About six years ago my family was camping in northern Michigan, most of my days were spent looking for snakes at the river, but on this day there was a very pretty nineteen year old girl with a couple cute girlfriends that were fourteen and sixteen. Of course they had a following of four boys between thirteen and seventeen, and the girls were looking to add me to their entourage.
She grasps the neck of a Bacardi Limon. She hoists the bottle above the pool's surface, as she wades in the six-feet-deep water, repeatedly pushing her right arm out to stay afloat. Her eyelids flutter — after she guzzles a few shots worth of liquor — and she continues to use her left arm for sustaining the Bacardi in air. Next she leers at Tonya, whom is vastly more coherent and nearly sober after drinking a can of Bud Ice.
Tonya drank a shot or two of Raspberry Vodka, as well, which has barely loosened her up. Lauren raises the 70 cl bottle — pressing it to her lips, awkwardly — before draining the last of its contents. She screams "Woo! She whips her hair, flipping it left and right, inelegantly splashing her delicate, bony shoulders.
Tonya watches my eyes, so I decisively flash her with a flirtatious smile.
First adult truth or dare
Next I push myself up — using the flat surface of my slippery palms — and lift out of the water. I sit on the pool's concrete rim. This is getting boring. My fingers are beginning to wrinkle like my prune-shaped privates over here.
Something bad could happen.
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They flicker, at light speed, other times conversely appearing to travel extra slowly. Tonya deflects most of the water, showing impressive reflexes shielding herself by using hands and forearms as facial protection. After dodging a new splash of soaring water, she erects her head and surprisingly her fuchsia fingernails slip like magnets away from each other in a sonorous snap, and — after lifting her same hand — she points at where I sit along the ledge.
He's out of control. I grab the neck, open the bottle, swig a bit of beer, and brush water off my Scooby Doo deed board shorts. I'll listen," Lauren says, outwardly enjoying my introductory set up on the surface of her covergirl face with a tiny, pert grin. Tonya, is that a sinner — by very nature, at the core — does not intend to harm a soul.
Bad people, evildoers. Evil is when you hurt — or, even — when you want or desire to hurt yourself or someone else. Point being, the wrongdoing is malicious and fully intentional. The deliberate decision to hurt your fellow woman and man, well.
Again the thick-glassed bottle of Miller is angled toward my mouth. I swallow a couple more ounces of foamy, golden-brown beer. Far be it from me to be hyperbolic, but sinning can be incredibly fun.
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We do it to loosen up, rid ourselves of unwanted inhibitions and actually enjoy life. If sin is carefully controlled, it can hardly harm anybody. Nobody dies from it. Nobody ever gets hurt too badly. Wouldn't you agree, Tonya? Tonya looks toward Lauren — as her sister sets the Bacardi bottle on the edge of the pool.
It falls backward with a small, unceremonious plop into the water. Lauren even kicks it by her tiny heel, swimming away. Perhaps I was overreacting just a little. Hey — everyone hear that — I just said do me. That's hilarious. Her eyelids lifting and falling down from drunkenness, she effortfully lunges toward Tim in slowed, moon-walking style leaps. You're so cute. Like a puppy dog. I just want to pet you all day. She arranges her apple-red fingernails into a threatening cat's claw, adding, "Choose dare. Don't make me castrate you, Timmy.
She gestures with the bright fingernails now pointing at the shallow side of the pool. I want to see tongues entwining like Lesbians during sex.
Truth or dare
Thirty seconds of noisy making out. Half a minute.
Tim looks at Tonya impassively treading water with her arms and legs. He races toward her without checking for agreement on Tonya's face. Tonya acquiesces, choosing to hop over — rather than swimming toward him — at a slow-moving advance. They embrace like old lovers and their lips connect together exchanging tongues for the requested period of time.
She discovers another bottle of liquor near the glass table.
The table is deliberately situated in front of the latitudinous vista, obviously so her prosperous family can view the flora and wildlife — consisting mostly of birds, coyotes, and occasionally wolves — whenever peering inside the vast canyon behind Lauren's home. She fights through water to the edge of the pool, lifts out, sprints over the wet concrete in a frightfully tentative fashion, presumably in pursuit of the liquor bottle. She amazingly reaches the table without experiencing an injurious pratfall. She secures the bottle in her shaky grip, and — after almost dropping it, but catching the bottle with her knees — carries the liquor back to the pool and jumps into the water.
She rises back up with the bottle of Raspberry Vodka. She looks over to me with an aloof, joyful expression, as Tim confidently leaps back to the deeper end of the pool.
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He then pushes off the wall like an Olympic swimmer — two feet at a time — and his medium-height body five feet and nine inches torpedoes all the way through the middle area and approaches the six-feet water again. She raises the Raspberry Vodka, only now to discover there's no more liquor inside of the bottle.
For a second or two, clearly, her disappointment overcomes her facial expression, but then, after a demonstrative shrugging of her shoulders, she heaves a sigh and follows that with a perky sweeping of her head. Her hair immediately fans out and shoots pellets of water away like an aqueous sort of machine gun. She turns at the edge of the pool and forms the kitty claws once more.
Vince chooses dare. He is doing a dare. I swig the very last of the Miller High Life, discard the bottle by getting out and responsibly depositing it inside the only waste receptacle. Afterward, my strongest desire is to immediately slip back into the warm pool.
I walk toward Lauren's thin frame in the water. She fixes her hair, so the wet strands cling to the back of her shoulders, preliminarily kept away from her face. I wait, as she lowers her top, giggling and then looking in different directions with a closed-lipped, immodest smile, noticeably excited the game has elevated in this manner. Once her full breast is exposed, she motions for me to approach with a welcoming arm gesture. I get closer, lower down to her chest, and — as dared — wrap my Naked truth or dare stories around the protruding bump.
The supple breast tastes like chlorinated water, as I lap my tongue around the nipple, ever so lightly holding the tit as I do. We all doing dares? Yes, no — what? She rearranges her lime-green top over her breasts, covering up slowly and afterward straightening the upper portion of her two-piece.
Desire to sustain the level of excitement is equally felt by everyone, especially Tonya, enduring the high pitch of Lauren's continual screaming within elbow's length of her: "Dare! I hear you. The twins clearly think alike. They most likely yield a similar taste, as well. Either way, more unknown information of their exquisite taste and feel will — undoubtedly — be stored securely in my head by game's end.
Tonya and Lauren. You Perv.
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Lauren is already frontally nude — by this point— and her light-green top drifts away from her at the surface of leftward-moving, choppy water. Tonya winces, reaching behind her back. Her black floral-patterned top falls toward water, carried leftward toward a skimmer drain.
Soon their soft bodies melt into each other.