The Camp Nurse, part 1

The Camp Nurse

Chapter 1. The First Day

by NightShade


Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this story line. This first chapter takes a while to get going, but it does, eventually. It’s called plot development and generally makes a story more interesting. The subsequent chapters should contain more SEX (which is what we’re all here for, right?), but if you don’t read this first chapter, you’ll miss the plot.

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BLAM!

I heard the blast of the shotgun and my military training took over. I dropped my bags and hit the dirt and rolled to my right, away from the sound. I took inventory of my body, checking for wounds as I scurried for cover behind a slight rise in the terrain as it sloped up from the lake. As I rolled, my sub-conscience had registered the distinctive ‘click-click’ of another round being chambered. I began to sweat. Even worse, I could hear the whop-whop-whop of the helicopter that brought me up here receding in the clear thin air. It was the only way out of here. I was going to die up here and didn’t have a clue why.

I instinctively tried to locate the threat because whoever was shooting at me was really stupid. That fucker had fired a warning shot. My drill instructors always told me that you don’t attack a shotgun, you run out of range or get behind something. Then nail the bastard. Anyone who had a clear shot with at shotgun and missed, well, they were just plain stupid or blind.

I figured they were somewhere off to my left. I couldn’t see anyone or anything from where I was so I tried to crab over a ways to get a better angle.

BLAM! click-click BLAM! click-click

This time several good-sized branches fell on my back and I heard the bark of the trees right behind me being ripped away. SHIT! I was dead meat. The fucker wanted me alive, and that scared me more than dying for some reason. This was supposed to have been a easy gig, but it could have been a setup. I didn’t know any of the major players, and no one knew where I was. On purpose.

I started to get up very slowly, keeping my hands in clear view over my head. Might as well go out like a man standing up, than die face down in the pine needles. Besides, if I didn’t get up soon, I’d pee in my pants. Not from fear. It had been a two-hour flight out of Ontario Airport and there isn’t a John on a helicopter.

“Hold it right there, you mother-fuckin’ bastard! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

It was a voice from your worst nightmare. Shrill and angry. PMS on steroids. Pitched at just that one certain tone that made your bowels turn to water, kind of like fingernails on a blackboard, only worse, much worse. She was an ugly mother for sure, and I was face down. Worse, she had a shotgun.

“Mernnfroong gdnr nddnf.” It’s difficult to talk clearly when your mouth is full of pine needles and moss.

“What did you say, you fuckin bastard? Speak up before I blow your head the hell off!”

“I’m looking for the camp administrator, Janet Crandell,” I said after turning my head and spitting out the debris.

“What for?”

I don’t know why, given my rather precarious situation at the time, but that question got my dander up. (For those of you who don’t know what ‘dander’ is, it’s a lot more comfortable when it gets up than something else that gets ‘up’ tents your shorts and leaves a wet spot on your pants. In certain circumstances, however, like the one I was currently in, dander, when it’s up, can be life threatening. Clear?) I resented her question.

“Are you Ms. Crandell?” I asked her back, none too politely.

“Nope.”

“Then it’s really none of your GOD-DAMNED FUCKING business, is it?” I yelled. I started to get up.

BLAM! click-click

She apparently didn’t like my attitude.

“Stay down, you no-good, mother-fuckin’ bastard.”

I stayed down. As I lay there, I realized that I had heard several odd high-pitched sounds after that last shot. At first, I had dismissed them as birds, but they kept coming. I couldn’t locate where the sound was coming from, but it seemed to come from all around. Slowly turning my head to both sides, I spied several pairs of Nikes, Reeboks and Adidas in various pastel colors sprouting some of the finest pairs of young tanned healthy legs I had ever seen in my 23 years.

Then came ‘The Voice’ again: “Stay back, girls. It’s a MAN!” She said that last work like it would leave a dirty taste in her mouth. I really think she meant it as a derogatory description of me, too.

One of the pairs of legs sassed back to her, “We KNO-O-O-W” in typical teenage sarcasm. I decided I liked that kid, whoever she was. Several of the spectators giggled, and one or two laughed outright.

The sound of running feet preceded the arrival of the authorities. Help, I hoped, had arrived.

“Gertie, what’s all the shooting about. I hope you didn’t hurt anyone. I warned you about bringing that, that, that THING up here.”

“I got one, Miss Crandell!” Gertie shouted excitedly, like I was rare specimen that she could make extinct and do the world a favor, like small pox. “I finally got one of those slimy no-good PRE-vert bastards trying to sneak into the camp! I knew the little shits would show up sooner or later.”

“Where, Gertie? Where is he?”

“Over there, suckin dirt.”

I didn’t see any of this, as I was still face down in the moss, taking no chances.

I heard or sensed someone come over to where I was lying.

“My name is Janet Crandell. I am the administrator of this camp. Who are you and what do you want?”

The questions were put forward in a very business-like manner, but in a voice that would have melted the heart and resolve of the toughest CEO. I also noticed she did not ask me to get up.

“My name is Chris Mattson. I was hired to be your camp nurse.” I reached – very slowly – into my shirt pocket and handed her my contract.

There was dead silence for several minutes.

“May I get up, now?” I asked this after what seemed to me was enough time for her to have re-written the entire contract, much less read it.

Not receiving an answer, I slowly raised my head up, just so I could look forward. And looked directly at a set of very shapely ankles. I had never thought of ankles as all that sexy, but now. Wow! If the rest of her looked that good, this must be heaven.

I took not hearing a gun shot as a good sign, and I continued to lift my head up. Smooth tight skin, toned calves, one knee bent slightly, the other locked. Not a mark, not a mole blemished the evenly tanned legs. Her thighs seemed to go on forever and all I could think of was how they might feel locked around my waist. I could almost feel the firm leg muscles straining in ecstasy.

I shook my head to clear it of those erotic images. There was still a loaded weapon in the hands of the enemy. This was no time to loose focus. I pulled my hands under my chest and levered my upper body up. My movements were slow and easy.

My eyes passed over a slight swell of feminine hips fronting for a high-set, firm, tight ass inadequately covered by a pair of those clinging nylon running shorts. There wasn’t even a hint of a bulge over her pussy. Her crotch was as flat as that of a world-class athlete. I didn’t see any panty lines, and the shorts were tight enough that if they had been there, I would have. I paused to pay homage to perfection. It isn’t everyday I get to see a living epiphany.

A few inches higher was a trim bare waist highlighted by one of the most perfect navels God ever created. I paused again. My breathing was becoming labored. Must have been the altitude, right? Then came the highlight, the absolute showstoppers: a set of perfectly sized, high riding tits tightly encased in one of those sports-bra things. It looked like the sports bra was gradually loosing the fight to contain them, but it was a glorious battle to watch.

“This is too fucking good to be true!” I thought, as I was finally standing erect. In more than one sense. “If she’s blonde, blue-eyed and gorgeous, I’ll know this is a wet-dream.” I was still staring at her chest, although I towered above her 5’3” frame. I was torn. Why spoil a good wet dream with a shit-ugly face? But it was becoming obvious, even to me, where I was looking.

I raised my eyes and looked at her face. She was the woman of my dreams. I had never visualized any one woman when I fantasized, but Ms. Crandell was all of them rolled into one tight package. I pinched myself to see if this was a dream. It wasn’t. This was better than a wet dream. It was real!

Administrator Crandell stood all of 5’3” – at most – and, with her clear face and youthful figure, didn’t look old enough to be the administrator. I idly wondered if she ever wore her blonde hair in curly pig-tails. It would be just like an erotic Brady Bunch.

“Hi. Uh, Boss? I hope.” I stuck out my hand.

“Oh, yes. Hello. Uh, I’m sorry about the rude welcome, but there seems to have been some sort of terrible mistake. This is an exclusive all-girls camp. ALL girls.” She left my hand waving in the breeze so I took it back. Not a good sign.

“And? What’s the problem?”

“Uh, well, uh, let’s go up to my office and discuss this, OK?” She waved her hands to indicate the throng of young girls who had surrounded us during this little talk.

When I said “OK,” there was a corporate groan so full of hormones, I thought I felt a pimple growing.

We started up the path towards the large building she had indicated. We had to go right past a solid Teutonic mass of flesh holding a 12-gauge pump action shotgun. It had to be Gertie. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. As I walked by her, I purposely stayed in a meek posture with my head bowed until I was next to her. Hey, it works with gorillas, and that’s the immediate image I had when I first saw Gertie.

There was palpable hate in her glare. She felt safe and invincible holding the shotgun. Stupid. She let me get too close to her. As I passed in front of her, I pretended to stumble. It took her by surprise when I spun from below, reached out and grabbed the gun from her fat, oversized hands. Shocked at loosing her precious weapon, she just stood there, her mouth hanging open. I did a swift leg sweep to knock her legs out from under her.