Erotic Campfire Stories

By

Sean O’Toole

Copyright 2022. All rights reserved

Published by B.J. Frazier Publications, LLC

B.J. Frazier Publications Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction.

Therefore, all characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination.

Adult Reading Material

DIGITAL ISBN: 978-1-957131-22-1

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Preface

Her Name Was Ann

Night With a Porn Star

Siobhan

Epilogue

Afterward

Bonus Story - Lucky Accident

About Sean O’Toole

Connect with Sean O’Toole

Author’s Note

This collection of short erotic fiction contains some of my favorite stories. Since there isn’t any one thing that typifies them, I came up with the idea of men swapping unlikely tales of conquests or feats of sexual prowess around a campfire.

As to the stories themselves, two of them were things I wrote sometime between 2009 and 2011. Another I started a couple of years ago but I wasn’t satisfied with early versions so I set it aside in favor of other work. The story wasn’t through with me yet and kept insisting that I go back to it until I got it right.

This collection also contains a bonus story that has nothing to do with campfires. It’s a little bit of nonsense I came up with to poke a little fun at porn tropes. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thanks to my many readers for supporting my work. I’m humbled by the idea that people pay money to read what I write.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to B.J. Frazier, who claims to have zero patience but has shown quite a bit of it with me. That there are commas in the right places is one hundred percent her doing. I’m very bad with commas. She’s a no-nonsense editor (my favorite kind) and asks great questions. I appreciate her hard work and friendship. She’s the only reason you’re reading this. You can show her YOUR appreciation by buying one of her books at bjfrazier.com.

I have never served in the U.S. Navy or any other branch of the armed services, but I have spent some quality time with a pair of retired Navy Master Chiefs (one Seal and one Submariner) who worked for me and treated me like a wet-behind-the-ears junior officer... which I certainly was, in a way. They were and they were kind enough to share their wisdom with me.

They taught me about the tradition of “sea stories,” that I have borrowed for this collection. I’m not going to name them for obvious reasons but I am thankful for their service to our country--and to everyone who serves--and for their guidance to a (then) young man stepping into his first management role.

~Sean O’Toole

Preface

Consider, if you will, three men in their late-middle years gathered around a campfire in the woods. A place they’ve frequented many times. The water in a nearby lake laps at the shore. A beached canoe shows its shiny aluminum bottom to the moonlit sky.

These are men of experience. They have, as the saying goes, been there and done that. They’ve seen the elephant. And they are also men for whom tradition is sacred. The camping trip has been on the same weekend, to the same location, every year. For decades, since high school.

Back then, their fathers drove to the site. It was their gathering spot for years before they even thought about having kids.

Tradition. Ritual. Priceless to this trio of friends.

One of the traditions is telling stories. Truth is not a requirement. In fact, creative embroidery is part of the entertainment value. Often, the tales involve sexual conquests; real or imagined. A communal bottle of good whiskey is passed as each man, in turn, tells his tale.

One of them had been a Navy Seal. Another had been a master chief on a nuclear submarine. And the third had been a commissioned officer who gave advice to the Navy on matters involving international law. He had been the one giving orders, of course. The other two kidded him about it. He freely admitted that, without Navy Chiefs, officers wouldn’t know how to wipe their own asses.

“Food secure?”

“Food secure, aye!”

“Canoe secure?”

“Canoe secure, aye!”

“Bottle open?”

“Bottle open, aye!”

“Turn to! Gentlemen, man your brooms! Sweep all garbage off the fantail!”

“Fantail, aye!”

Comfortable camp chairs occupied, the storytellers began to weave their tales in and out of the smoke from the crackling fire. They went in order of seniority instead of rank, though it was only a matter of weeks or months from oldest to youngest.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got married? This is no sea story. This actually happened.”

Her Name Was Ann

I entered college at the end of August, 1972. It was my first time away from home without any real adult supervision (an R.A. in a dorm doesn’t really count). I was nervous but I soon fell in with a group of fellow frosh who shared an 8:00 a.m. English Composition class. Most of those kids were products of the local high school but they adopted me into their group.

We all hung out in the student Union after class. It had a big lounge area with lots of furniture and low tables, where we played Hearts. The game went on all day, rotating different players.

That’s where I met Ann.

She was tall, slender, blonde, and sassy. Very sassy. She was used to handling guys because she had three older brothers. We shared a sense of humor and hit it off right away.

Ann had really long, straight hair. It hung below her ass like a waterfall. I loved it. As History majors, we ended up in a number of classes together. I wanted to ask her out but I’d just broken up with my high school girlfriend and was a little gun shy. I also didn’t have a car, which limited the number of dating venues. But I really liked spending time with Ann and I thought it would be fun to spend some time with her outside of a college classroom or the Union.

Finally, I worked up the courage to ask if she’d like to go to a play. The University Theater was doing Neil Simon’s Barefoot in the Park.

“Hey, Ann,” I said as we were leaving our American History I class, “I snagged two tickets to Barefoot in the Park at the Miller Theater this Friday night. Would you like to see it with me?” I held my breath, waiting for a crushing retort.

She turned to look at me and, for a moment, my heart stopped. I was surely going to go down in flames.

Then she smiled, and I felt my heart start up again.

“I love Neil Simon! Sure, let’s go,” she said.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty at your house,” I said.

“Okay, but fair warning--you’re going to get the third degree from my parents, especially my mother. Dad’s not so bad; he just wants anyone who dates me to treat me well,” she said.

“And your mother?”

“Oh, she just wants to know what church you go to. If it’s not Catholic, it’s not anything,” she replied.

“Great. Well, Lutheran is sort of like Catholic, isn’t it?”

“Ha! Try telling my mother that. But don’t worry. Her bark is way worse than her bite,” Ann added, smiling.

It was Wednesday when I asked her, and the next couple of days went buy like treacle through a tube. When Friday arrived, I spent a long time getting ready. I didn’t have any dress clothes in my dorm room, but I made sure my jeans were clean, and I ironed my shirt. I showered and splashed on some English Leather before I got dressed. I was careful not to use too much.

It was a crisp, fall evening with a full moon and just enough breeze to rustle the leaves. Her house was about five minutes from the dorm. I knocked on the door, and her father answered, giving me “the look” that all fathers give to their daughters’ prospective dates. I’d been warned, and Ann had given me some pointers on what to say so I wasn’t as nervous as I probably should have been.

“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m here to pick up Ann,” I said, extending my hand.

“I’m Ann’s father, Bill. Nice to meet you, Mark,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a good, firm shake.

My father always told me that a firm handshake is a great way to make a good first impression. It seemed that Bill thought the same way. He smiled as he ushered me into the living room.

“Ann’s not quite ready yet,” Bill said. “Have a seat,” he added, pointing to the living room sofa. “I don’t recognize you as one of Ann’s high school friends, Mark. Where are you from?”

“Twin Peaks. It’s a small logging town in northeastern Washington State,” I said.

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