Lake Wannacum Nights - Part One
Life in a small Minnesota town may be more exciting than you think!
The first thing a visitor to the quiet Minnesota town of Lake Wannacum is likely to say (other than "Where the hell is the interstate anyway we've been crawling along these dirt tracks for hours, my sat-nav said this was the cross-country route to St. Cloud, my God, have you people even seen a Starbucks?") is "Why does the church on Main Street have a carved wooden penis outside it?"
It's a fair question. Coming from the south, through the well-tended corn fields and skirting the edge of lake, the traveller (invariably lost, and oftentimes angry) will arrive on Main Street almost before he realises it; on the other hand, coming from the north, over the moody forested hills, will also take you right to Main Street, but will at least give you the advantage of having seen it coming. From the south, you'll pass a handful of attractive two-storey homes, set back a little from the road and bordered by immaculate lawns; then you'll pass, at the same time, Harry's Amazing Grocery on the left and Larry's Marvelous Mercantile on the right; another collection of houses, and the crossroads where Lakeside Road cuts through Main Street. Then, before you know it, you're outside the First Lake Wannacum House of Worship, it's white-washed walls gleaming in the sun, and your eyes will be drawn, slowly but inevitably, to the eight-foot wooden penis out front.
From the north, you'll pass the schoolhouse and Old Man Morgan's Garage and Auto Dealership, the first (and so far only) branch of the National First And Cautious Bank, the blunt, barnlike structure of the town hall, and Hot Black Joe's coffee house, but, either way, your journey's going to end with a big wooden cock.
And if curious visitors never tire of asking the question, then Father Patrick Malone, his back straight and his eyes bright despite eighty years of life, never tires of answering it. "It's like this," he says in that Minnesota drawl that tells you, quite clearly, that this is not a story that's about to be rushed. "Some people have a cross outside their church; other folks have a star, or a statue, or some other symbol of their faith. Well, us folks in Lake Wannacum only worship one thing. From sun-up to sun-down, from the time that we're old enough to know about it to the time that we're lucky if we ain't forgot it, we worship the penis." Then, perhaps to illustrate his point, or perhaps because his back is straight and his eyes are bright despite eighty years of life, he usually adds, "So, you wanna suck me off?"
And if some people are shocked by the honesty and directness of this answer, then it is a lucky escape compared to the scenes that await them if they venture inside the House of Worship without having first bumped into Father Malone. Inside, in the soft glowing light that falls through the stained glass windows set high in the white walls, they will see that the rows of pews are not facing an altar, but a luxuriously-appointed four-poster bed with red satin drapes. What is taking place on the bed depends very much on the time of day: if they visit in mid-afternoon, they are likely to see one or two of the local moms taking advantage of the high-school football team, since students who make the team are allowed to cut class one afternoon a week in order to service the local women. This morning, on the other hand, as I returned to my home clutching a bag of hot doughnuts from Hot Black Joe's, I heard a rhythmic high-pitched shrieking that I know belongs to little Pippy Morgan, a pigtailed little hellcat who had bounced on most of the cocks in town before she hit the tender age of fourteen. Or maybe your tastes are a little different, and you'd find something to enjoy later this evening, when Joe, the owner of the coffee shop, acts as a kind of informal ringmaster to a series of man-on-man encounters. Tonight's guest of honour is Stevie Jacobs, who turned sixteen this last summer and is just aching to get his hands on Joe's big black meat. The pews will doubtless be full of the men and women of the town as they watch Stevie lose his anal cherry to Joe's greedy thrusts, then maybe bend over and let some of the older guys clean up his cute little ass with their tongues. It's sure to be a hot night; but then, every night is a hot night here in Lake Wannacum, and every night there's a different variety of fucking going on up there on the giant four-poster. Today is Tuesday, and that's Joe's gay night; tomorrow it'll be the turn of Alice Green, the nymphomaniac lesbian who is the proud owner of the biggest pair of fake breasts in the whole town, and her giant all-girl orgies. Thursdays is two-on-one night, where a couple get to invite someone else into their bed and entertain the whole town - last week it was Larry and Lucille Brannigan, the middle-aged couple who run Larry's Magnificient Mercantile, and they invited their nubile 17-year-old babysitter, Kelly-Marie Jacobs, to join them. Kelly-Marie, being one of the town's moist vocal supporters of frequent, noisy sex, agreed immediately, and the three of them spent an enjoyable couple of hours fucking and sucking in front of an audience of fifty or so of their friends and family. I didn't make it that night, but the next day the whole town was talking about the way Lucille had sucked Larry's sticky cum from Kelly-Marie's well-screwed pussy, making the teenager climb the walls in the process. Lucille's sure to get an invite the next time a couple is looking for a mature playmate!
Friday night is dedicated to discipline, and any number of men and women wait patiently in line to confess their sins to Father Malone, who then directs them to one of the volunteers "Spankers" who make the confessor's pay for their sins using a variety of paddles, crops and whips. It's common for the audience to be baying for blood after the first hour, and they usually get it before the night is out; last Friday night, Juliette MacGregor, 22 and heavily pregnant with her daddy's baby, confessed to the "sin" of onanism, and was whipped by her grandmother until the cheeks of her ass were streaked with blood and she orgasmed so hard she thought the baby was coming. Saturday is party night, and usually degenerates into a full-on orgy of maybe twenty or thirty participants and another fifty onlookers, while every Sunday afternoon a group of volunteers draws straws to find out which one of them is going to be the focus of the whole town's sexual appetites that evening, taking on all comers is a giant Lake Wannacum Fuck-Fest.
And that leaves Mondays, or Family Night as it is informally known around the town. Family Night has always been special to me, since it was on a cold Monday in November, many years ago, that I lost my virginity in the most public and wonderful manner imaginable. It wasn't some sordid encounter in the back of my dad's Chevy, nor a hurried and unsatisfying tryst in the basement of the family home on Lakeside; rather, it was with my own beautiful mother.
At this point, the casual reader will doubtless be wondering how it is that Lake Wannacum enjoys such an open and enlightened attitude toward sex (the less casual reader will probably be wishing that I would get on with the explicit details of how my own mother took my virginity. To that reader, I would said only this: patience is a virtue!) The story of this quiet lake-side community begins in the early days of the nineteenth century, when Catholic immigrants returning from the West to the comfortable embrace of their cousins in the East bumped into a rag-tag band of Lutherans heading in the opposite direction. Forced to winter by the shores of Lake Wannacum (the local Ojibwa word meaning "a place suitable for having energetic sex with the good-looking squaw from the next village without your wife finding out"), the two disparate groups eventually decided that, by working together, they might build a brave new city here in the untamed wilds of central Minnesota.
That was the first step along the road that led to my little town; the second came in 1844 when a geographical mission to chart the heart of Minnesota took the eastern shore of Lake Wannacum and the western shore of Lake Kantwate, twelve miles west, as opposite shores of the same immense body of water. Quite how they made this mistake is lost to the mists of time, but it's thought that an inconveniently-creased map passed back to the National Geographical Institute in St. Paul may have contributed to the complete disappearance of seventy square miles of prime real estate, at the very heart of which lies the town of Lake Wannacum. When Minnesota was properly defined in 1849, no-one thought to include the forty-some families who called Lake Wannacum home, and when it became the 32nd state to join the Union in 1858, the tiny geographical anomaly went completely unnoticed. To this day, a quick glance at the map will tell you that I should be typing this thirty feet under the murky waters of Lake Kantwate.
But the folks of Lake Wannacum aren't the type to be troubled by questions of actual existence; rather, they're more concerned with the crop that's lying in O'Hannigan's field, waiting on the replacement part for his combine harvester, or the price of gasoline over at the Lucky Prospector gas station. Perhaps it isn't surprising then, that our revered ancestors were happy to be forgotten by the rest of the country, and go on with their peaceful small-town lives, until, in 1898, a visionary called Doctor Samuel T Gardener arrived in town. Exiled from his life of comfortable academia back in Massachusetts due to his unorthodox views on sex and sexuality, he fled across the country until he arrived, penniless and exhausted, in Lake Wannacum. Pleading poverty, he was allowed the use of two small rooms in the attic space of the school house, in exchange for fifteen hours of teaching time a week. Given the alternatives, Doctor Gardener accepted the offer gratefully, and set to the education of the eighteen young Lake Wannacumians who showed up every morning smelling of oatmeal and soap. Everything seemed to be going well, and life soon resumed it's stately pace until, some three months after Doctor Gardener's arrival, thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Waites raised her hand politely during a family dinner and announced to the three generations there gathered that her "pussy was afire" and could she please be excused "to rub it 'fore I burst?".
When the uproar had abated somewhat, and the shards of the expensive lead crystal pitcher that Mrs. Annabeth Waites had been given on her wedding day had been cleared up, Elizabeth's parents marched her down to the schoolhouse and demanded to know what Doctor Gardener had been teaching their little girl. Doctor Gardener calmly invited them up to his rooms, and, seated comfortable before a blazing fire, he outlined his philosophy. Why, he asked Annabeth and her husband William, would God have given little girls like Elizabeth such perfect little bodies, if not to enjoy them and to share them with others?
William Waites was outraged. "Your teachings," he thundered, "have cast my daughter into the very claws of Lucifer!"
"Why?" asked Doctor Gardener politely, and William paused.
"What do you mean, why?"
"What commandment has Elizabeth broken?" Doctor Gardener asked. "I'm sure, since a young girl exploring her developing sexuality is apparently so abhorrent to the Almighty, that He would have written a commandment forbidding it."
"Well -" began William, but Doctor Gardener pressed his advantage. He talked for almost an hour about the blossoming beauty of youth, the terrible afflictions that can befall a mind that that is crippled and warped by self-denial, and the essential and profound sanctity of the sexual act. He spoke with persistence and a great deal of eloquence, and, as the candles burned low and cast long shadows, the Waites' found themselves coming around to the eminent Doctor's view of the world. Could it be so bad, they thought, for their beloved daughter to discover the same joy that they themselves had waited until after their marriage to experience?
The final straw, however, was when Doctor Gardener beckoned to Elizabeth and bade her lift her dress. She did so with a happy smile, showing her mother and father her smooth thighs and beautiful, untouched pussy. The room by that time was hot, so it may be reading too much into the situation to question why Annabeth Waites chose that moment to lick her lips and sigh deeply, but the enormous bulge in William's trousers is less easy to ignore. Silence reigned for a moment, while the couple drank in every detail of their precious daughter's beautiful body. "There is no commandment forbidding my teachings, Mr and Mrs Waites," Doctor Gardener smoothly, "but there is certainly a commandment that is applicable to this situation. Go, Elizabeth, and honour thy mother and father."
There is, in Father Malone's office in the House of Worship, an engraving showing the scene which unfolded in that cramped room above the schoolhouse. In the engraving you can clearly see the ecstasy on the features of Elizabeth Waites as she lowers herself slowly onto her father's immense penis while suckling eagerly on her mother's ripe breasts. For one hundred years, the engraving has sat in the House of Worship, and generations of children have studied it and memorised every erotic detail, just as they have memorised the details of Doctor Gardener's career from that point. So appreciative was William Waites of the enormous sexual appetite Doctor Gardener had unlocked in little Elizabeth that he invited the good Doctor to leave the small room above the school and move in with the family. Doctor Gardener accepted, and began introducing the other families in the town to his personal philosophy and, more often than not, to the virgin bodies of their sons and daughters. It was Doctor Samuel T Gardener who encouraged twelve-year-old Millie Janfeld to bounce energetically on her father's cock right there in the Mercantile; it was Doctor Gardener who watched happily as the large Cooper family, mom and dad and four sisters and three brothers, turned their house into a palace of carnal pleasure over a long August weekend; it was Doctor Gardener who was the first to cum inside the voracious pussy of eighteen-year-old Katherine Morgan, who climbed up on the altar during Mass one bright Sunday morning and demanded that every man present fuck her hard and deep.
The teachings took hold, and it wasn't long before everyone in Lake Wannacum was indulging in the most wonderful sex they could imagine. Fathers plundered their daughter's slippery slits, while mothers rode their sons and screamed to the rafters; men coupled with men and women coupled with women; any gathering of more than a handful of people would rapidly turn into a groaning, writhing orgy; girls as young as ten or eleven wandered the streets nude in the summertime, their little bellies oftentimes swelling with new life. Doctor Gardener was immediately appointed the Mayor of Lake Wannacum, and also took over all responsibility for the town's spiritual wellbeing, instilling every new generation of children with his wonderful philosophy until he sadly died shortly after giving a private class to a group of teenage boys on hard anal sex in 1941. At that time, Patrick Malone was voted Mayor, but he eschewed the secular title in favour of taking the honourific "Father", indicating his presence at the heart of the community's religious and sexual lives.
I was born in 1965, a product of my mother's first ever tryst with her father. When I was young, I used to sit her her warm lap and listen to her tell me long stories of how Grandpa would bend her over and take her pregnant pussy whenever he felt like it, squeezing her hard, milk-filled tits in his calloused hands, and making her scream his name over and over in her ecstasy. She was so beautiful, and so full of life and vitality, and I can still remember the wondrous sensation of sucking her beautiful fourteen-year-old titties until her hot milk filled my mouth and I knew everything was right with the world.
By the time I finally did the deed, I had fantasised about fucking my beautiful mother a hundred times. Finally, my grandfather arranged for us to visit the House of Worship one Monday night late in November, when the stars filled the sky and cold winds blew in from the North. Shortly after dinner, my grandfather drove my mother and I, and my little sister Susie, down to Main Street, and we hurried inside the already-crowded building. It was a strange experience, but still one of my fondest memories: people were shaking my hand, and the venerable, grizzled patriarchs of the town were slapping me on the back and congratulating me on the loss of my burdensome cherry. Then, with a great deal of ceremony, my grandfather mounted the steps and took my mother right there on the crisp white sheets, pounding his oversized cock into her yielding cunt until she sobbed for more and sprayed her girl-cum all over the bed (my mother has always been extremely wet during sex, something which I love about her). Then, to the cheers and whoops of the crowd, I climbed up to the bed, pulled off my shirt and my pants, dropped my underwear to the floor, and slowly slipped my virgin cock into my mother's pussy, feeling my grandfather's cum squelch out of her as my thick shaft stretched her slippery lips.
"C'mon, boy," she panted hotly, "give it to me. Gimme that fucking cock, boy. Pound me good!"
I struggled to obey her instructions, digging my fingers hard into the cheeks of her ample ass and pulling her hard against me as I thrust with all my might. My hips pressed against her outstretched thighs, my balls slapping insistently against her puckered asshole, her pussy drooling it's hot juices over my shaft. Finally, I gave a thrust that must have rattled her bones, and liquid fire ran through my veins, my cock spewing it's creamy jism like a fire-hose.
I don't remember collapsing onto the bed, but I sure remember the sound of the audience applauding my amateurish efforts. It got inside my head, I guess, and it made me understand one thing with absolute clarity: I was a Lake Wannacum boy, and I would be for the rest of my life.