Toward the end of my junior year a notice appeared on the bulletin boards at school. The state parks department was looking for reliable young "Fire Spotters" who would spend their summer in the mountains watching for lightning, smoke, and forest fires.
Skipping a lot of red tape and indecision on the part of both sets of adults, I cleared a bunch of hurdles, qualified for the low-wage summer job, and reported for duty.
I was assigned to an old tower that had been constructed as a WPA project during the Depression. We spotters (both sexes) slept and ate and entertained each other in a bunkhouse that must have been as old as the towers. The shifts were eight hours. We generally drove partway to our towers and hiked the rest of the way. The spotter we were relieving would give us an update before heading back to the bunkhouse.
One of the first questions we had for the forest ranger who supervised us was this: "What do we wear up in those towers?" That triggered a discussion of mountain weather among those who had previously served as spotters. The ranger summed up with this statement: "I don't care if you're up there buck naked, as long as you've got your eyes glued to the horizon and your binoculars at hand." Of course we all laughed.
Several days went by and all of us settled into a routine. One morning I had a 6 AM shift. As the sun gradually lit up my tower I could see that it was going to be a fantastic day. Above me the skies were richly blue. Below me the forest canopy was the deepest of green. The sun was a hot ball of flame. A light breeze stirred the trees. I loved it.
When I left the bunk house around 5:30, it had been cold. Now that nature's furnace beamed at me I took off my jacket. A little later my long-sleeve flannel shirt came off, and by late morning I'd also shed my t-shirt. My torso was bare, absorbing the solar rays that surrounded me.
And something else was happening. The gentle breeze stirred my chest hair and tickled my bare skin. Nature's fingertips were caressing me! The sun's heat warmed my legs and I took off my pants. Now I was standing on the walkway of my tower clad in nothing but shoes, socks and boxers.
And then - perhaps I knew all along that it was going to happen - my neglected peter began growing.
I had been there nearly a week. The bunk house offered scant privacy and there had just not been an opportunity to release the pressure. But now I stood on what seemed like the top of the world, growing a rapid erection. Stiffer and stiffer my dick became and I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Walking to the railing that surrounded the platform, I allowed the sun to shine on my rising peter, let the breeze tingle my balls, felt my leg hair stirring. I was ready for action.
I tried to pump slowly, tried to make the moment linger. But I was becoming harder and harder while sliding my hand back and forth while my shooter aimed upward and outward at full tilt.
The pre-ejaculatory sensations grew strong. My body luxurated in the sun and breeze. I was in masturbation heaven. And then, even though I tried to make the anticipation last, the supreme tingle began somewhere behind my balls and - even with the tiniest strokes - I was horny, horny, so horny, so aroused by nature. I was on the verge of cumming already and there was no way to stop it, no way to slow it down.
The moment of ejaculation shook my whole body. Streams of cum flew from the tower, momentarily making an upward arc due to the angle of my erection but then allowing the breeze to catch them and drive them outward, away from the tower, into empty space. Finally they began settling, down, down, slowly down. Where did my load hit? I never knew. Perhaps in the top of a verdant tree. Perhaps all the way to the undergrowth, to enrich the soil. Or maybe the breeze dried it and it blew away in a mist of desiccated dust.
When the moment was past I told myself that I was loony. No sane, self-respecting person peeled to their underwear and jacked off from the top of a fire-spotting tower.
Despite what I told myself, that was just the first of many tower ejaculations that summer. I jacked early in the morning with my dick sticking out of my thermal suit. I jacked at twilight with the setting sun glowing on my crotch. I jacked toward the north, the south. I jacked totally nude, jacked while tickling my boy-tits. And I fired my loads into nature's receptive beauty.
But I did it anyway. Stripped off every stitch to keep my clothing dry, and went out into the rain for the wank. Nude as a newborn, pumping my stiff peter, wiggling it, shaking it, letting the rain tingle my balls and draw them up like a shrunken prune! Meanwhile my entire body became thoroughly soaked and incredibly aroused. And then, suddenly, almost without warning I shot a jet-propelled series of loads off the tower. It was incredible, a ball-draining climax that fired again and again as if from a high-pressure nozzle. It made my dick itch, made my balls pull into my abdomen. Made that peculiar muscle ache, the mysterious muscle that flings your cum at high velocity out of your dick. It gave me the orgasm of a lifetime.
My seed joined the rain falling to the ground.
I got dressed, pulling my clothes over my wet body. The next guy was on the way, the guy who would relieve me. Soon I'd hear and feel his steps as he climbed the old stairs. He'd say, "How's it going?"
I'd answer, "All routine. Nothing happening."
While down below my tiny contribution of horny ejaculate soaked into the darkness of the mountainside.
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