Heat In The Tent

She walked to her tent without looking back. Without saying a word. There were no words that could express what she was feeling. The night air caressed her bare upper body. A chorus of crickets chirped loudly and steadily around the lake—loud enough to drown out the sound of her heartbeat.

She had a tent to herself, as the only person in the camp. There was enough room for four in her accommodation, but they wanted to give her some privacy. Even Father George slept with some of the young men. Now, as Carol opened the zipper of the tent flap and crawled inside, she felt as if she had been rejected by the others.

As if she were a stranger whom no one wanted anything to do with. She stared at the ceiling of the tent, where the nylon fluttered slightly in the night breeze. The fabric walls glowed faintly in the light of the fire outside, casting soft shadows that danced back and forth like ghosts. She lay down on the thin sleeping mat and exhaled. Long. Deep. But the tension did not ease. The restlessness remained. That was good, she decided, it made her feel alive. Alive as she had not felt in decades. What the hell had she just done? But the question was not filled with shame. Instead, it produced a slight tingling sensation. A little pride. She giggled to herself.

Everyone had been watching. For a moment, she had been the flame that lit up the camp. The center around which everything revolved. The one who couldn't be ignored. No longer the woman in the background who baked cakes for the school bazaar and took minutes at parent-teacher conferences. Not the mother. Not the chaperone. She had removed something—and drawn everyone's attention.

The boys, she thought with a smile, hadn't been able to look away. Noah had almost swallowed his tongue. Marcus had looked impressed. But neither of them really mattered to her. He was important.

Carol closed her eyes. George had seen it. She knew it. She had felt it behind her back. He hadn't stopped her. He hadn't called out to her. He hadn't come to give her something to cover herself with. He had just watched... silently. Focused. Like a man.

A slow warmth spread through her stomach. She knew the feeling. It wasn't worry. Not embarrassment. It was excitement.

She shifted restlessly on the thin blanket and suddenly became very aware of her body—the softness of her thighs, the hardness of her nipples. Her hand slid down her stomach, reached the waistband of her shorts, and lingered there, her fingertips absentmindedly searching for the button.

Would he come? The thought floated in the tent like a ghost. Half hope, half fear.

No. Surely he wouldn't do that. He was a priest. He was the supervisor. He had responsibilities. He had to be a role model.

Without thinking about it, she unzipped her pants and slid them down over her feet. Her panties came off right away. It felt good to lie there in the tent. Without clothes. Without constraints. Free.

She spread her legs. Her hands found their way on their own. She moaned softly when she realized how wet and sensitive she was. Actually, she hadn't just suspected it, she already knew. But the confirmation felt better than she had anticipated. Slowly, her fingers began to circle, to touch, to caress.

What if George came in and saw her like this? The thought hit her like a blow to the head. She rolled her eyes and had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

No, she told herself, he wouldn't come.

But if he did...