He threw back the top portion of the unzipped, double sleeping bag and called, softly, "Terry!"

There was no answer. The black-bearded leader waited a beat or to, before he called, again, louder, "Teeerrrry!"

On the heavily wooded slope above the camp, Terry heard Mickey's voice calling her, the second time. She froze. She had to obey him… no matter what! Christ! Not right now… though!

She was crouched over Peeper Martin's loins, his long, thin cock held in her hands, her lips just beginning to descend on it to engulf his cock's head in her hungry mouth.

Hastily, she began to scramble to her feet, dropping the fully erect prick lancing up through the fly of his heavy, leather motorcycle pants.

"That's Mickey!" she gasped. "I've got to split!"

Martin sat up, reached out and grabbed one of her wrists.

"Let him wait! You're mine… right now!" he hissed.

"No Peeper! Christ no! I've got to go!" Her voice was desperate. "You know that!"

"Stop calling me Peeper… for Christ's sake! My name's Tom! Me and him… are going to have a go about that one of these days!"

"Let me go!" Terry begged. "I don't want him to get pissed-off at me… over nothing!"

"Nothing!?" Tom Martin roared. "You're splitting… leaving me all uptight… with a big hard-on… ready to do some fucking… you call that nothing?"

"… But… I've got to go! I don't want Mickey… carving on me… the way he did Maureen!" She wrenched herself free of his grasp, a dry sob escaping her contorted mouth. As she started down the slope toward the camp, Terry flung back over her shoulder, "You can jerk it off… or find out, for sure, whether Wunder Boy will blow you!"

Then, she heard Mickey call for the third time. His voice was loud, angry, "Terry! Get your fucking ass over here… right now!"