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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 10 May 2002 22:48:24 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Scout's Honor Ch. 1 (MFF)
Date: Fri, 10 May 2002 21:10:02 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Scout's Honor
Chapter 1 (of 10)
By theGreatxIam

It was my wife who got me involved with the Girl Scouts. Back before
we ever saw a fertility doctor.

She just loved kids and couldn't wait for a daughter of her own. At
first she only helped out a friend of her mom's who had a 12-year-old,
going along on field trips, bringing apple pandowdy to the bake sale.
Pretty soon she was helping so much they named her an assistant troop
leader.

By then we'd guessed there was something wrong; we'd been trying for
three years with no success. We talked to our regular doctors first
and tried some simple techniques.

I guess that's when I started pitching in with the girls. At first I
was just a chauffeur, piling girls in the back of my old Scout. Or I'd
help set up the chairs for meetings. As time went by it was harder to
get parents to show up -- more moms were working, and those with more
than one kid had to be two or three places at once with soccer and
karate classes and computer camp. More and more, my wife, Jean, found
herself all alone with other people's kids. I spent more and more time
helping her. Edited the troop newsletter. Did sketches of the girls
for them to frame -- I had noodled with pencils or charcoal since I
was a kid, and the scouts got such a kick out of posing.

I started helping more partly because I felt sorry for her, trying to
organize activities all on her own. Partly because I knew it had to be
tough on her watching someone else's daughters grow up. Partly because
I felt a gap, too.

We were working with a specialist then, and Jean had had her first
miscarriage. It tore us up because we'd gotten our hopes so high.
Working with the scouts -- well, it was just nice to hear girlish
laughter.

Mostly I helped because it meant more time with Jean.

I loved her. That's supposed to say it all, but it sounds so trite
compared with what we had. She was my life. I loved her when she was
all dressed up, satin heels and silk gown, blonde hair done up. I
loved her first thing in the morning, padding down for her first cup
of coffee, dawning sun making a halo of her tousled hair. I loved her
working in the garden, dirt on her knees and a bloom on her cheeks. I
loved her with the flu, trailing tissues through the house, nose
bright red. I loved the way she always found the most complicated way
to accomplish any task. The way she'd cut off my bemused explanations
of why her plans couldn't work by planting a long, sweet kiss on me.
Jean was everything to me.

Jean was ...

Jean was.

It was the year after she'd formally been named troop leader, after
the last recalcitrant Scout moms had admitted that if they couldn't
show up for even a third of the meetings, they couldn't very well
refuse to accept someone who was there every time, not just because
she didn't have a child of her own.

With that wall broken down, the girls themselves even tried to have me
named assistant leader. Some moms would have had apoplexy and the
district office would have gone ballistic, and Jean didn't need the
headache. I thanked the girls and just kept showing up.

Jean's second miscarriage had happened almost before we knew she was
pregnant. We started talking about adopting then. But then the Scout
thing came up and there were meetings to plan. I think we really both
needed time to grieve.

So when Jean became pregnant a third time we were caught by surprise
-- happy, but also scared. Jean took it very careful; she cut back her
hours at work and then took her accumulated sick time and vacation
days all at once to see her through the rest of her pregnancy. Her
boss didn't have to let her do that -- he knew she intended to quit
once her insurance had paid for the special prenatal care that mine
wouldn't. But people always seemed to want to do things like that for
Jean.

She was going to have to put the Scout troop aside for the last few
months, too. She hated to do it, but she would do anything for our
baby. And she could always take things in stride. She lived by the
words on the faded T-shirt she wore almost every weekend (until her
burgeoning stomach wouldn't allow it). "Life," it said, "is what
happens to you while you're making other plans."

But before she went into total baby waiting mode, she insisted on
leading one last event -- the annual camping trip.

Jean had brought back the tradition a few years before. It had died
off when a new generation of moms lost interest in spending three days
with bugs and without central air. But Jean was a throwback who talked
about being one with nature and the confidence girls could get from
surviving in the wild, even if the "wild" was only two hours from
home. Those arguments -- and her agreement to run the whole thing
herself -- had convinced the moms. So every August I'd rent an
extended van full of a dozen or so giggling junior high and high
school girls; Jean would follow along in the Scout with their
equipment. At the campsite I'd help unload and set up, then drive the
Scout back home. The van was left with them just in case -- but it
would take a real emergency for Jean to get behind the wheel of the
van. Even the Scout bothered her, which was why I was the designated
driver for all the troop activities. The girls had even gotten me a
vintage bus driver's cap one Christmas.

Jean was especially nervous about the Scout on that last trip, worried
about lifting her burgeoning stomach up into the driver's seat. I was
more concerned about her spending the weekend in the woods in her
condition. Finally we compromised; I rented a big yellow school bus
for the girls, the equipment and Jean. After we set up the camp, I
drove up the road to an abandoned factory's parking lot where I would
spend the weekend -- close enough to rush over if something happened,
but far enough away to preserve the girls' sense of being on their
own.

The girls felt sorry for me, all alone on the bus, and kept calling me
on our walkie-talkies, telling me about the snake they saw on the
trail or how cold the water was when they went swimming. I bent the
rules we'd agreed on Saturday night by showing up back at the campsite
with ice cream. It was really an excuse to check on Jean, but the
girls' self-confidence didn't seem to be harmed.

That was Jean's last Scouting event before what she assured the girls
would be a brief temporary absence. She waited until the ride home to
share her most exciting news with them: Our baby was a girl. Actually,
it was two: twins! The squeals of glee made the old bus ring.

Even after that it was hard to keep Jean at home in bed. The next
meeting, she pleaded with me: just let her go to the next meeting. It
was special because this was the fashion show, another one of Jean's
ideas. The girls had been working on their outfits for months. The
assistant troop leader, a mom who seemed more interested in turning
the girls into super saleswomen than letting them have fun, hadn't
been too enthusiastic about taking it over. I had to keep reminding
Jean that I was still going to be there. Actually, I'd volunteered to
run the whole thing myself, which was what finally convinced the
assistant to step up.

The day of the meeting, I began to regret my promise. Jean seemed
under the weather, and I didn't want to leave her. I was about to call
the assistant and beg off when she called me to do the same. Said she
had worked late the day before and didn't feel like doing the meeting.

I turned and told Jean, and I knew she wasn't feeling great because
she didn't immediately insist on going herself. But she did tell me to
take over. I repeated the offer to the assistant leader, expecting her
to argue about bringing in another mom. Instead, she told me she'd
already started the phone tree to cancel the meeting. And then she
hung up.

Jean was furious, but she didn't have any force behind it. I was
getting her a cup of herbal tea when the phone rang. The girls were in
shock and in tears. Several of them had been together when the call
came, and they'd called us in disbelief. It wasn't long before Jean
had it all arranged: A fashion show in our basement. I'd emcee; I made
her promise to stay upstairs in bed, on the assurance I'd send the
girls up one by one in their designs.

Traci was the third girl I sent upstairs, a 15-year-old who worshipped
Jean. She'd made a prom dress, lavender sheath with chiffon trim -- or
so said the notes I'd used as emcee. She went up the stairs smiling,
excited about showing her creation to Jean.

She came down screaming. We rushed Jean to the hospital and several of
the girls stayed in the emergency room's waiting area with me.

I appreciated their company, but I was grateful they were gone, picked
up by their parents, when the surgeon came by. I knew just from his
face.

One of our daughters survived. I took a leave of absence and moved
into a small apartment the hospital keeps for patients' relatives.
After a month it began to feel like home. After two, like hell. Our
little daughter Jean never saw her fourth month.

The next year is a blur. I remember only a few moments, like photos in
an album: the scouts marching in procession, standing next to Jean's
grave with the tiny casket, nights alone staring at the walls. Lots of
nights like that. After a few months I tried to get involved with the
scouts again -- that was so important to Jean, I thought it would fill
some of the void. Plus I just missed the girls. The moms in charge
were apologetic, but said they already had enough help.

That's not what I heard from the girls, who kept in touch with me.
They were careful to try to be cheerful with me, but it was clear the
troop wasn't the same -- fewer meetings, fewer trips. They even
cancelled the annual campout. No surprise, then, that the membership
started declining.

The calls and visits from the girls became less frequent as they moved
on to other activities and new friends. I was lonely, but also a
little relieved. The girls were growing into very pretty young women
and I was growing -- well, I have to say it -- hornier. It was all
those years of trying for a baby with constant sex, I guess. Or maybe
I was just sick. The feelings had come on gradually as the shock of
Jean's death wore off. For years I'd had eyes only for her, and she'd
fulfilled all my desires. Now an aching longing grew. I was afraid of
what I might do, and guilty about wanting someone other than Jean. I'd
made no moves on anyone, but I worried that if the girls were around
too much I'd lose control.

I think that I grew a little distant just to be safe. Some of the
girls clearly worried about me, but I certainly couldn't tell them
what was wrong. I counted on time to ease my pain and lead them away.

As it was getting close to the second anniversary of Jean's death I
started adjusting to being a widower. At least that's what I called
it. My doctor called it giving up on life. I spent most of my time at
home. It worked for me: My urges ebbed with time -- in fact, I lost
most of my desire for the company of other people.

When the call came, then, my initial reaction was to say no. Not even
for the girls.

Eventually they talked me into it. Call it nostalgia, call it a
tribute to Jean's memory, call it good-bye. The old Scout troop was
giving up its charter. Some of the last scouts, and even a few who'd
left, had planned one last camping trip. They wanted me to be the
driver, for old times' sake. The old cap they'd given me came out one
more time.

I picked up the yellow school bus at the rental place and drove to the
school parking lot. The bus quickly became a beehive, with parents and
scouts piling in equipment while girls who weren't coming along showed
up just to say good-bye. I was so busy greeting girls that I never was
able to work out arrangements with the moms who were going to be
chaperoning. The girls who'd handled all the planning had said two
moms were going along and I'd be picking everyone up at the end, but I
was never able to nail down whether I'd be driving the bus back and
forth, or borrowing some mom's car, or what.

I wasn't all that thrilled about talking to the women anyway -- too
many bad memories of how they'd treated Jean, too many questions about
how they'd killed what I thought of as her troop.

So when the bustle died down and the girls said it was time to go, I
put the bus in gear and took off on the old, familiar route.

Traci sat across from me, with other girls coming up to chat one after
another. I couldn't see any moms on the bus; figured they were driving
up on their own.

As we reminisced, I had a chance to get reacquainted with the scouts.
There were a dozen on board, plus a lot more gear than I remembered.
But I guess you have to figure older girls are going to bring more
stuff along, even if there aren't any boys involved.

And this was an older group, girls who'd been especially close to Jean
because they'd been together so long.

Carrie and Terry were the oldest, a couple months shy of 21. I could
still tell them apart by the patterns of the freckles that blazed
across their cheeks, but they could have fooled anyone who didn't know
them as well. They had grown up in perfect sync -- they even lost
teeth at the same time, though I always had my suspicions that they
might have helped that along. Now they were equally beautiful, 5'11
with coltishly long legs they wrapped underneath themselves in mirror
image when they came up front to talk to me. Tomboys in their youth,
they were both on the college basketball team and both studying
chemical engineering. But they still giggled in unison at my puns.

Sereka, at 20, and her sister Tishana, 18, were the sophisticates of
the troop, coming back from vacations with stories about Paris or
Dakar. Almost as tall as the twins, Sereka was studying French Lit and
planning for springtime in Provence. Her dark-chocolate skin had grown
clearer with age and she looked like a polished ebony idol. Tishana,
who still squeaked in protest when I called her Tish, had more of her
father's looks -- broad nose, pillowy lips, milk chocolate skin.

With Sereka in college, Tishana told me she now spent a lot of time
with the other sisterly pair on the bus -- Sami and Claire. Sami was
Korean, adopted just as her new mom learned of an unexpected -- in
fact, supposedly impossible -- pregnancy. The girls' mom was the only
one who had truly accepted Jean, because she understood our pain. It
had been a terrible pain when her marriage split apart and she'd had
to take on a second job to make up for her deadbeat ex's missing child
support; I know Jean had missed having her around.

Sami and Claire showed no ill effects, though -- a tribute to their
mom's abilities. Sami, at 18, had lost her adolescent angst about her
body. She was never going to be a sylph like those anorexic models,
but then they would never have her amazing natural curves. All the
girls had dressed for the occasion in their old Girl Scout blouses;
Sami, with her blouse tied above her tummy, made it look better than a
bikini. Claire was the quiet sister, always tagging along with Sami
and letting her lead the way. She'd even dyed her hair darker to match
Sami's. Now, at 17, she seemed ready to be her own person. She'd let
her hair return to its normal shade -- or perhaps helped it along and
made it a tad or two lighter? As a honey blonde, with her big smile
and sparkling blue eyes, she was hard to take your eyes off.

Traci, of course, was also 17 now, and the unofficial leader. The
others made it clear that she'd been the driving force behind this
trip and had overseen all the arrangements.
She certainly seemed mature enough. It wasn't just the way she kept
the conversation going, giving every girl a chance to talk with me,
prodding the shy ones. It was the way she looked, too. I'd seen her a
few times since Jean passed, but my image of her had frozen on that
fateful day when Traci had come down the stairs screaming. No longer,
though, was she the puppy-fat kid on the edge of adulthood. She'd shed
some pounds and all the awkwardness. Her grey eyes looked confidently
out over chiseled cheekbones and ruby-red lids; her blouse and cutoffs
wrapped around a very grown-up figure.

The two other 17-year-olds had been inseparable friends since diapers:
Sue and SueTwo (Sue had 12 days' seniority and claimed the name
first). They were both just over five feet, both had bubbly
personalities -- they shared the cheerleading captain's slot -- and
both had revered Jean for having a vast collection of Broadway tunes,
which I'd split between them. They excitedly told me that they'd had
leading roles in their school's production of "West Side Story." That
was a natural for Sue Two, a Latina with short, full black hair,
flashing brown eyes and a bronze complexion that made you think of
Rio. It must have been a stretch for Sue, who had the classic
cheerleader look: long, blonde hair in a ponytail, deep blue eyes.

Equally exotic was Sri, 16 now. She'd had to overcome her mom's fear
that too much Western culture would make Sri forget her Pakistani
roots. Not much chance of that when her face, with its high cheekbones
and dark, deep-set eyes spoke languidly of the subcontinent.

Lana, on the other hand, would have been right at home in Rome. Her
olive skin and wavy black hair were a throwback to old movie stars
like Gina Lollobrigida. But she didn't have the old, lush figure. Lana
had the trim, carefully sculpted body of a figure skater -- which she
had been until, she told me solemnly, she retired -- at age 16.

Finally, there was Michelle, who everyone called Baby. The youngest,
at 15, she was the most hyper on the bus at first, bouncing back and
forth offering sodas and snacks. As we drove on, she calmed down -- or
maybe, I thought, she was realizing just what this trip represented.
After all, as the youngest, she still should have had Scouting in her
future, rising to leadership. Now it was ending before her time. Well,
I thought, at least she looks more thoughtful than anything else -- no
tears; she just curled up in a corner of the seat behind Traci and
stared at me from behind her long, curly lashes.

As we neared the campsite, all the girls quieted down and gathered at
the front of the bus. We'd been a little delayed by all the fuss at
the start, but still it was before 1 in the afternoon when I pulled
into our old, isolated lot.

The girls started unloading. To all my questions about where the moms
were, their answers were vague. I pitched in and we had everything set
up quickly. Baby and Sri got a fire going and we had toasted cheese
sandwiches and banana S'mores -- Jean's invention, with slices of
banana between the chocolate and the marshmallow. Still no moms. I
said I'd stick around until they showed up. I wasn't much of a
guardian, though, because I just stretched out on a cot they'd set up
in one of the tents -- for a mom, I figured, but if she was going to
be so late I guessed she couldn't complain.

I meant to just close my eyes, but things got quiet as the girls went
off in groups to gather wood and such. I couldn't have been napping
for more than a few minutes when something woke me up.

Carrie and Terry were walking into the tent, ducking low to ease their
long frames under the canvas. I raised up on one arm; even with them
bent over it was a stretch to look up at them.

"Caught me," I said with a smile. "Are the troop leaders here? Time
for me to go?"

Terry shook her head and squatted on the ground next to me. Carrie
cleared a space on an old crate that had been set up as a table at the
head of the cot. As she sat, she pulled a length of thin rope from a
pocket of her dark blue culottes. She rolled it in her long, slender
fingers. "Remember when you taught us to tie knots?" She batted her
eyes as she said it. Carrie had been, without a doubt, the worst
knot-tier ever, and our private joke was that I really couldn't tie
either; I'd taught the girls from a book.

Carrie tried to do some kind of slipknot, but it fell apart and all
three of us laughed. We used to say any knot she tied was a slipknot,
because she'd look at it as it fell apart and giggle, "Oops, it
slipped." It looked as if she hadn't gotten any better.

Terry gave an exasperated sigh, just like always, and took the rope
from her sister's hands. Carrie produced another rope from somewhere
and invited me to try. "Those who can't, teach," I said, shaking my
head.

But it was Terry who took over the teaching. With Carrie trying to
mimic her motions, Terry twisted the rope into a shape that seemed
vaguely familiar, but was certainly beyond my abilities. She tossed
the finished knot to Carrie, who had managed to come up with something
that at least looked right. And I had to give her credit; when she
held up both knots, neither one slipped. I asked to see them, reaching
out my hands.

Instead of handing me the knots, Carrie slid a loop of each one over
my wrists. Suddenly Terry was pushing me over on my back and my arms
were being tugged above my head.

I thought it was a harmless prank until Terry started unbuttoning her
blouse.

I stuttered out a puzzled protest as Carrie crawled over next to her
twin and began to undress too. Terry put a finger to my lips to shush
me.

"We suspected you'd say you couldn't," she whispered. "That's what the
knots are for."

I tugged at my arms; they'd tied them to the cot. I could only lie
there, helpless, as the twins disrobed.

They were side by side, on their knees, as they undid their last
buttons and slipped their blouses off one shoulder, then the other,
revealing creamy white skin. When they uncrossed their arms and let
the blouses fall to the ground, their breasts stood out -- four
identical grapefruit-sized white hillocks, each capped by a slightly
conical ring of light brown skin and a perky pink nipple. Heaven help
me, I was instantly erect. And they noticed.

Terry brushed her hand gently over my crotch. My cock twitched. "Don't
do this," I said, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Terry only smiled and stroked me. My cock began to ache from
confinement.

Carrie, with her blouse off, twisted and turned until she'd shed her
shoes and socks, then her culottes and panties. I saw it all, the flat
stomach, flaring hips, the small tuft of ginger hair ... I wanted to
look away, wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't.

When Carrie was completely nude she put her hand on me, stroking,
while Terry removed the rest of her clothes.

Naked, they were still identical; even the hair over their pussies was
the same shade, in the same shape. And the tan lines -- only down
below -- showed they wore identical thongs.
"Why?" I asked, expecting no answer.

"Later," Terry promised as she pulled off my shoes and socks.

I twisted around but the girls were too strong, grabbing my legs and
yanking off my pants after Carrie undid my belt and zipper.

Carrie slowly unbuttoned my shirt from the bottom up, pausing between
every button to pull the shirt apart and plant light kisses on my
chest. Terry's soft hands massaged my legs, inching higher and higher.

As Carrie reached the last button, Terry's fingertips brushed the base
of my cock, which was already waggling almost straight up. As Carrie
kissed her way up my neck, Terry's fingers encircled my shaft. The
sharp sensation of Carrie's tongue flitting into my ear mingled with
the feel of Terry's hot breath on my rod as her hands squeezed its
length.

And Carrie's mouth closed over mine just as Terry's lips brushed the
tip of my cock and slid down to the shaft.

I could not escape Terry, but I tried to seal my lips against Carrie's
insistent kiss. No use; she forced her tongue into me and my
resistance ceased.

They were almost 21, my brain assured me in a hasty, feverish
rationalization -- not kids anymore. Who was I hurting?

I didn't waste much time on convincing myself, though. The twins' hot
mouths were persuasive enough.

Carrie's mouth devoured mine, her tongue wrestling as she pressed her
face to me, hands cradling my head.

Terry, meanwhile, was easing more and more of my cock into her throat
on every stroke until her lips reached  my root, her nose buried in my
short hairs. Then slowly she slid back, lips pursed tight, tongue
trailing along the ultrasensitive underside. Halfway up she paused,
sliding her tongue up to the rim of the bulbous tip. I had to twist my
head away from Carrie and gasp for breath as Terry's tongue sizzled
all over the head of my cock. Silent screams crushed my chest and I
shut my eyes so tight I saw a rainbow of fireworks as Terry slid her
lips completely off me, a strand of precum stretching between us, and
then came back down, letting my cock pry apart her lids and slide in
deeper and deeper, to the very root again.

She continued to suck me as Carrie fluttered kisses over my cheeks, my
forehead, my eyelids. My legs stretched out, toes pointed, with
Terry's lips driving me wild.

Just as I thought I was nearing the peak, though, Terry slid off me
one last time and sat back.

I groaned, but Terry only traced a fingertip down my right leg and
moved away.

Carrie took her lips from me, too, but only long enough to climb on
top of me. She stretched her long body over mine, holding herself up
on her hands and knees so our torsos barely made contact. Her nipples,
stiff pink buttons, teased my chest before she let herself down a
little more and massaged me with her breasts, rolling them up and
down, side to side. All the while her bush rubbed against mine and I
could feel her pussy lips, already hot and wet, brushing my shaft.

When she raised up slightly so again her taut nipples were barely
touching me, her wavy red hair fell from her shoulders, sweeping
across my face. It was a whisper of a touch, leaving a faint scent of
peaches in its wake. Her lips sought out mine in soft kisses that were
like holding a dove in your hands.

Terry knelt beside the cot, reaching out to caress her sister and me.
I was lost in the moment, all hesitation and doubt abandoned. My only
thoughts were of the nubile goddesses who had graced me with their
attentions.

The sweet feel of Carrie's flesh on mine was so wonderful that I was
almost disappointed when she pushed herself into a squat over me. Only
almost, because she quickly lifted up and Terry grasped my cock,
rubbing it across her sister's wet cunt lips. And then she held it
steady as Carrie slowly, smoothly slid down, taking me deep into her
in one languid movement. As Terry fingered her twin's clit, Carrie
flexed her cunt muscles, giving me an intimate, rippling massage.

Her tits hung tantalizingly before me. When she began to hump me,
their bouncing mesmerized me. I began to pull my hands up to touch
them, but the ropes still held me fast -- or so I thought.

"Just tug," Terry said. I did, and the ropes fell away easily. 

"We thought you'd resist at first," Terry said.

"But we figured it wouldn't last long," Carrie added.

I smiled as I stretched my arms in the air, working out the kinks.
"Pretty sure of yourselves?"

"Well, we knew you never could resist a little Girl Scout cookie,"
Terry said.

Carrie completed the thought: "So how could you pass up a little Girl
Scout nookie?"

I laughed as my hands approached Carrie's jiggling tits. They fit
neatly in my palms; I rolled her nipples around as she rode me. I
rolled my hips in time with her bouncing. She was no virgin, though
her cunt was tight. Carrie knew just when to speed up or slow down,
just how to twist and shake on my pole to produce the maximum effect.

My hands roamed Carrie's svelte form, exploring her curves. The fine,
ginger down on her arms felt like velvet.

Terry, meanwhile, got to her feet. I had the incredible vision before
me: two identical nymphs, naked as the day they were born. Their firm
tits pressed together as they began to kiss, first gently and then
harder and more passionately, tongues intertwining. And all the while
Carrie continued to hump me, sliding up and down my rigid cock. I
squeezed her slim hips, pressing myself further into her boiling cunt.

Faster and faster we fucked, my hardness against her softness. All too
soon I felt my cum rise, closer, and then it spurted up into Carrie's
pussy, one great hot blast, a second.

As I shrank, Carrie eased herself off me and slid off the cot onto the
floor of the tent. She and her twin sister slithered into a 69. It was
like an Escher interlocking pattern come to life, tongue to cunt.
Their long legs scissored around each other's head as they lapped
away, the tent filling with their musk.

I began to grow afraid that someone would hear their orgiastic moans.
Then I realized that we must have been going at it for some time. We'd
been quiet, or as quiet as three people screwing one another's brains
out can be. But still, you'd think someone would have noticed before
now. As Carrie and Terry reached mutual orgasms, a sickening thought
occurred to me: the moms! Where were they? Certainly they should have
arrived by now. Had they spied on me and called the cops? The twins
were of age, but there had to be something illegal about fucking in a
Girl Scout camp.

I looked around for my pants, figuring I should at least be decent for
my arrest. Then I saw them -- trapped under the twins' naked bodies as
they uncurled and kissed.
I tugged at one pant leg. Terry looked at me, her face slathered with
her sister's juices.

"You'd better get dressed," I hissed. "The moms should be here,
shouldn't they?"

A voice from the tent opening startled me. Traci stood in the
entrance, head ducked slightly to fit under the flap.

"They aren't coming."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The moms. They aren't coming. They never were."

To be continued ...

-- 
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