Author: Knight
Title: Lake Wannacum Nights
Part: 1
Summary: Life in a small Minnesota town might be stranger - and hotter -


   than you think.  Keywords: MF

   ----

   Note From The Knight:

   Something a little different this time, and the start of what could well
turn into a long-running series (if there's enough support and enough
people actually like it!).  Written with thanks (and apologies) to Garrison
Keillor.

   And remember: more feedback = more stories!

   ----

   Lake Wannacum Nights

   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.

   ----

   (c) Knight Of Passion 2006 Feedback, comments and criticisms gratefully
received at knight-of-passion@hotmail.co.uk

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