From the PeterFiles:

Summer Camp

Wherein Peter finds himself shipped off to a draconian leadership camp where communal living leaves no opportunity to satisfy his solitary needs. Desperate for release, he sneaks away to a secluded spot in the woods, only to have his private moment interrupted by an unexpected witness.

A satirical erotic fantasy in one chapter – For adult masturbators only – By Richard Lovel – Copyright 2026 (all rights reserved) = RL-2026-10-10

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Summer Camp

Peter Stroker stared at the ceiling of his cabin, counting the knotholes in the wooden beams for the seventh time that hour. This was the last place he wanted to be during the summer after graduating high school: Pinecrest Leadership Academy, a dumb camp for “future leaders”, where the beds were too short, the food tasted like cardboard, and worst of all, no privacy. He hadn’t been alone for more than three minutes at a stretch in seven excruciating days. Seven days without masturbating.

Peter had been looking forward to a glorious summer of solitude. His Mother’s day job would leave him alone in the house, free to indulge in his one true passion. How had his mother convinced him that this camp was a good idea? No, that wasn’t right—she’d simply informed him that he would be attending.

“It’ll help you develop social skills,” his mother had insisted. “You spend too much time by yourself, Peter. It’s not healthy.”

They both avoided the unspoken issue. There had been too many awkward incidents: the times she’d barged into his room without knocking, only to find him red-faced and scrambling for the sheets; his wastebasket full of crusty tissues; the vague hints that his unrestrained moaning was audible through the thin apartment walls.

His mother insisted that leadership camp would “bring him out of his shell” and “help him make friends before college.” Friends. Peter almost snorted at the thought. The boys at camp were exactly the kind of people he’d spent his high school years avoiding—loud, aggressive, and obsessed with proving their dominance through physical competitions.

And the girls—well, the girls were worse in their own way. They were beautiful and terrifying. Just being near them made Peter’s palms sweat and his words tangle in his throat. They moved in giggling clusters, regarding him with a mixture of indifference and mockery.

Yet here he was: in a cabin with five other boys, sharing a bathroom where the shower stalls had no doors, and the toilets were arranged in a row without dividers. There was nowhere, absolutely nowhere, to be alone.

Pinecrest was known for its “no masturbation” policy — doubtless the primary factor in his mother’s choice. Director Reeves addressed the boys on the first day and lectured about the dangers of “self-abuse,” calling it a weakness of character and a threat to future success. “A true leader,” she intoned, “channels his energy into achievement, not into private indulgence.” Signs everywhere declared:

LEADERS DON’T MASTURBATE!
MASTURBATORS DON’T LEAD!.

Above each bunk hung a cartoon poster of a boy in bed, face grim and serious, clenched fists placed atop his blanket. Bold red letters proclaimed: “Good boys keep their hands above the covers”. Enforcement was relentless. Senior girl monitors conducted random bed-checks, flashlights in hand, making sure every boy’s hands were visible.

Last year an unfortunate boy had entered camp legend when he was caught behind the equipment shed, pants around his ankles, penis in hand. He was accused and humiliated in front of the entire camp, and then sent home in disgrace.

But Peter’s need for physical release was becoming unbearable. Seven days of frustration coalesced into determination. He glanced out the cabin window, making sure the coast was clear, and headed for the dense line of pines away from camp. After a few minutes the forest opened into a clearing, perhaps twenty feet across, ringed by protective trees and blanketed with soft grass.

“Perfect,” Peter whispered. He stood for a moment in the center of the clearing, savoring the absolute privacy and contemplating the pleasure to come. But first, there was another pressing matter to attend to. His full bladder demanded attention. Might as well relieve that pressure before getting to the main event, he thought.

Peter stepped up to a large pine tree and unzipped his fly. He reached into his shorts and drew out his penis, with a rush of guilty pleasure. The sheer indecency of his act, the illicit thrill of being so exposed. He felt himself begin to stiffen, and if he didn’t hurry, an erection would make it difficult to urinate.

He took aim at the tree trunk, and released. The relief was immediate and intense. It pleased him to stand thus, making water in the open air, free from the cramped, stinking bathroom back at camp. The hissing sound of his urine striking the tree mingled with his soft sigh of pleasure. The golden arc caught the sunlight, almost beautiful.

That’s when he heard it—a light, silvery laugh coming from some bushes in front of him. A girl’s laugh.

Peter froze and tried desperately to stop the flow, but shock had temporarily disabled his control. A bush swayed, parted, and the owner of the laugh stepped boldly into the clearing.

Pam.

Of all people, it had to be Pam—popular, athletic Pam. She was a second-year camper, but her ponytail and faux baby-doll manners made her seem younger. Her eyes—fixed directly on Peter’s exposed member—sparkled with amusement.

With effort he regained control of his sphincter and painfully shut off the stream. He hastily tucked himself away, grateful not to be caught doing what he’d actually come here to do.

“What are you up to, out here all by yourself, peeing in the woods?” she grinned.

“I… I was taking a walk, and… I didn’t think anyone could see…”

“Well I saw, didn’t I? You like doing this, Peter?”

“Wh… What do you mean?” He squeaked.

“I mean, do you get a kick peeing in the woods? Just pull your britches down and let go wherever? Do you get off to that?”

Peter blinked rapidly. Was she making fun of him? Would he end up the laughingstock of the whole camp? But Pam gave him a conspiratorial grin. “That’s what I was doing in the bushes!”

Her confession shocked him into a new perspective. She hadn’t been spying on him to mock him—she’d been engaged in the same taboo activity.

“Oh, that’s… I didn’t know girls did that. I mean, outside like this.”

“Most girls don’t. Girls have to be careful, because we don’t have wieners. We can’t stand up and do it like boys or we’d pee all over ourselves. But it’s fun, don’t you think? Breaking the rules, doing it out where anyone could see you? I was peeing behind that bush when you came up. I just kept doing it while I watched you. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me tinkling. But I guess you were having too much fun holding your thing and whizzing away.”

Peter was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other with the ache of forced retention. Pam grinned and pointed at his pants. ” You’ve got a wet spot. You put it away wet. Why don’t you go ahead and finish your pee?”

Peter stared at her, certain he’d misheard. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly before he finally managed to stammer, “You mean… right now? With you…?”

“Yeah, I like to watch boys pee. I took care of my little brother and saw him doing it all the time. Come on, I won’t tell, I want to watch you do it!”

Peter had never “played doctor” or engaged in childhood explorations. His experiences with his own body had been strictly solitary, shrouded in secrecy and often shame. The naughtiness of what she suggested was irresistible.

“Well… OK.”

With trembling fingers, he reached inside his fly and pulled out his penis once more. He felt peculiarly vulnerable standing there with Pam’s gaze fixed on his most private part.

Her next words shocked him. “Can I hold it while you do it?”

“I… I…” he stammered, both wildly excited and terrified by her offer. His virgin maleness had never felt the touch of any hand but his own. The thought of Pam’s fingers wrapping around him made his knees weak.

“C’mon, let me hold it. I want to see what your thing feels like when you pee.”

As he remained frozen, Pam stepped closer, brushed aside his unresisting fingers, and wrapped her own around his penis.

“I’ll aim it for you.” She pointed him toward the same unfortunate tree he’d been using earlier and commanded, “Go ahead, do it!”

The sheer strangeness of the situation caused his plumbing to freeze completely. He strained, but nothing happened.

“What’s wrong? Nothing’s coming out. Come on, make it pee!”

She yanked impatiently at his spigot and Peter yelped.

“Ow! Don’t pull like that!”

“Well then, go on. Do it.”

Peter closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and a trickle emerged. At last he loosed his golden stream in full force. The relief was almost euphoric after the prolonged discomfort. The torrent arched several feet and crashed noisily against the bark of the tree.

“Ooh, neat,” Pam cried, her voice lifting with genuine delight. “Look, I can aim it. See that rock? Got it!”

She played his penis about like a garden hose, directing the stream at various targets—a pinecone, a patch of moss, a small depression in the ground. Then another idea dawned on her face, her expression brightening with curiosity. “I bet I can make it stop by squeezing your thing.”

Before Peter could protest, she put her theory to test, firmly clamping his member in her fist. The stream ceased abruptly.

“Ow, don’t Pam! It hurts!” he protested, his voice rising in panic.

“Oh, all right, if you’re going to be such a sissy about it,” she replied with a dismissive sigh, relaxing her grip.

“Your thing feels kinda neat and spongy when you pee. My boyfriend never lets me hold his when he goes to pee. He says it makes him feel silly. But I think it’s fun.”

When the last drops dribbled from the tip he expected Pam to release him. But her fingers remained wrapped around him.

“Mom taught my little brother to shake himself when he finished, like this.” She began to shake his penis, throwing off the remaining drops. “Do you do that, too?”

“Unh… yes, Pam… unh…” he stammered. She didn’t stop when he was clean, but continued vigorously shaking, flipping his member up and down.

“Oh, look what it’s doing. It’s getting stiff!” She stopped shaking and held him by his growing erection. “Does it always do that when you finish peeing?”

His penis continued to swell in her grasp.

“Uh… no… not usually,” he managed to say.

“I guess it’s because I’m holding it. Does it feel good when I squeeze it?” She gently squeezed his organ two or three times, giggling at its trout-like leap in response.

Peter felt weak in the knees. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the feeling of another person’s hand on him.

“Oh, Pam, oh… yes.”

“My boyfriend Jake likes that, too. He’ll do almost anything to get me to hold and squeeze it. It makes it get really big. I have to use two hands; his thing is lots bigger than yours.”

She began sliding the skin of his penis up and down in long, smooth strokes. “You know what he really likes? He likes me to rub it back and forth, like this. Do you like that, too?”

Peter could barely form words in his rapture. “…mmm…yes…”

“Jake says it makes him feel real funny, sort of like being tickled, only better. After a while, he gets this dopey look on his face, he sort of jerks, and his thing shoots out some white stuff. He looks real funny when he does it.”

Peter was beyond embarrassment now, lost in the physical sensations flooding through him. He thrust his hips unconsciously, pressing forward into her stroking hand, soft moans escaping his lips with each breath.

“You always seem kinda shy around the girls. Is this the first time a girl has ever rubbed your wiener?” she asked, her voice more knowing, a hint of power.

“…yes…” Peter confessed.

“Jake says some guys rub it themselves. He calls it jerking off. He says wimpy guys do that, guys who can’t get girls to do it. Do you rub your own wiener, Peter? Do you jerk off and make the white stuff come out?”

“Oh… I… sometimes… mmm,” he admitted, eyes closed, hips still moving of their own accord.

“I bet you jerk off a lot. I bet that’s why you came out here all by yourself, to rub your thing and shoot your white stuff, didn’t you?”

He was helpless to resist her questions as her fingers did their work. There was humiliation in her words, but also a strange intimacy—she was seeing him, the real him, in ways no one else ever had. And being seen, being known in this way, was as arousing as the physical stimulation.

“I… oh… yes…” he confessed, past the point of denial or shame.

She giggled. “You’re getting that dopey look on your face. Are you gonna shoot, Peter?”

The pressure within him had built to an unbearable intensity. He was teetering on the edge of something monumental, something he’d only experienced alone in the dark of his bedroom.

“You want me to make you shoot your white stuff?”

“Please… Pam… please,” he begged, beyond pride or restraint.

“All right. I’m going to aim you at that rock. See if you can hit it.”

Pam kept stroking with a smooth, relentless rhythm. Peter’s vision tunneled; he felt himself stiffen, breath catch, toes curl inside his sneakers. He came with violence, a hot fountain, jets bursting from him in rapid succession.

The first spurt arced through the air and splattered directly onto the rock Pam had targeted. The second veered wildly, landing in the pine needles and flecking Pam’s wrist. The third and fourth bursts came rapid-fire, spattering the ground, his own hands. Much of his ejaculate landed on his shoes, and his shirt and trousers.

He could hear Pam’s delighted laughter, her gleeful “Wow! Look at it go! It’s shooting all over! It just keeps coming! Yuck-oh! it’s on my hand.” She wrinkled her nose and laughed, but didn’t let go.

The convulsions subsided and Peter sagged, utterly spent. Pam’s eyes sparkled with delight at the spectacular, messy results. For moments, they remained frozen in that tableau—Peter breathing heavily, Pam tenderly holding his gradually softening penis. Finally Pam released her grip and wiped her palm against his shirt.

“Oh ugh! You made a big mess on yourself. You better clean up before the camp director sees you. … I gotta get back. See you later.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, with a flash of her ponytail.

~ ~ ~ end ~ ~ ~

Author’s Postscript: “Summer Camp” was one of the original PeterFiles stories (#03). This is a new, expanded treatment of the same theme. See the classic version.

Comments and comparisons are welcome.