I have the fondest memories of growing up as a youth with a
cottage in the family.  The place originally belonged to my
grandfather, but over time he used it less and less and eventually he
just gave it to my parents.  This was the place of my best memories of
my grandfather; sitting on his knees, the smell of his pipe, my first
fish, learning to whittle, an English accent, a perfect foil for my
youth.

     Winters were long and cold, hockey the only pleasure.  And even
then, the spring was better for hockey.  We were suburban kids and
playing road-hockey was definitely preferable in the sunshine and
melting snow of March or April than in January or February.  The
melting snow also heralded the beginning of cottage season which I
anxiously awaited every year.

     The first trip to open up the cottage after the winter was always
exciting.  My mother and father would slowly but expertly walk about
the place and assess the condition of the cottage.  They would call out
to each other as each when through a checklist of `things to look at'.
They would cross-check their mental listings with crisp little
statements to each other and knowing nods of agreement as though it was
exactly as they expected.  I always treaded along behind them trying to make
sense of their cryptic statements, the cottage usually looking exactly the
same as when we left it.

     It was always a thrill when my dad succeeded in getting the
electric water pump working.  Many a time this ingenious contraption
would temporarily cease to function for the sole purpose of irritating
my father and the cottage would have its precious supply of water cut
off.  No showers and no toilet.  There was an old hand pump in the yard
as well as an old out-house.  The cottage was about sixty years old and
only got electricity many years later.  With the electric pump for
water and a sceptic tank for sewage they put a small addition on to the
side of the cottage for a tiny bathroom and kitchen.  They even got a
telephone.

     I liked to fantasize about living at the cottage without the
electricity or water pumps.  Just the hand-pump, the outhouse and the
lake.  There was a old pot belly stove that served as the furnace for
the cottage and plenty of wood about.  I imagined that I could hunt and
fish enough for myself and live like a trapper in my log cabin.  In my
innocence I thought a nuclear war to go off and I would survive at my
cottage.

     Yes, many of my fondest memories of childhood relate to my
family's cottage.  Exploring the woods, canoeing, and endless hours in
the cool summer sunshine.  In the spring and in the fall we would drive
up for the weekends.  The holiday weekends were better and usually
included guests.  With guests around, that kept my parents busy and
gave me more freedom.  They would be pleased at my disappearance.

     The best time was always the summer.  My mother and father would
drive up to the cottage in both of the cars loaded up.  My two sisters
and I would stay there with my mother and her little car while my
father would head back to the city each Sunday night for work.  This
would go on for most of July until my dad's holidays when he would
drive up to the cottage and stay there.

     Eventually as we grew older the pattern began to change.  Once
they hit high school, neither of my sisters wanted to spend their
summers up at the cottage and our family visits were limited to
weekends and my dad's holidays.  I always begged to be allowed to stay
from one weekend to the next, but it wasn't until I was fifteen that I
got that privilege.  But I am getting ahead of my story here.

     What I was going to tell you about was my first sexual experiences
that occurred at my cottage.  This was back in the 70's when everybody had
long hair and wore tight revealing clothes.

     Around the bay from our cottage was the William's cottage.  Craig
Williams was a year older than me, but when we were ten and eleven this
didn't matter much since there were very few other boys our age around
the lake.  We were summer friends in that we only saw each other when
both of our families were at the cottage.  When we were both up at the
lake we would fish and swim together and generally just hung around.

     The summer that I turned twelve was particularly noteworthy in my
memory for the occasion of my first orgasm.  Craig and I were playing
with his new air rifle.  In all of our games Craig always liked to be a
cop or a forest ranger or someone of authority.  That summer Craig
discovered terrorism.  It was all in the news then.  He stuck his rifle
in my face and marched me off, the innocent bystander, to his hideout,
which was the unfinished basement of his cottage.  There in the cool
dark cellar Craig tied me to a post and terrorized me.  He wore a black
scarf around his face all the while he waved his gun around and
threatened to kill me.  Every once in a while he would sneak around to
look out for anybody coming to rescue me.

     Once he was satisfied that no one was coming he returned to me
and threaten again to torture me.  I pretended to be afraid of him, but
I actually did get scared when Craig from standing behind be reached
around and pulled my shorts down to my knees.  I got scared because I
didn't know what he was doing and because he was bigger than me and my
hands were tied to a post.

     Craig then proceeded to give me a serious wedgie.  He stuck the
point of his rifle in my face when I howled in protest.  I was his
prisoner and I was supposed to be quiet.  With that he then left me for
a moment to check again for rescuers.  Satisfied that there were none,
Craig returned to the cellar where I stood, tied to a post, with my
shorts down around my ankles and my underwear pulled up the crack of my
ass.  I felt very silly, self-conscious and half-excited by it all.  I
didn't know what Craig was going to do next.

     He threatened to stick his rifle up my butt, but settled for
pulling on my wedgie again until it hurt.  When he finally stopped he
asked me if I wanted him to fix my wedgie.  He did this by pulling
downwards instead until my he had pulled down my underwear to my knees.
I stood there with a boner, very embarrassed and excited.  Craig
touched my boner with the cold tip of his rifle.  When he reached out
with his hand and grabbed it tightly and squeezed, it was an incredible
sensation.  Craig then proceeded to jack me off right there until I
shot a load of cum onto the hard-packed dirt floor of the cellar.  I
had no idea at the time as to what happened.  I thought I was going to
piss but instead white stuff shot out.  It was really intense and felt
incredible.

     The sound of footsteps hastened the end of our game, and Craig
whipped my pants up very quickly and rushed to see who approached.  As it
turned out no one was coming, but our game was over.  Craig untied me and
never said a word.  We went out to the sunshine and Craig suggested that we
go out in the canoe.  Out on the lake Craig asked me if I liked it.  I
remember blushing when he asked this.  I could only nod my head, but Craig
seemed pleased.  Nothing like that happened again that summer, but then
again, summer was nearly over when it happened and I didn't see Craig much
after that.

