Author: Knight
Title: Lake Wannacum Nights
Part: 2
Summary: Life in a small Minnesota town might be stranger - and hotter -


   than you think.  Keywords: MF

   ----

   Note From The Knight:

   A return to the wilds of Minnesota for a second slice of small-town
life. Written with thanks (and apologies) to Garrison Keillor.

   And remember: more feedback = more stories!

   ----

   Lake Wannacum Nights - Part Two

   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.

   ----

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

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