Lake Wannacum Nights - Part Two  


Back to the wilds of Minnesota for a second slice of small-town life.
When you live in a small town, when you've lived there for all your life, then the streets and buildings around you become covered in your own personal history; events and memories press down on the physical world like psychological strata, compressed remembrance fossilising under the weight of the passing years. Sometimes, when I'm on my way up to the Mercantile, or strolling down the street to waste an hour at Joe's, I'll catch a glimpse of the school-age kids running home from class, their book-bags flapping on their backs, the enthusiasm boundless and unchecked, and just for a moment I think of the kids that I went to school with - hey, ain't that Stinky Jackson heading up to the water tower?, completely forgetting that Jebediah Jackson is in his forties now, and cured his body odour problem some twenty-five years ago. Sometimes I get the urge to run after them, to go join in with the games and the play - I never have, but maybe some day I will, and pass a happy afternoon building a fort on the lakeside with my buddies.

Perhaps it's to be expected. Ever since the days of Doctor Gardener, the great and respected man who taught us how to gain real pleasure from our bodies, the school has been at the very heart of the town. The children, I've heard it said, are our future, and that is more true in Lake Wannacum than any other place on Earth. Everywhere there is the happy exuberance of youth, and even the grimmest, most curmudgeonly middle-aged men can't help but learn a little something from their infectious curiosity; and even in a town the size of Lake Wannacum, of course, there are innumerable distractions to tempt the enquiring young mind.

Let us look along Main Street - partly to illustrate my point, and partly to show off a little present-tense technique that I'm hoping will land me a regular column in The Minnesota Chronicle - and see what we can see. Why, there's little Pippy Morgan: all of fourteen years old, her hair worn in braids and her cute button nose lightly sprinkled with freckles, astonished to find that her feet have carried her not to the schoolhouse, but to the House of Worship. She stops for a moment, swinging her book-bag idly, kicking at the gravel that Father Malone rakes carefully every evening. Why, she wonders, has her body led her here? Because it needs something, comes the answer, unbidden. Well, that's okay then, Pippy loves to fuck. But where can she find a partner? At that time of the morning, there's no-one around - or so Pippy thinks, until she catches sight of the brawny, muscular figure of Joe Jones, the owner of Hot Black Joe's, emerging from one of the side rooms.

"What are you doin' here this time of the day?" Joe asks Pippy curiously, and the teenager happily skips over to him, her short skirt riding up on her creamy thighs, her bra-less breasts bouncing beautifully under her crisp cotton shirt. "You should be at school, huh?"

"I should be," Pippy acknowledges with an impish grin. "So you'd better hurry up and teach me somethin', Mister."

Joe chuckles. His prowess in the town is legendary, and reports on the size of his cock are passed from woman to woman in hushed whispers - not to mention the wide variety of menfolk who have eagerly availed themselves of that immense organ on Joe's Tuesday Gay Nights at the House of Worship. "I'm too much for you, little girl," he teases Pippy, knowing that a fourteen year-old would have difficulty taking his hot black meat, no matter how many of the local boys she had fucked before - and like Joe, Pippy is something of a celebrity in the town, being the youngest girl to take part in Family Night, and the youngest to enroll for a weekend up at The Farm.

Pippy takes pride in her experience, and she doesn't care for Joe's teasing. "Betcha I could!" she replies hotly. "Betcha I can take it all the way down. And if not - if not, then I'll clean up your cock after you've fucked all the guys tonight!"

"You sure, Miss? I'm going to be fucking a lot of ass tonight, and that's a big mouthful for you if you lose."

"I'm not gunna lose," Pippy protests, looking up at him crossly. "C'mon - or ain't you man enough to fuck me, Mister?"

"Done!" Joe laughs. "C'mon then, Miss - let's put on a show." He takes her hand courteously, and leads the delicate young teen along the central aisle of the House of Worship, approaching the altar-bed at a stately pace, almost as if they were going to be married. Pippy's tummy feels as if she'd swallowed a couple of dozen butterflies, and her sweet little cunny is already juicing up at the prospect of Joe's gargantuan shaft splitting her in two. Reaching the bed, Joe quickly divests himself of his clothes, and Pippy's jaw falls open - the beast that Joe keeps in his pants is larger than even she had imagined, and for the first time she begins to doubt her abilities. Joe, however, is already committed, and he strokes his stiffening cock with both fists, pumping his fourteen thick inches of maleness in Pippy's direction.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock bobbing between his muscular thighs, Joe beckons to Pippy. The girl approaches him slowly, her eyes never leaving his enormous cock, her pert little B-cup titties rising and falling under her shirt as she pants in desire for this beautiful black man...

The scream shatters the peace of Main Street; the townsfolk raise their heads, but the scream is closely followed by the high-pitched demand, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me, Joe!" and they smile to one another and return to their business, shaking their heads at Joe's enthusiasm and energy. Perhaps one or two take some time off from their chores, or maybe take a short detour on their way to work, and they poke their heads around the door of the House of Worship and see the cute little teenager riding that mammoth organ, flecks of spittle escaping her lips as her body takes another pounding thrust, her pert tits bouncing at the force of the impact, her eyes rolling back into her head in the face of this animalistic, merciless fuck.

Such a sight would surely be arresting enough without further embellishment, but Pippy is such a slender, scrawny young girl that the foot-long cock pounding her bald pussy looks even more grotesquely swollen than it is. "Surely," the vigilant onlooker would note with concern, "that cock's as big as her thigh, and almost as long! How can she take it so deep? So... good? God, she's fucking it so hard..."

At which point the vigilant onlooker stops noticing details like Pippy's obscenely stretched cunt, or her flawless nipples, hard like bullets and a half-inch long, and becomes more concerned with their own rising desire. Pants are unzipped, skirts are lifted, and cocks and pussies are satisfied by strong, eager fingers, until the entire House of Worship is full of the hot, heady scent of sex.

Such is the way of things in Lake Wannacum - pleasure, it is said, begets pleasure.

But Pippy isn't finished: for the pretty little girl with the freckles on her nose, the fucking is nothing more than foreplay. The real climax comes - well, it comes when she cums. Spasming wildly, she screams a high D that rattles the stained-glass windows, her body quaking, and sprays her sacred girly-cum high in the air, all the while bucking hard against the invading, violating, monstrous prick which is buried within her. It's common knowledge that anyone witnessing one of Pippy's epic fucks from the front three rows of pews is bound to get wet - not that anyone would object, so intense and arousing are Pippy's erotic explosions.

Her orgasm this morning is one of the most intense of her short life, and, so unstoppable and terrifying is the energy unleashed within her, that she passes out and slides from Joe's pulsating cock to the floor. Joe quickly gets to his feet, pumping his cock in his muscular hands, grins at the townsfolk who are watching and hungrily pleasuring themselves, and unloads the first jets of his creamy cum onto Pippy's quivering, trembling body, still quaking in the last echoes of her orgasm. Joe cums more and more, thick ropes of sperm splashing on Pippy's pale skin, until the girl is covered in thick pools of the hot, delicious cream.

The groans of the impromptu audience are punctuated by enthusiastic applause at this expert display of fucking, and Joe waves to his admirers, then picks up the naked teen's trembling body and places her gently on the satin sheets of the bed to sleep off the aftermath of her pounding. Pippy is going to be very late for school today, but after a show like that, no-one is going to care. The onlookers finish up, straighten their clothes, and head back to what they were doing; Joe gathers up his clothes and dresses quickly, kisses the sleeping girl lightly on the forehead, and heads back to the coffee shop. It's nothing unusual; it's just another day in Lake Wannacum.

* * * * *

The schoolhouse is the heart and the soul of the town. Even now I can hear, through the window which overlooks the schoolyard, a familiar refrain:

On top of Old Smokey, all covered in rocks,
I fucked Miss Stroker, with my big giant cock.

I came in her cunt-hole, I came in her ass,
And I came on her big tits, right there in class.

The name is different - Ellen May Stroker is the same age as I am, after all - but the rest is just as I remember it from my own youth. My own personal Miss Stroker was Miss Phoebe Kresbauch, a five-foot six-inch vision of divine loveliness, long auburn hair framing a flawless heart-shaped face, a body composed entirely of soft, beguiling curves, all wrapped up in a short black skirt that displayed her wonderful thighs to their best advantage, and a shirt (in my memory, always the green silk one she wore on hot days), unbuttoned just far enough to give her students a mesmerising glimpse of black lace brassiere and deep, mouth-watering cleavage. She was a sensual being from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, and arrived in Lake Wannacum by accident in the summer of 1968. While waiting for Old Man Morgan (or Morgan Jr., as he was known then) to fill up her VW camper with gas, she wandered down Main Street and poked her head into the House of Worship. What she saw there changed her for life - when Morgan Jr. came to tell her the VW was ready to go, he found her on her back on the altar-bed, with a long cock ploughing into her tender cunt, and her hands full of thick dicks which she rubbed against her amazing nipples until all four of them came at the same time. From that moment on, she was a Lake Wannacum girl.

For years she fucked everything she cold get her hand on - there's a framed colour photograph hanging in the schoolhouse of Miss Kresbauch's first trip to The Farm, showing her ample frame bent double over a bale of hay while a well-endowed stallion looks to be shoving a couple of yards of cock into her dripping pussy - but her favourite treat came at the end of the school day, when she would open up her large red notebook and theatrically run her finger down the list of names. "Oh red book," she would say aloud, as the class became quiet enough to hear a pin drop, "who should I choose today?" The boys all straightened in their seats, the girls all patted their hair and stuck out their chests. Then, Miss Kresbauch would pick four names from the book - two boys and two girls. The students would then leave their desks and join her at the front of the class. They would stand in a line while Miss Kresbauch walked around them, stroking their bodies, slowly undoing their buttons and zippers, stripping them with a casually erotic fashion. When her playthings were finally naked (by which point, Miss Kresbauch's nipples were prominent through her thin shirt, and we could all smell the enticing scent of her shaved pussy) they would be lined up around her large desk. Miss Kresbauch would then stand on the desk and remove her shirt, letting her generous tits bounce in the humid air of the classroom, and slide her black mini-skirt over her thighs, the fabric moving smoothly over the glossy nylon stockings she habitually wore. Then, clad only in her stockings and a string of pearls around her throat, she would lie down on her desk and the ritual would begin. One of the girls, the first to be chosen, would kneel in front of the desk and begin to kiss and lick the folds of Miss Kresbauch's juicy cunt, while the other stood at the other end of the desk and straddled Miss Kresbauch's face, pressing her hot young pussy against the older woman's eager lips. The boys, one at either side, were pulled forward by their cocks, which Miss Kresbauch began to leisurely masturbate and rub against her hard, glistening nipples.

The rest of us, fascinated by this erotic sight no matter how many times we had seen it played out, shifted in our seats, some of the boys already rubbing their tumescent pricks, some of the girls dipping their fingers into their panties and rubbing their aching nipples through their thin cotton shirts. The silence was complete, not a sound allowed until - yes, just like that, a little girl's tongue brushes against her clit and Miss Kresbauch moans hotly. She begins to pump her twin handfuls of cock harder, slapping the swollen, drooling tips against her breasts, making the soft flesh jiggle and shake. Sometimes ones of the boys would cum early, causing our luscious teacher to redouble her efforts on the other cock while licking her fingers clean. She never took more than ten minutes to reach orgasm herself, the deliciously taboo sensation of a nubile teenage girl sucking on her loose cunt-lips enough to make her cum like an express train. The feel of a boy's cock-flesh in her hands, the taste of virgin pussy, and the active, enthusiastic tongue of her willing servant all seemed to blur together into an impressionistic whirl of colour and sound and scent; the girls would be moaning by now, their wet fingers rocking over their swollen clits and plunging into their tight pussies; the boys are trembling, their hands a blur on their stiff cocks, droplets of salty pre-cum pooling on the varnished desks; the scent of chalk and textbooks mingling with the hot, spicy odours of our sex.

Finally, Miss Kresbauch shudders to a halt, her orgasm leaving her spent and trembling. The pussy on her lips has invariably cum too, thanks to her talented tongue, and you can be sure that the girl feasting on her teacher's swollen pussy has brought herself off too. The boys are pale, their youthful seed smeared over Miss Kresbauch's generous breasts and sometimes - following an exceptionally enthusiastic spurt or two - coating her face and hair. The silence in the room is punctuated only with the groans and the whimpers of those who are slower to cum than their classmates, but that too fades quickly as we slump back in our chairs, overcome (and, in Miss Kresbauch's case, cum over).

Then, spread-eagled on her desk, her skin drenched in cum and sweat, Miss Kresbauch would smile contentedly and murmur "Class dismissed," and we'd all gather up our book-bags and coats and head out into the warm afternoon sun, sure in the knowledge that, as the old folks would often tell us, our school days were the best days of our lives.

Posted : 09/07/2011 10:34 pm