spurting

We were canoeing in Algonquin Park when we hooked up. It was mid-August; the ban on fires had been lifted and the hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes that haunt the warm dusk had vanished with the onset of cool nights.



Taralee was luscious — a petite, vivacious brunette with hair down to her curvy breasts, and hips to stir fantasies in the most cynical of men. Despite her femininity, she could handle a canoe, pack a rucksack and set up a campsite with the best of them.



When our chance meeting turned into campfire meals and sharing a canoe, then a tent and then a sleeping bag, I was in heaven.



We really didn’t know much about each other, or much care, for that matter. Under the burning stars and shimmering Northern Lights, it was mating season. We took morning dips in crystal lakes and the hot sun dried our naked bodies as we lay on the warm pink granite of the Canadian Shield.



Most days, we saw no other humans. There were glimpses of bears, eagles and hawks turned lazy circles in the blue sky, and we surprised the odd sun-loving turtle or lizard lazing on old logs. But we had the chain of lakes to ourselves. Rocky islands provided sheltered campsites, and solitude for the sex-filled nights.



One day on one of the larger lakes, we saw a flotilla of aluminum canoes, and paddled toward them. They turned out to be a group of soldiers on leave, who’d booked a week-long wilderness canoe trip to get the desert dust out of their lungs. They were strong, handsome men, and quite taken with Taralee’s obvious charms.



The sun was getting low in the sky, the breeze was stirring the lake into whitecaps and we all headed for the shelter of a largish, well-treed island in the middle of the lake. There were several good spots to set up camp. Taralee picked the most sheltered and secluded one, and seemed delighted when the trippers asked if they could join us there since there was lots of room to pitch their three four-man tents.



Soon dinner aromas filled the air, then the silence of a good meal well enjoyed, followed by joking banter as we scrubbed our pots and dishes at the edge of the lake. Mugs of steaming tea were passed around, and one of the soldiers dug a flask out of a packsack and topped up several of the mugs. They laughed and nodded as Taralee helped herself.



After dinner, a couple of the men started a roaring bonfire in a good-sized clearing nearby. A large, flat-topped rock tood about waist-high a dozen feet from the fire.



Taralee had been sipping several lacings of the soldiers’ firewater: She disappeared quietly, and out of the corner of her eye I saw her slip into our tent. When she returned, she was wearing … a dress! She must have had it in the bottom of her packsack.



And what a dress: It appeared to be made of a double ribbon of royal blue and black that seemed to wind round and round her body, clinging to it like a second skin and concealing nothing. The dark fabric was chased with silver glyphs that sparkled ethereally in the ruddy firelight.



She leaped onto the rock and the soldiers let out whoops and a series of wolf whistles. The silver threads in her dress flashed as she started to dance to some unheard music. Her wondrous hips swayed her hips and her lucious breasts bounced seductively.



The rhythm of her dancing moved faster and faster till suddenly an unseen Indian drum broke the eerie silence. Her movements slowed in time to its heartbeat syncopations. The sound came from outside the circle of firelight, somewhere — everywhere — in the pine-scented woods.



It was primal, the soundtrack of the wild, northern sexuality that welled up from some deep part of her ancestry. As she twisted sinuously to the deep throbbing of the drum, she grasped handfuls of the filmy cloth, twisting and turning as she pulled the bottom of the dress up, up, up … there was a brief flash of black and then her thong flew towards the fire where it turned instantly to flame. The soldiers gasped and clapped.



The drumming came faster now, and her movements sped up. Round and round she swirled and the dress seemed to rise magically above her body till it was just a collar around her neck, then — seemingly of its own accord — sailed off into the darkness. She’d become a dancing, throbbing fertility goddess, her sweat-streaked copper-hued skin as shiny as the dress she’d shed and twice as erotic, her breasts heaving in time to the drum, her black-thatched mound thrusting in and out as her knees moved apart, together, apart, together, apart …



When, exactly, the soldiers stepped out of their clothes, I don’t know; I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off this hypnotic, otherworldly dance. Suddenly I became aware that they were circling the fire and rock, sweat pouring from their glistening, muscled bodies from the sexual heat as much as the fire. Each one sported a straining erection: thick, thin, straight, curved, dark, white, all pointed straight at Taralee.



Her hands were over her head, floating in the firelight as they admired her, eyes shining with anticipation. Every so often there’d be a slight change in the rhythm of the unseen drum and she’d squat down, knees spread wide, and rise slowly to her feet, her hands tracing every lusty curve of her body as she danced.



Suddenly, the drumming turned frantic. Five soldiers moved, grabbing her ankles and wrists and one cradling her head. In a second one of the other soldiers, a huge bear of a man with thick black hair on his belly, shoulders and back, was on his knees, silhouetted against the fire. The young men held Taralee horizontal, suspended over him, her arms held over her head and her legs spread wide. As they lowered her gently onto bear-man’s back, I could see the firelight shining on the moisture between her wide open thighs.



As the drumming throbbed and echoed through the woods, one soldier moved between her legs, his hands around her hips and his rock-hard penis sliding in and out in time with the drum. The men holding her shifted their grip so that one hand held her arm or leg, the other stroked their bulging rods. Tara moaned and shrieked as the first climax shook her and her partner bucked and shot his load, then another soldier took his place and she cried out with pleasure. When he pulled out, his sperm gushing over the back of the bear-like man who was now her orgy bed, another moved to fill her gaping, gasping cunt with his thick, heaving cock.



After twenty minutes or so, during which Taralee had received repeated lashings of cum, each soldier doing his duty at least twice, a tall man with a long, thin penis that stuck out nearly a foot in front of him entered her. He moved slowly and deliberately, coaxing hoarse shouts of joy from her throat every time the head of his cock touched the magic spot deep in her belly.



Then he pulled back, falling in slow-motion to his knees, then sliding his narrow, still rigid shaft into the bear-man’s anus which was by now swimming with a dozen soldiers’ cum. On either side a soldier moved in to rub and slide their fingers into Taralee’s welcoming cunt, and she writhed and raised her hips in ecstacy as their hands moved in her and over their cocks until their semen splashed over her belly, joining the streams spurting from the men who held her arms and rubbed their cocks over her pliant, skyward-pointing breasts.



Where I stood they were silhouetted against the fire, and I could see the bear-man’s phallus jerking upwards with every slow thrust of the thin man’s long rod in his ass. He was still on all fours, with Taralee writhing on his back, now slippery with her juices and the cum of a dozen men. Bear-man’s heavy cock, jerking in time to the thin man’s rhythmic fucking, grew to a priapic enormity: thick as an arm and reaching halfway to his chest. Suddenly, the thin man gripped his waist, jerked and spasmed. Bear-man’s huge cock gushed a fountain of semen that puddled between his arms, reflecting the firelight, as the woman writhed on his back howled at the rising orange moon with yet another screaming, shuddering orgasm.



I looked down, and found my hand tightly circling my cock, sliding back and forth from hair to head, hair to head. I was spurting sticky lines of cum, over and over again, two feet in front of me.



Suddenly, a log fell in the bonfire. A white-hot shower of sparks erupted, temporarily blinding me.



When my night vision came back, a man was standing beside the orgy scene, a stocky man in jeans and a checked shirt, with a folded blanket across his outstretched arms. He moved forward slowly, wrapping Taralee in the blanket and tenderly lifting her now limp loveliness in his arms. He turned, and his moccasins made no sound as he padded slowly toward the water.



We stood in total silence broken only by the hiss of the dying fire. On the dark lake a lone canoe, its paddler silhouetted against the moon’s track of beaten gold, left a widening V of ripples in its wake. An owl hooted in the distance.



I woke to blazing sun and oven-like heat in the tent. When I crawled out, the soldiers’ camp was already struck and their canoes were gone. I was alone. Wisps of smoke rising from the still-warm bonfire, and dark, moist wetness on the rock were vivid reminders of the night’s events. My cock stiffened immediately. For the first time in a couple of weeks, I had to jerk off.

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