The secret clubhouse was deep in the woods, well off any of the main trails. It was highly secretive, and the boys kept the location strictly among themselves. No parent or outsider had ever seen it or even knew about it. Every year, during the long hot summer months, the boys were drawn to the woods and their secret clubhouse. There was something wild and unknown about the unexplored territory of the forest at the edge of town, and its many caves, cliffs and creeks. They made paths through the deep expanses of wood, tromping down wild grasses, weeds and clearing out fallen tree limbs and branches. They tied a knotted thick rope to an old oak tree so they could swing on the rope and fall into the cool water of the crooked creek. They camped out in the woods, made campfires and roasted marshmallows on long spindly branches.
And the clubhouse was their pride and joy. They had first made the crude wooden clubhouse as young teenagers and had continued to work on it and improve it over the years. They hauled in tools and wood and put in a wooden floor. They rebuilt the roof twice over the years, repairing and plugging the holes that developed after every strong rainstorm. They knocked down one wall and expanded the clubhouse, making it roomy and airy. They made crude wooden chairs and used stumps and logs for benches and tables. They brought in coolers, candles and even a gasoline-powered generator for lighting lamps after dark.
The path to the clubhouse was well camouflaged and only the chosen few knew the way to the secret front entrance. Several large banyan trees that had grown together covered the entire wooden structure with their swooping limbs and heavy foliage. Vines and other plants had grown over the outside walls and roof, adding to the almost invisible nature of the secret clubhouse. And the structure was almost a mile into the forest, far away from any main trail, so that any noise or light could not be seen by anyone tramping through the woods. The clubhouse was the perfect retreat for the boys to get away from the prying eyes of parents and older siblings.
When they were younger, they played capture the flag and war games in the woods for hours. They used the clubhouse as their headquarters. As the years passed and they matured, they used the clubhouse to smoke cigarettes and flip eagerly through stolen Penthouse magazines. As they got even older, they would sneak beer and their parents' alcohol from the house, bring it to the clubhouse where they could taste the forbidden nectar until they were giggly and drunk. They even experimented with pot that one boy had stolen from an older brother.
From the beginning they had started a secret club, and it had a very exclusive membership. The membership ebbed and flowed, depending on which boy moved away, which boy stopped hanging with the group, and which new boy was initiated as part of the club. As they got older, the membership waned. Boys in their late teens had more important things to do than explore the woods. But the boys who stayed in the group still enjoyed using the clubhouse. It was a place to get away from parents, to smoke and drink and swear and pretend to be an adult without being treated like a kid. The clubhouse held a large quantity of porno magazines, stacked in one corner of the wooden floor. The boys even imagined bringing a special girl to the clubhouse, to make out with and perhaps even go all the way. But no one had yet violated the code and brought a non-member to the secret clubhouse.
By the time the final summer of high school had rolled around, and each boy had finally reached the age of 18, there were only four regular members left. That last summer, with Brendan on vacation, Peter, Neal and David planned several campouts at the clubhouse in the hazy warm summer days in August. They knew it would be the last summer before full-time jobs or college started. During these campouts, the boys talk incessantly about girls and sex and the desire to get laid. Paging through the porn magazines late into the evenings of their campouts, they would laugh and stare at the naked women, making boasts, their cocks rock hard in their jean shorts. They took turns reading the Penthouse letters aloud – incredible stories of sex and orgies and all kinds of fascinating fetishes.
One late afternoon, as they were heading back to the clubhouse on a trail through the woods, they made an unusual discovery. A woman was sitting on the bank of a creek. As they approached down the path in a single file line, they could see she was nearly as old as their mothers, perhaps a bit younger, and that she was rubbing her ankle. She had dirty blonde hair to her shoulders and wore shorts and a t-shirt, white socks and tennis shoes. When the three boys spotted her, they approach cautiously, wondering who this woman was and why she was trespassing in their woods.
Hearing them approach, the woman looked up, seemingly relieved. "Hello! Over here! Maybe you could help me…" She had blue eyes and fair skin, a deep summer tan, and they could see she was very attractive, if 20 years older than they. The boys approached, looking at her lying on the bank of the creek rubbing her ankle, saying nothing. She had long slender legs and looked like she was in good shape.
"I was taking a hike," the woman said, explaining," and I tripped. As I was crossing this creek, I tripped on a tree root. I seem to have sprained my ankle. I don't think it's broken. But it's throbbing."
The boys stood around where she sat, looking down at the offending ankle. It looked a bit swollen and reddish.
"It really hurts," the woman continued. "I hope I didn't break anything. I don't think I can walk on it. I can barely stand." Her face looked flush with the effort she had been making in the heat. "Maybe one of you could go for help. I don't think I can walk out of here. Do any of you have a cell phone?"
"Let's have a look," Peter said, crouching down. He placed his hand on her tender ankle. Yes, it was starting to swell. It looked like a nasty sprain, but nothing seemed broken. It didn't appear that she would be able to put much pressure on it. Peter looked at the woman's slender tan legs. His eyes drifted over her full breasts, and he could see the outline her bra was making against her tight t-shirt.
"My name is Emma," the woman offered. The boys introduced themselves.
The sun was going down, and Peter looked up scanning the horizon. "We could probably carry you out of here. Back to your car."
"Are you sure?" Emma asked. "I wish I had my cell phone. I could have called for help."
