swimsuit. I did most of the talking to monopolize his attention allowing Joan to indulge herself, which she did, unaware of my assistance.
Soon everyone warmed up and the boys and Chris bravely returned to the water.
I lay back in the sand and said, "Well did you like what you saw?"
"Yes, what a good-looking boy, nice buns." Joan made no pretense at innocence.
In two short sentences we set up a sexual current between us that each sought to heighten. I could feel my heart beating faster and my lower belly began to crawl. Joan was watching Chris walk toward the water and she was absently bouncing her legs up and down causing her thighs to rub together.
We have been playing some exhibition sex games since I discovered Joan liked to show herself to men. It is sexually exciting for me and very rewarding in our lovemaking. During some of our fantasy sessions we discussed Joan having sex with another man either on her own or with me as a third.
Unspoken, that thought hung between us like a hot wire connecting our minds.
"Why don't you go in the water and make a friend?" I suggested.
She looked into my eyes and asked, "Are you sure about this?"
We kissed our tongues fighting for control, I brushed her left tittie and said, "I love you and want you to do something thrilling, go for it!"
Joan casually waded into the water toward Chris and her offspring. The water was up about mid-thigh when the onslaught began. For a few seconds she disappeared behind a wall of splashing turbulent water as the boys and Chris attacked. When she reemerged, she was laughing and choking at the same time. Her sandy blond hair hung in dripping ringlets and the terrycloth outfit had absorbed as much water as it would hold.
The cold water was causing my wife's nipples and areolas to jut forward like small proud cones in her halter as the wet terrycloth molded itself to her small breasts. When she put on the outfit that morning, she had no intention of going into the cold lake water.
Now the wet material clung to her body like a second skin. There was only Joan and the material no lining and no underwear.
The game continued with Joan doing as much splashing as the rest but concentrating her efforts toward Chris. When she bent to scoop the water, the weight of the soaked and stretched terrycloth would pull the halter away from her chest allowing the college boy a view of two small but very lovely tits boasting half inch nipples and puckered areolas. A condition undoubtedly brought on by both the chilly water and anticipation.
The material covering Joan's ass clung to her cheeks and settled into the cleft. During any retreat there was little doubt as to how that beautiful bottom would look naked.
Chris dunked Joan a couple of times using, Joan later said, "Whatever protruding part of my landscape he could put his hands on."
She admitted to trying to dunk him but succeeded only in getting a good feel of a hard body and what promised to be respectable package.
After a few minutes of this mayhem Joan begged off claiming cold but really not wanting things to get out of hand in front of the children. She exited the water with the terrycloth hanging and clinging in all the right places. Chris' eyes mapped her retreat until she wrapped in a towel and sank down beside me.
The boys and Chris came ashore shortly thereafter and we prepared to return to our campsite.
"Why don't you come over to our camp about eight thirty for a beer or glass of wine?" I asked Chris.
"Sounds great," he returned with a wave as he started toward his bike.
Back at camp, in the privacy of the adult tent Joan was changing out of her wet things. Naked and cold her nipples trying to reach an inch long she looked both beautiful and wanton. I took her into my arms and ran my hands over the goose flesh of her cold ass. My erection held in check by my shorts pushed into her nakedness and she ground against me.
"Do you mind that I invited Chris to join us?" I asked.
I could feel the slight tremble Joan had when she got hot. "No," she replied a bit breathless, "I want the three of us to get better acquainted."
"We'll just take things as they come. If either of us has any reservations, we'll end it then," I assured us both.
The rest of late afternoon and early evening were consumed by camp chores, getting the boys some snacks and sitting around the campfire.
About seven thirty Joan excused herself to go down to the restroom/shower area. I got the boys some cokes and broke out a bottle of California red for myself. By the time the kids had consumed the cokes and I was on my second glass of wine Joan reappeared. She sported damp hair but perfect make-up including scarlet red lipstick to match her nails. She smelled of soap and the ever-present perfume.
After accepting my offer of a glass of wine Joan entered the tent and returned wearing the white cotton shift. As I handed her the wine I ran my hand down her back and over her ass. As I expected she was unencumbered by any garment other than the shift.
