The Dare Ch. 02 - Sex Stories

The Dare Ch. 02

... working in his garden, wearing nothing but a pair of denim shorts. What a great day to be alive.

After the supermarket, we drove out to the park. The end two-thirds of the peninsular is divided off by a predator fence to keep the cats, rats, mice, etc. from attacking the native birds. The Shakspeare Park reserve contains Tui's, Bell Birds, Kereru, and Fantails. I stopped at the beach and showed them some of the rare Dotterels that nest there. Then, we drove to the end of the road, where there was a gate with a combination lock. Someone who had camped there had told me the combination, but the gate was not locked anyway, so we were soon through the gate and driving through the camping ground. I parked on the grass right at the end of the beach.

Only about three motorhomes were still in the camping ground after the Christmas rush, but there was much evidence of the vehicles that had either left that morning or the night before. Then, we grabbed our bags, headed to the beach, and up a track that very few people knew about.

Once out of sight of the campground, I turned to Hazel, "Right, take your skirt off."

"Hell no! There will be people around," she said, glancing left and right.

"Not at this time of year. I've never seen a soul on this track, and have hiked up it many times. They all do the track along the top of the ridge to the lookout. After the rush of summer camping, no one ever seems to come on this lower track," I replied.

Hazel heard the authority in ...

... my voice and looked around nervously. Then she came to a decision and tentatively unzipped the skirt. Don stepped up beside her and helped her out of it. We continued walking up the track, and after about twenty meters, I told her to remove her blouse now. She looked a lot more uncomfortable with this, but Don again stepped in and helped her undo the buttons and slip them from her shoulders. She now walked off wearing nothing but her very brief thong.

After a few paces, I couldn't resist reaching forward and pushing two fingers between her legs to see how excited she was. My fingertips softly and slowly slipped under the leg band of her thong, delving into her wet mound. She stopped dead and gripped her legs together, but too late to stop my fingers sliding deep inside the pouting wetness of her silken slit.

The phrase 'Wetter than an otter's pocket' came to mind - just one of the many silly phrases locked away in my brain's recesses.

Then, with one last look up and down the track, she pushed my hand away, threw her arms in the air, and did a pirouette. "I feel free. Get yours off to Don. We'll be nudists for the day."

As Don obediently started to remove his shirt and shorts, she bent forward, pulled her thong down her legs and stepped out of it. She started up the track again with a natural spring in her step.

I turned to Don and showed him my very wet fingers. He needed no encouragement. He took off, grabbed hold of her, and, copying me, slipped his fingers ...