Pam's Fishing Trip

Pam's Fishing Trip

Pam's Fishing Trip
by jallen944 ©

Anne set the phone down on the counter and went to the bottom of the stairs.

"Pam?" she shouted.

"What?" Pam answered, and stood in her doorway to look down the staircase.

"Mr. Thorn wants to know if you want to go fishing with him. He's going up to the lake this weekend."

"Yeah, I'll go," Pam said, suddenly feeling very excited. He did it. He figured out how to get her alone for a weekend.

"Ok. I'll tell him you'll be ready when he comes by to pick you up."

Pam rushed back into her room, filled with nervous excitement. She rubbed her legs together and stimulated her clitoris. Before she knew it, she was having an orgasm and Mr. Thorn wouldn't be there to pick her up for two more days.

By Friday afternoon she had packed everything she might need for the weekend, including spare clothes in case she gets wet, sweaters in case it gets cold, toilet paper just in case, her pillow, her swimsuit, her Walkman and tapes, spare batteries, a sharp knife, and a new jar of lube jelly, just in case. She set the two bags, along with her old fishing pole, by the front door, ready to be loaded into Mr. Thorn's truck when he finally arrived. She was all set for a weekend of fishing and fucking. She was dressed in hiking boots, heavy socks, old jeans, one of Ethan's old plaid workshirts, and her old wool sweater. If she had any luck at all, the weatherman would be right and she wouldn't need the long underwear or the down-filled jacket, but they were packed, just in case.

Five hours after loading everything into the truck, the sun was just dropping away when they arrived at the campsite. Down the dirt track through the woods, where the two of them drove in his pickup, towing his aluminum bassboat and trailer, it was already dark. The track led for two miles through the forest until it opened on Red Lake, Mr. Thorn's secret fishing hole, and the red sun setting just beyond the trees, which, from the reflection of it on the smooth water, gave the lake its name.

Where the wall of trees ended was a short stretch of land that reached down to the edge of the water. Along this piece of land, a good distance away from the track, was a flat, bare spot of dirt and a black fire pit beside it, surrounded by a stack of rocks, where Mr. Thorn set up camp, year after year. They pitched the tent on the bare spot, gathered wood, and built a fire, all before it got too dark to see.

All through the dinner of beans, ham, some apples, and a sandwich, Mr. Thorn told stories of his past fishing trips in that very spot. Some of them she knew to be true, and others she knew to be way over exaggerated. They stayed up until about eleven, smoking his strong, hand-rolled cigarettes, when Mr. Thorn decided it was time to go to bed if they were going to get up at six in the morning.

When he said that she suddenly got nervous. All through dinner and listening to his stories she had forgotten about having sex and it came right back to her all at once, like waking her from a sleepy dream. But she wasn't frightened. Anxious was more like it. She wanted him to screw her and she was nervous with anticipation. She didn't mention anything about it, though, because she knew that the way he wanted it was for her to do as he told her. So they rolled out their sleeping bags and stripped down to their underwear. She was on her knees on her open sleeping bag with her back turned to him, removing her bra, waiting for him to give her a command, or just say anything. She pulled off the bra and turned around, but he was already in his sleeping bag, looking at her, waiting to put out the lantern. She couldn't believe it. She was facing him in the flickering light, wearing only tiny panties, her nipples as hard as perfect diamonds, and he didn't even notice.

"Good night," he said, and blew out the lantern.

She was dumfounded, kneeling there on her sleeping bag in the darkness, still waiting anxiously to be screwed. It was so much unlike him. She climbed into the bag. Maybe tomorrow, after fishing.

She didn't hear anything else all night until Mr. Thorn woke her up. The sky outside the tent was still dark.

"What time is it?" she said, sitting up. Mr. Thorn was already dressed and carrying a mug of steaming coffee.

"Five thirty," he said and handed her the mug.

She took it with a grimace and a groan, then a yawn.

"The fish aren't even awake yet."

"The fish never sleep. Drink your coffee."

Less than thirty minutes later they were on the boat in the middle of the lake. Mr. Thorn sat at the front, Pam sat in the middle. He controlled the trolling motor that hung in the water off the front of the boat and tooled them around from spot to spot. He was using a spinner and she was casting with a purple rubber worm, but they couldn't hit anything bigger than baby bass and sunfish. After an hour they moved to a place around the bend in the lake, and after an hour there, they quit for the morning without a significant catch.

At around eight a.m. they had a breakfast of instant oatmeal and fruit, and prepared to wait until late afternoon, before dusk, when they would go back out on the lake and try to catch dinner. They settled into comfortable sand holes by the water, smoking his cigarettes, and drinking thick, strong, black coffee.

As the sun rose over their heads the air got warmer and they shed some of the warmer clothes they had worn on the lake. They talked about unimportant things and he mentioned something about landing a big old bass that weekend, but she was wondering when he was going to get around to doing it to her.

She had stripped down to her plain white t-shirt and old, faded jeans, the same as him, and if she could see his nipples through his shirt, then he could see her nipples through her shirt. She wasn't even wearing a bra. There was no one around, so why didn't he climb on top of her and bang her right there? She looked at him. He was staring off dreamily into the sky, thinking about that dumb old bass.

In the afternoon, when the day turned hot, she put on her blue bikini and went in the water to cool off. Mr. Thorn watched her silently from the shore, but didn't come in with her. She had hoped the bikini would finally turn him on, like it did when she was sunbathing, but nothing happened. When dusk came around and the sun was just over the trees in the west, she swam back to shore to find him and tell him she was hungry.

"Good. It makes you fish better when you know that you've got to have something to eat," he said.

By the light of the lantern, out on the lake, she changed from her purple worm to a spinner, since Mr. Thorn had already caught his dinner, a good three pound bass. She cut the worm from the line with her teeth, looped the line through the eye-hook on the spinner, wound it six times, pushed the end through loop in the line, pulled it tight, tugged it, then bit off the excess line hanging out. But her luck wasn't any better with the spinner. All she pulled up were weeds, she didn't even catch any sunfish. They cooked his catch, and, although there was just enough meat for one person and she ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she had a few bites of the fish.

Later, after dinner and cigarettes, she expected him to tell her to go into the tent and undress, but all he said was, "Let's get to bed early tonight, and try to get out on that lake before the sun comes up."

And then it dawned on her, like turning on a light in a dark room and suddenly seeing clearly. The man loved fishing more than he loved fucking. Was that ok, or did the man have his priorities out of whack? She decided to be naked when he came into the tent, so she left him to put out the fire and went inside to undress.

When he finally entered the tent, she was standing beside her open sleeping bag, naked. He looked at her, then turned around to zip up the tent flap. She was about to let out a deep sigh when he undid his belt and dropped his pants. Excited, she laid back on her bag with her knees up and spread. In the lantern light, the Vaseline jelly she had spread on her pussy made her lips glisten as if they were covered with dew.

He pulled off his shirt.

"You're going to freeze tonight if you don't get in your sleeping bag," he said and, wearing only his underwear, climbed into his own sleeping bag and rolled over.

Pam sighed and blew out the lantern.

The next morning, Sunday morning, they were up at five and out on the water by five thirty. Mr. Thorn took the boat to a remote spot on the far side of the lake, a rocky little cove where they could just barely see the other side of the lake. A spooky mist drifted across the top of the water when Pam looked back to find their camp. It was a very pleasant and relaxing sight.

The trees on this part of the lake came right down to the water. At the tip of the V that the sides of the cove made, a stream came out through the trees and ended at the water. A pile of black stones made a waterfall for the stream and the clear falling water made a funny gurgling sound when it hit the dark, motionless lake water.

Mr. Thorn caught a bluegill on his first cast and Pam caught one on her third cast. Soon they were hitting anything thrown into the water, but Mr. Thorn got tired of it. He turned the boat around with the trolling motor and moved them out of the cove a little bit, where it looked like there was a good dropoff underwater. Pam could see a small group of carp feeding on the surface back in the cove by the stream, but they didn't have any live bait for them, and Mr. Thorn wasn't interested in carp, anyway.

He was right about that area of the lake. They caught good sized bass steadily for the next few hours, most of them just under keeping size, but two or three of them big enough to eat. By about ten in the morning they had stopped biting and Mr. Thorn decided it was time to head back home.

He stood up and laid his pole across the bench seats. The boat shifted when he stepped across to get to the engine at the back. The pole slid and the spinner hook caught in Pam's jeans. The boat rocked back and the hook dug into her thigh. She cried out and her pole jerked up. Just as she was reaching down to carefully examine her thigh and find out what was causing so much pain, her line suddenly went "whiiizzz", and then again, "whiiizzz," but it took her a moment to realize that something was running away with her spinner. She couldn't see from her left eye because of the tears from the pain of the hook stabbing her like a fat needle, the boat was rocking enough to make her want to puke, her pole was bent so close to the water it looked like it was ready to snap, and Mr. Thorn was shouting something about reeling in the fish.

"Your hook is stuck in my leg," she shouted, cranking up the fighting drag on her reel. She raised her leg so he could see the bright yellow thing hanging on her jeans.


"Your hook, get it out of my leg," she cried, wincing in pain.


In one quick move he unsnagged the hook and set the pole aside and out of the way. He grabbed the net and dipped it in the water.

"He's a bad boy. You got yourself a grandaddy, there," he said.

Pam stood up and leaned back against the strong pull of the fish. It felt like she was trying to land a whale. She gave a couple of hard jerks.

"He's coming home for-" she started to say when the line snapped.

The pole popped straight up from the bent curve, wobbling to attention, and Pam flew backwards as if she had been picked up and thrown like a baseball. She was still holding the pole when she hit the water, head first, her feet still hanging over the edge of the boat. Her boots were hooked on the edge and Mr. Thorn quickly pushed them over. He tossed the life-jacket where she had gone under and was just about to jump in when she came up.

"I lost my pole," she shouted, and coughed. She wiped the hair away from her eyes, reached for the life jacket, and let Mr. Thorn help her back into the boat.

He laid her back on the bench. "Are you ok?"

She coughed. "I think I swallowed some water."

"That fish almost had you for breakfast. You just lie there until you feel ok to sit up."

The ride back to camp seemed to take forever. The water was as smooth as glass. Pam watched the clouds glide by overhead, letting the sun warm her face, and decided to let it warm the rest of her body. She sat up, having a hard time moving in her wet, heavy clothes, unbuttoned her flannel shirt, tossed it on the bench seat, and pulled off the wet t-shirt, leaving just the light, wet bra to cover her boobs. Her boots clunked on the bottom of the boat when she kicked them off, and she had to wrestle with the tight, wet jeans to get them off before she could lay back on the bench seat again to soak up the warm sun. She closed her eyes.

It was a long time before Mr. Thorn cut the engine and the bow of the boat nudged up on the sandy shore with a gentle grind. She opened her eyes. He was pulling the engine out of the water. She climbed out and the two of them pulled the boat onto shore so it wouldn't float away.

"Go on in and dry off. I'll put the boat away," he said.

She left the tent flap open while she peeled off the wet panties and bra. The towel wasn't in her bag, but outside drying on a branch. Mr. Thorn had removed his shirt and was sweating with the boat. He stopped to watch her trod across the camp, naked, to pluck the towel off the tree. She smiled but didn't look back. He walked in while she was on her knees, toweling her hair, her back to the entrance. She looked over her shoulder at his bare chest. He was holding a first aid kit.

"Let's take a look at that wound," he said.

Pam stretched her legs out and he knelt down to look at the red marks left by the big hook.

"You're gonna be fine." He opened the kit and took out a bottle of antiseptic. "This is gonna sting." Pam gritted her teeth when he washed the tiny gouges, then he put a bandage over it and taped it to keep it in place. "That's it," he said.

He stood up and kicked off his boots and pushed down his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear. His penis, half-erect, flopped out. When she saw it her mouth fell open.

It looked bigger than she remembered. He helped her up on her hands and knees and spread her legs, forcing them apart, and shoved a finger in her hole. Pam tossed her head back.

"Fuck my ass, please," she said in a soft whisper. Her thick, wet, blonde hair reached back from the top of her head down her neck and back.

"Lube it up, first."

She turned around on her knees and licked his cock. This was the only lubrication he was going to use and if she didn't get him extremely wet, it would rip her open on the first push, so she drooled along the whole shaft.

"That's enough. Turn around and be still," he said.

She turned back around on her hands and knees, grabbed the tent post and held on tight, waiting. He rubbed the fat shaft along her cunt a few times, and then, to her surprise, slipped it in.

Silently, she thanked God, turning her eyes up. At least her own juices would make his cock a little slicker. He squeezed her hips and pulled her back to him, but after only a few deep, hard strokes he pulled it out. She took a slow, raspy breath with her eyes closed, waiting for him to line it up. She was shaking.

"Do it. Do it now," she whispered.

One of his strong hands spread her ass cheeks, his other hand held his cock up. Her hands squeezed the post, and it wasn't very sturdy. The tip of the head touched her sensitive little hole, and she gasped. She wished for some grease to smear in her hole, but there was no time, he was already pushing, and the head wanted in.

Letting out a deep breath, she willed herself to relax. The head slipped in effortlessly, followed by most of the shaft. Pam moaned. Mr. Thorn let go of the shaft and maintained a steady push forward until he reached a dead end. Barely half the shaft had penetrated. He could sink no further.

Pam swallowed hard. She could handle his size in her pussy, but this? Maybe she shouldn't have asked for it.

"Take it out, please," she whimpered.

"No way," he said. He wrapped his big hands around her waist and rocked her back and forth.

"Please." She was sobbing and trembling. His cock felt enormous.

"Too late."

"Ohh. You're gonna make me cum."

His cock, covered in her juices, made odd slurping noises, kind of like the little stream that gurgled in the cove, except that his cock moved very slow. He pulled out an inch or two, then pushed it back in, a little deeper than the time before, and stopped when she groaned and sobbed because he had hit bottom. She was so tight that he wasn't able to move any quicker. It was almost as if his penis had become glued inside her rectum.

She wiggled her hips. "God, that feels so good."

"I thought you said you couldn't stand it."

"I can't. I can't stand it when you're not inside me like this."

He stopped pumping his hips.

"I have to tell you something," he said, bending over to be closer to her ear. His big, rough hands went up her belly and around her breasts. "I made it with a lot of women in my time, strangers, friends, my friend's wives, my wive's friends, my aunts, cousins, my sister, my mother, and even a man once or twice, since I was old enough to stand, but I never had anyone, anyone, as good as you. That's a fact."

She smiled at the thought, unaware that she was about to orgasm. It caught her off guard and she started making little cooing noises.

"Oooh...oooh...oooh," she moaned, and finally felt an orgasm, one she had been waiting for all weekend, at the same time Mr. Thorn washed her insides with sperm.

When it ended she laid out flat on the sleeping bag and he collapsed on top of her, without removing his cock from her hole. His cum had flooded deep into her bowels, running through her body where it felt best.

"Thank you," she whispered, turning her face up to meet his lips.

He kissed her before he crawled off. She rolled over and watched him go out. She came out of the tent in dry jeans and shirt, dry shoes on her feet, and walked over to help him tie down the boat. It clanked and banged up onto the trailer and they made sure it was secure.

"Mr. Thorn?" she said. He looked up. "Will you take me fishing again, sometime?"

He smiled and nodded. "Sure."

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