A Tale of Wet Sibling Love - (5,800 words).
Brothers that peep at us girls need to be taught a lesson. It’s not right for him to watch my pee squirting out while I sit on the open camp toilet. I need to punish him good, and I know exactly how I’m going to do it. Suffer brother. (But I’d never really hurt him. I love him too much to do that.)
I hate camping.
Well, maybe hate is too harsh, but really, there should be better things to do during college term break than camping in some out-of-the-way place where there isn’t even phone or Internet service. Not like it was a new idea, we’d being vacationing like this from before I was born. Dad loves fishing and mom likes watching him fish and reading. My brother and me had no choice, carted from remote lake to stream at every possible opportunity. It was great when we were younger, free to explore and play without worrying about other people, since dad only went to places where we could be completely alone.
“Other people frighten the fish,” he would say. We never complained. It had been good to forget other people and run free, but now, I would give anything for Internet service for my tablet. Instead I had some assignments to complete and a couple of textbooks to read. Boring! One highlight of the day, if you could call it that, was the visit to the camp toilet. It was the first thing the men set up once they’d settled on a camp site. “We know women can’t wait,” Dad would say, and he was right. The men could pee around a tree trunk, but it was harder for mom and me. When I was younger, I used to help them set up. Dad always chose a site a long way from where he set up the tent. “Keeps the smell away,” he said. Funny thing was that it was only the men that made the smell. Mom and me soon learnt to wait a while after the men went in the morning. At least they only went once a day.
First dad would dig a hole in the middle of the clearing he’d chosen. My brother still helped. Then there were some bits of wood that the men assembled into a support that they topped with a plastic commode seat. “Some comfort for you women,” Dad said. For some privacy, the men bashed poles in a square around the toilet, and draped those poles with burlap and made a flap to use as a door. In truth, it was private to a degree, and it was quite pleasant looking up at the trees and sky above, providing it wasn’t raining.
By mid morning my mind had turned to mush. Mom was out somewhere near where dad was trying to catch a fish, and my brother was nowhere to be seen. He often went out for hours. He always said he was exploring. Years back, I would have gone with him, but now it was my time to face the camp toilet. It wasn’t that bad really, but I know my friends from college would call it privative and they wouldn’t use it, but they weren’t there. No sign of anyone else at all as I walked the path towards the privacy wall of light brown material, the flap directly ahead and slightly open to indicate it was empty.
Through the flap, I turned and hooked the material back to seal the entrance. Ahead was the seat atop the four boards that held it over the pit of doom. We’d named it that when we were kids and the name stuck. We all joked what would happen if the seat slipped and one of us fell down, but that had never happen. Alongside, dad had made a pole with hooks to hold the roll of paper, and a spare, and alongside that was a plastic pail filled with some white powder with a small scoop that was supposed to stop smells, provide we sprinkled some of that powder down the hole. I don’t think it worked.
I pushed my jeans down, and then my panties, both tied to spare hooks. We women had learnt this to save accidents. Perched up on the seat with only open space in front, there was no guarantee what direction our pee might go. Now we took our clothing out of the area, and spread our feet wide too. One trip back to camp with sopping pants had been enough. At last I was able to sit over the pit of doom, my feet well spread. Things should be safe. Safe now to release and let my pee go where it must.
That’s when I heard it. I’d been preoccupied with my preparations, but now I could clearly hear sounds of movement to my left. Not much, but enough to say something was there, maybe a small animal or a bird scratching. I waited a little but it had stopped, and my pee was ready to flow. I let it go, looking down to watch most of the yellow stream making for the hole with only a tiny rivulet wetting the ground in front and none getting onto my legs.
There was that noise again, from the same area. Something moving close to the burlap wall on my left. I thought I saw something too. A shadow moving through the wall. That couldn’t happen. We’d checked it years ago. This material was so tightly weaved, nothing could see through it.
Not feeling so secure now, I quickly stood and reached for my panties, then my jeans. Movements from outside again, and this time I could identify the sounds of someone quickly walking away through the undergrowth. Definite footsteps. Someone had been spying on me!
I unhooked the flap and raced through the entrance, looking in the direction of the noises, but no one to be seen. I made to where I thought I’d heard that first noise and I could see it. See grass pressed down right against the wall, and even more, as I looked closer, a hole in the wall material. Some of the strands of hessian had been worked apart to make a small peephole, and when I knelt to get to the right height and put my eye up to the hole, I could clearly see straight in to the toilet I had just been sitting on. Someone had been watching me pee and I knew exactly who that was. My brother.