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by Lauren Milfinger
Published by Lot’s Cave
They All Cum at Carlisle's, © 2017, by Lauren Milfinger
Cover by Morgaine Wrightman
All Rights Reserved
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
Welcome to Carlisle’s
The first time I came to Carlisle’s Nature Resort was just after I turned thirty. I’d been to nudist resorts before, obviously. I spent a year at Hidden Cove Retreat when I was twenty-four, hanging out with my friend Sylvia. That was where I fucked my brother, Sam, for the first time. You can read all about that in the first of my autobiographical books, The Life of Lauren, if you’re curious about such things.
Which I presume you are, or why would you be reading this book?
You had a choice of accommodations at Carlisle’s. They had trailer and RV hookups, and some of those RVs were bloody land yachts, where the owners more or less took their houses with them when they traveled. You saw a surprising number of those big one here.
If you arrived in a car, there were two options. Or three, if you wanted to pitch a tent, but I never saw anyone do that while I was there. Most either stayed at the Resort Hotel, which was a typical, mid-price hotel located near the pool and dining hall, or they rented one of the cabins.
The cabins had been around longest. They were put up back in the 1920s by Mortimer Carlisle, the resort’s founder. It was called Carlisle’s Nudist Haven back then. To all accounts, old Mortimer was one of those guys who took a religious view of nudism. The place had been a family camp back in those days, with naked kids running all over the place, lots of wholesome entertainment, campfires, sing-alongs, and never a hard-on to be seen. The sort of place you’d see in those ancient German naturist movies where everyone was playing volleyball or badminton, a doctor ran the place to gain the benefits of the sunlight, and it wasn’t at all obvious that the surprisingly fit guests were only a few years away from invading France.
Back in the early days of the “movement,” nudists tended to be astonishingly prudish for people who spent most of their free time wandering around naked. There was sex, but only in the privacy of a married couple’s cabin, and most likely with the lights out.
A couple years before I first came there, Julia Carlisle, representing the fourth generation of Carlisles to run the place, took over after both of her parents were killed in a plane crash. Julia had different ideas of how to run things.
The first thing she did was banish the kids. After the end of that season, no one was allowed in the resort who wasn’t at least eighteen. That was one of the things that attracted me to the place. I like wandering around rustic locations naked. I don’t like kids. Honestly, I’d make a terrible mother. Hidden Cove had been like that, but then it was bought out by a fucking church, who not only started allowing kids, but installed a sanctuary and required everyone visiting to wear clothes all the time and attend the services.
I thought I’d got rid of that old lecher, Reverend Killjoy, but it turned out he was behind the buyout. I’m sure he had no idea I’d ever stayed there, and wasn’t doing this to personally inconvenience me, but he managed to do it. This was the kind of thing that sometimes made me want to get my hands on his email list and send every one of his contributors copies of those pictures Rhonda got of me in Killjoy’s office with his cock in my mouth as he tried to give me the holy anointing oil.
Anyway, Hidden Cove was out, and Carlisle’s seemed like a good substitute. I rented a cabin for the summer, figuring I could do a bit of writing and enjoy the country atmosphere.
When I pulled my car into the gravel lot in front of the office, I liked the look of the place. The office was made of logs, giving it a properly rustic look. There was a big porch in the front, spotted with several rocking chairs. I wondered if anyone ever sat in them. They were on the “public” side of the building, after all, so anyone sitting out front would have to be clothed.
I parked the car and went up the wooden steps to the porch. I’d dressed casually for the trip in jeans, a dark-blue tee-shirt, and white deck shoes. Once I was inside the camp I presumed the shoes were about all I’d wear for the next three months, other than a bikini bottom for a few days each month. Even nudists think it’s a little tacky to wander around camp with a piece of string hanging out of your pussy.
I wasn’t sure about the dining hall. Some camps make you wear shorts in there. Others just require you to cover the seat with a towel. Staying at a nudist resort is a little like hitch-hiking around the galaxy. You always need to know where your towel is.
I went inside and walked up to the desk. I just managed to keep from doing a double take when I got a look at the young woman behind the counter. I felt like I’d walked into a time warp.
Julia Carlisle was dressed in a red and white striped bikini, and wearing cork-soled mules. The bikini was a retro, 1950s-looking style. Her hair was jet black, straight, just a bit longer than shoulder length, with bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were blue, under dark, arched brows. She wore only a little makeup, but her lipstick was an old-fashioned, vivid red.
It was like walking into a room and running into a young Bettie Page. Julia naturally resembled her, both facially and physically, and she was obviously doing her best to enhance that resemblance. I couldn’t help wondering if she was going to have a 1950s style bush.
“Welcome to Carlisle’s,” she said. “I’m Julia. I run this place.”
“I have a reservation,” I said. “Lauren Milfinger.”
Julia poked around in a wood box and found the reservation card. “Here you are,” she said, nodding. “We’ve got you in Cabin 9.”
She took a standard registration card from another box. It asked all the normal questions. This wasn’t that many years ago, but not everyone was using computers yet. I filled out the card and gave her my credit card. She placed it in the machine, laid a charge form on top of it, and pushed down the handle, then handed me the form and my card. I signed the form and put my card back into my wallet. She gave me my copy of the slip, and made a show of tearing up the carbons from the form pack before putting her copies of the slip into the cash drawer.
I’ve noticed recently that the last vestiges of those old imprinters are disappearing. The latest credit card I received from my bank has a chip, but the raised lettering is gone. You couldn’t print a manual slip with that new card no matter how much you might want to.
Julia handed me a key. As is common in nudist resorts, the key was attached to an elastic wrist band. Naked people don’t have pockets. Wrist bands work best, because they make it easy to keep the key shaded when you’re lying in the sun. If you hang it around your neck you’re liable to end up with a key-shaped burn on your chest when the metal key heats in the direct sunlight.
“How do I get there?” I asked.
“Your car out front?”
She opened a door behind the counter and stuck her head through it. “Jordon, get your butt up here.”
After a few seconds, a big man came through the door. He was deeply tanned, about 6′2″, and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and flip-flops. “What is it?” He noticed me. “Oh, hi. I’m Jordon, her big brother.”
He’s older and she’s the boss. My parents would never understand that concept. They figured the man was always the boss in any family.
“Lauren,” I said.
“I’m going to show Lauren how to get to her cabin,” Julia said. “Watch the desk until I get back.”
“Can do, Sis.”
Julia grabbed a canvas shoulder bag, followed me out to my car, and climbed into the passenger’s seat. “You go down that drive, to the left there. There’s a gate about fifty yards along that I’ll have to let you through, then I’ll tell you were to turn and where you can park.”
“Okay.” I started the car and we drove into the compound.
The cabin was set back a good way from the highway, in a circular group of ten. There was a flagpole in the middle, with an American flag flown above the camp flag on the same halyard. The flag was a light blue swallowtail, with a naked man and woman holding hands on a white circle in the middle, and the word “Carlisle’s” embroidered under them. There was a circular walk in front of the cabins, and two parking spaces, accessed from a circular drive, behind each of them.
Julia hopped out of the car and immediately took off her bikini. I’d been right about the bush. A perfect 1950s’ triangle of black pubes had been hiding behind the red and white striped cloth. She stuffed the bikini into her shoulder bag.
“The same key works the front and back doors,” she said.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin. It was cooler inside, but not by a lot. The air conditioning was turned down just enough for comfort. I noticed the cabins had central A/C, and not the much noisier window units.
Julia helped me carry my stuff inside. I only brought a small bag. You didn’t need a lot of clothes when you weren’t wearing them. There were also three bags of groceries, which she helped me put away in the glass-fronted cupboards and the fridge. And, naturally, there was my faithful old Royal manual, some file folders, and a couple reams of paper.
Somewhere in the middle of that I managed to get rid of my tee-shirt, jeans, and panties, so we finished the move-in with both of us wearing nothing but our shoes.
“How’d it happen you’re the boss and your older brother isn’t?” I asked.
Julia laughed. “He’s got no interest in running a business. He’s fine with handling the maintenance and keeping the place in shape, but wants nothing to do with bookkeeping and all that business stuff. So, he takes care of the physical stuff, and spends his free time trying to make it with the female guests.”
“He’s a good-looking guy,” I said. “I suppose he catches a few.”
Julia laughed. “A few? Hell, he gets just about any of them he wants.” She did one of those I’m going to tell you something secret motions with her head. “You couldn’t tell in the office, because he’s wearing shorts, but he’s got a thirteen-inch dick.”
“That,” I said, “is big. You’ll meet my brother, Sam, in a couple weeks, and I always thought he was huge, but he’s only about eleven-and-a-half-inches.”
“That’s certainly respectable, I’d say.”
I nodded. “He’s pretty popular.”
“Maybe I should try him out when he visits,” Julia said.
“You might at that.” I sat down of the sofa under the front window, first spreading a white terrycloth towel over the seat.
“Not your first time at a naturist resort, I see,” Julia commented.
I shook my head. “I spent a whole year at Hidden Cove. Before it got sold and they turned it into Camp Keep Your Clothes on for Jesus.”
Julia laughed and sat down beside me. “I heard about that. That makes us one of only three no-kids camps in the country.”
“That’s partly why I picked this place. I hate kids. And I like seeing guys get hard when I walk by. It makes me feel, I don’t know, powerful.”
Julia nodded gravely. She turned toward me slightly, and let her hand rest on my thigh. I just raised an eyebrow. I was here to work, but if some recreation came along, who was I to turn it away?
I turned my body toward her, raising my arm and resting it on the back of the sofa, my hand touching her far shoulder. She turned in, her hand moving to my other thigh, then up to my hip.
“I was hoping you’d do something like that,” she whispered.
We both leaned in, our heads tilting in opposite directions. Our lips came together. The hand on my hip moved up to the center of my back. My hand pressed on her shoulder, turning her further toward me. My right tit pressed against her left as we pulled each other closer.
I could feel her other hand on my thigh, moving upward, the fingers slipping between my legs, probing, finding my pussy and exploring its outer realm.
I had a hand on her flat, firm stomach. I moved it down, my fingers moving through the thick black hair, finding her hooded clit above her cunt. My fingers tugged at the clitoral hood, bringing the pink pearl out of hiding. I caressed it with my forefinger, and noticed the sudden intake of breath, felt her hand behind me pull me closer.
We broke our kiss, looking into each other’s eyes. She continued to finger my pussy while I stroked her clit.
“So nice,” she murmured.
I pushed her back on the sofa and bent over her. Her nipples were dark, starting to harden. I kissed the right one, sucked it between my lips, teased it with my tongue, nipped lightly with my teeth. She moaned seductively and arched her back as my lips left a trail of kisses down from her breast, down the center of her stomach, and through her thick pubic patch.
I took my finger away from her clit, slipped it inside her. My fingers spread her cunt lips, and I started to lick her pearly clit. Julia groaned loudly, her hands grasping the back of my head, pulling my face into her crotch. My tongue was roaming over her pussy, licking the inner lips, her clit, probing at the pee hole, sliding deep into her dark, wet tunnel, where now two fingers were caressing the spongy, erotically sensitive area just behind the pubic bone.
Her body was shaking now, her hands pulling my mouth tighter against her cunt, the sweet, musky pussy juices welling up from her depths. My tongue was fluttering like a trumpet player improvising in a jazz combo.
“Oh, Christ!” Julia yelled. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
She seemed to suddenly collapse. Her cunt was spasmodically relaxing and contracting around my fingers. Each time the tip of my tongue flicked against her clit her body twitched.
She pulled my head out of her crotch, pulled me up, my body above hers, my lips hovering over her red, red lips. She pulled my head down. Our lips met, opened, tongues probing, dueling, bodies pressed together, each with one hand again caressing the other’s cunt.
We rolled off the sofa onto the rug. Breaking our kiss again, she pushed me onto my back, turned, and lifted one leg over mine, sliding toward me, so that our pussies were pressed against each other. We both began to grind together. Julia was already cumming again. It took a bit longer for me, but as our pussies worked together I could feel the waves of pleasure begin to radiate upward from my loins and engulf me in a hot, wet tide of ecstasy.
Afterwards we lay together on the rug, hands slowly roaming, kissing gently as the mood struck.
“Will we be doing this a lot?” Julia asked.
I kissed her again, my right hand caressing her tits. “I think we might.”
“I really like boys, you know,” she said.
“So do I.” I smiled. “But a little variety is a good thing, no?”
“Oh, it so is.”
She sat up, sitting cross-legged. “I should get back to the office,” she said, sounding reluctant to go. “Poor Jordon is probably wondering what happened to me by now.” She laughed suddenly. “Or someone may be trying to check in, which is even worse. He’s hopeless handling that.”
I got to my feet and extended my hand, helping her up. She dug around in her shoulder bag and produced a comb, which she definitely needed after a couple hours of rolling around on the rug and trying every position and technique we could think of. I wondered how my own hair looked. I’d have to take care of that after she left.
With her hair combed again, Julia went out through the front door, kissing me again on the way out, and trotted up the path toward the office. I watched her from the porch until she was out of sight, then went inside, started running a tub, and dragged a comb through my shoulder-length blond locks.
I’d been at Carlisle’s for about a week when Julia talked me into teaching a writing class for the guests. Several of them were staying the whole summer, just as I was doing. Carlisle’s had the usual staff instructors. Art Johnston was an ex-Army drill instructor who led daily fitness classes. He was all crew-cut and muscle, but not exactly hung. He might have been five inches hard.
Eloise Royce was a mousy, frizzy-brown haired lady of 50 who taught high school art classes during the school year, and arts and crafts at Carlisle’s in the summer. She looked like a high school art teacher, though with a better figure than you’d expect if you saw her fully dressed in her usual ill-fitting, mismatched outfits.
Me teaching a creative writing class was a natural. I had my BA in English Literature from Brown, and I’d been selling stories, novels, screenplays, and magazine articles for nearly a decade now. I’ve always felt it sort of a duty to pass on training and skills to the upcoming generation. And, of course, if I taught one class a week Carlisle’s would knock 15% off my weekly bill.
It turned out that ten residents were willing to spend two hours a week, plus however much time it took them to write something for the next class, sitting in a corner of the rec hall with me on Tuesday afternoons.
Julia attended some of the classes, but I think she was just there to get an idea what I was teaching. And to give herself an excuse to huddle with me in my cabin afterwards, ostensibly discussing how the classes were going, but mostly just providing a logical cover for extended cunt lapping sessions. Not that people there cared, but we still tried to be discreet.