Glory Holellujah

Lemonade

There were few spots on earth as deserted as Cindy and Michele's homemade lemonade stand that Saturday afternoon.

There was Antarctica, Death Valley, and the Outback of Australia...

But these remote places were in unpopulated areas.

The lemonade stand was right there.

On the corner of Richmond and 6th.

In one of the leafiest parts of town.

It was five blocks from the military base, and nine blocks from the Megachurch where Cindy's father, Pastor Gregory, led standing room-only sermons four days a week.

Plenty of traffic blew past, often halting at the stop sign; and many drivers even called out hi to the girls.

But nobody wanted to buy lemonade.

"I don't get it," said Cindy. "When did everyone stop wanting our lemonade?"

"I'm not sure they ever did," said Michele, shooing a bug away from the pitcher.

"Nonsense! For years people would stop and buy a cup," said Cindy. "Recruits from the naval base, Daddy's parishioners, even some of our teachers..."

"Yeah, but we were kids then," said Michele. "I'm 19 now. You will be too in a few weeks. Nobody sees us as charity anymore."

"All I know is summer's gonna be a disaster if we can't find a way to make some cash," said Cindy. "I have two goals by the fall, and I'm damned if anything is going to get in their way... I'm gonna buy a car - so that I can get the fuck out of this God forsaken town. And I'm going to get a proper cock inside me. Not one of those half-limp, don't-know-what-to-do with-them, college boy wieners. But a glorious, hung specimen of a real man's cock."

"Well, good luck finding a cock like that in Fullerton," said her friend. "I feel like we'd have heard about it."

"Then I'll start with the car," said Cindy, "and drive elsewhere to find the cock. But either, way we need cash fast!"

"We need to figure out what there's a demand for here in Fullerton, but in short supply, and then sell that thing," said Michele.

"OK, Tony Robbins," said her friend. "But what does anybody want around here? Apart from new lawnmowers and dishwashers?"

"I have no idea," said Michele.

"How's the lemonade trade?" came a voice from a nearby yard.

It was old Mrs Prentice out watering her hyacinths.

"Non-existent!" replied Michele.

Cindy used a sweeping arm gesture to indicate the absence of customers on the block.

The only thing missing was a tumbleweed blowing past.

"You need to get your father to put in a good word for you with his congregation," Mrs Prentice said. "The people of this town listen to Pastor Gregory. And everybody loves lemonade. I sure do!"

"Would you like to buy a cup?" Cindy asked.

"Oh no! I have two types of diabetes," said Mrs Prentice, "it'll put me in the red.'

"Mrs Prentice...' said Michele, "what is something that people who live here in Fullerton want but they can't get?"

"A good night's sleep!" the older woman said confidently. "Especially the men! They're wound up like a coil!"

And with that she disappeared behind a moving cloud of sprinkler water.

"Ugh," said Michele in defeat. "We're never going to get out of this town. We may as well start tending flowers like Mrs Prentice, because that's our only fate."

They counted the lemonade takings and discovered they'd made four dollars in three hours.

"Actually it's 3," said Michele, realizing one of the bills was Canadian.

At that moment, Michele's brother, Tom, pulled up in his pick-up truck.

He had dropped the girls off earlier that day and was returning to collect them.

"How did it go?" he asked, smiling as he stepped out the truck.

"After expenses, overheads, and factoring in inflation?" said his sister, pretending to calculate a complex sum,"... we almost covered the lemons."

"That sucks!" said Tom.

He was 24 years old and a former recruit at the Fullerton military base.

He'd been kicked out of service after being found in a compromising position with his female drill sergeant.

"You know this sleepy town as well as anyone, Tom," said Cindy, "what do you think residents need that the two of us could sell?"

"I'm going to be honest," Tom said, pouring himself a cup of lemonade and sitting on a wall nearby.

The liquid looked like piss as he held it up to the light.

"Lemonade is a young person's game. People don't pull over for a cup of it; they pull over to help cute kids make pocket money. Then they tip the lemonade out on somebody's lawn. You need to think bigger than lemonade if you want to make real dough."

"How do we do that?" asked his sister.

"I'll tell you straight," he said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of the tepid juice. "Your lemonade is not gonna bring the boys to the yard, but your milkshakes just might... You're a couple of hotties - forgive me, Meesh, for talking this way about my own sister..."

"No offense," she said. For it was true.

"And sex sells..." Tom went on, "so how about we set up a bikini car wash?"

"Are you kidding?" said Cindy. "My Daddy won't let me wear a bikini on the beach. I can't sell sex in this town. I'd be grounded for life."

"Aren't you 19?" Tom asked.

"Nearly. But trust me, Daddy has me on a leash until I'm 21, and even then he'll find a reason to limit my freedom. I'm not a prude... I'd love to sell my body if there was a way to do it anonymously."

"Well, if you're serious, there might be," said Tom, adopting a shadier tone, "have either of you heard of a glory hole?"

"Is it something to do with religion?" Cindy asked.

"It can provide a religious experience," he said.

"It's giving head through a hole in the wall," Michele explained. She had little time for her friend's endless naïvety.

"You put your head through a hole and suck someone's dick?" asked Cindy.

"No. The dick comes through the hole and you suck it in the room where you are."

"Then what's the point of the wall?"

Michele rolled her eyes; as if the answer was too obvious to waste her breath.

But then on reflection, she paused and turned to her brother: "What is the point of the wall?"

"Don't know," he said, shrugging. "Fantasy for the dudes? Who cares? For you two it's the ticket to remaining anonymous."

"Ahh," said Cindy, beginning to grasp it. "And what would guys pay to stick their dicks through this wall?"

"In a wealthy neighborhood like this?' said Tom. "100 bucks a pop. Easy. With bonus tips if you're any good."

"Holy crapfire!" said Cindy.

Her ticket to achieving all of her dreams suddenly appeared to rest on whether she was prepared to suck strangers' cocks through a hole in the wall.

And she totally was.

"We could take it in turns," suggested Michele, already counting the money she would miss out on if it wasn't part of her own destiny.

"Your jaws are gonna get tired," her brother warned them. "The secret will be to have such mad skills that nobody lasts long. Then you can do, like, 20 an hour and make... 10,000 dollars!"

Math was not Tom's strong point, but he made up for it by understanding what hard work fellatio can be for a woman's jaw.

Cindy felt an impossible thrill at the idea.

"Where would we learn these mad skills?" she asked.

"You could watch porn," Tom suggested.

"My Daddy has a safety lock on the internet," she said. "I can't watch HBO."

Michele, who hadn't spoken for a while, drew a line in the air as if to cut through the crap and make a more salient point:

"Big brother, you may not want to hear this, but your little sister has mad skills in this department. I will teach you Cindy," she said. "I used to give my ex a blowie every day - even more often after we broke up. I learned subtle dimensions to the craft during that brutal apprenticeship. I will take you under my wing, Cindy, and teach you the fine art of getting a cock to go off, fast!"

"Thank you so much!" said Cindy with delight, and hugged her friend. "What else do we need, Tom?"

"You're gonna need someone to run the joint - preferably a person who doesn't know what's going on back there. Oh... and you'll need a hole!"

"Oh crap!" said Michele. "Where are we going to find a hole?"

"Leave that to me," said Tom. "I may know a place."

He smiled cryptically, as though he might secretly be a Hole Whisperer.

"Well, isn't this exciting?" said Cindy, "maybe summer won't be such a drag after all!"

She didn't mention that her pussy was sopping wet, but this struck her as a further good sign.

"But nobody breathes a word of this. Agreed?" said Tom.

"Agreed," they said,

"Let's drink to seal the deal!"

They raised their plastic cups and cheers-ed them together, like Musketeers.

Then they each sealed the pact with a sip of lemonade - which was so sour and warm by now, that the two girls spat theirs out immediately onto the ground.

"Excellent," said Tom, "you're getting practice in already!

Banana

The grand foyer of the Fullerton 'Faith-Off' Megachurch was bustling with parishioners after the Sunday morning service.

Everyone agreed that Pastor Gregory had knocked it out of the park again that morning with another triumphant sermon.

He had performed a number of his greatest "hits" - including 'Suffering On the Way to Heaven,' 'Nicodemus the Pharisee,' and that old, perineal favorite, 'Jesus Randomly Kills A Fig Tree.'

The Pastor was stood by the exit to the hall, bidding good day to his starstruck followers, many of whom had formed an orderly line to gain their own brief moments with him.

He would smile, touch a cheek, or take hands into his own, depending on whichever show of divine grace he had not just performed.

But he showed equal grace too at keeping the line moving.

"Wonderful sermon," said old Miss Goodbold as she reached the front. "Loved the part about the sanctity of abstinence."

"Thank you, Lizbeth." the Pastor said humbly, cupping the woman's withered old face in his hands. "You are young and beautiful enough that you can wait a little longer."

She beamed back at him, her skin pitting like a peach stone.

Two members of his flock who were in more of a hurry to pass were his own daughter and her friend.

"Girls!" he called out in a boom, as the two tried to slip by unnoticed.

"Hi Daddy! Great sermon!" said Cindy. "We're off to do some reading in the park."

The Pastor's eyes softened, as if to say, that's my girl.

"Don't forget to take a little time off too," he said, smiling; "this is a day of rest after all."

"We will Daddy," said Cindy, and the two of them scurried away.

The girls had a more pressing mission that morning.

It was to follow Gordon Bancroft home from church.

Gordon was an awkward young man.

He was nearly 20 years old but inexperienced in the ways of the world.

You could tell this just from watching him shuffle along with his strange gait, and oversized satchel, containing God-knows-what on the weekend.

The girls had kept him in their sights throughout the morning service.

They waited now until he took his usual zigzag across the park, towards the home where he lived with his parents.

The two of them followed from a cautious distance until Gordon began to walk through the grass, and then they caught up with him in a quiet spot by the entrance to the wood.

"Hi Gordon," said Michele popping up on his left side.

Gordon almost jumped out of his skin.

"Hi Gordy," said Cindy, popping up on his right.

Michele put an arm around his shoulder.

"How did you enjoy the service?" she asked.

"I enjoyed it very much," said Gordon, flashing his braced teeth.

His suspicious expression contained an unfortunate array of whiteheads and papules.

"We need to talk to you, Gordon," said Cindy, putting her own arm around the anxious young man.

He was apprehensive and already wondered what he might be required to do, guessing it wouldn't be something entirely righteous.

"Don't look so petrified," said Michele. "This is going to be more fun for you than it is for us."

And with that, Gordon found himself being led away from the trail towards a covering of trees.

He glanced back at the empty park, in the same way someone might if they were being led away to their execution.

"What can I do to... er... assist you young ladies?" he asked, petrified, but trying to keep his cool.

"Shh," said Michele. "Don't spoil it for yourself by speaking. It's not your mouth we need."

When they were hidden from the path, amid a cluster of trees, Michele started to rub at the crotch of Gordon's drainpipe pants, as if she was attempting to polish up the shine on some brass.

"Oh my gosh," he said, "what are you doing?"

"We need to borrow your cock," she said. "Don't feel too flattered, it's business not pleasure. But we need it to be awake."

"Oh my gosh," he said again.

He'd gone a shade of pink that was not becoming on his already pink face.

But he didn't resist as Michele unbuckled his pants and tugged them down.

A modest sized bulge was already visible in the boy's charcoal-gray Y fronts.

"What will I have to do?" he asked nervously. "I don't know too much about this area."

"Close your eyes and think of America," said Michele. "Cindy is going to suck you off while I give her a few friendly tips, OK?"

Gordon was so delighted and astonished, he was almost hyperventilating.

He couldn't do much more than grin like a loon, while his complexion grew increasingly mauve.

"Okay babe," she said to Cindy. "Get down on your knees and let's see what you got!"

Her friend wasted no time squatting in front of Gordon's pale white legs.

She felt a tingle in her loins at the thought of what she was about to do.

It didn't feel like work in the slightest.

She reached out her hands to remove Gordon's underwear, when suddenly he let out a yowl of euphoria.

A damp patch began to paint the inside of his Y fronts.

It appeared first as a large, wet stain, until the sperm itself began bubbling through the fabric in white pearls, and dribbling onto his pasty thigh.

"Jesus Christ, Gordon!" said Michele, super pissed.

"Dammit Gordon!" said Cindy.

Gordon couldn't speak.

His face was stuck in 'smile'.

He crumpled to the soil, pants around his knees; as if he'd been zapped with a stun gun.

The two girls left him there without a farewell, cum still oozing in ivory bubbles from his underpants, but he was in the most wonderful mood.

"Oh and don't tell anyone," Michele yelled back at him, "or we'll eat your dog!"

"Right you are!" he called back cheerfully.

***

"What a disaster!"

Cindy was still grumbling about it twenty minutes later.

"Forget about it" said Michele, "this will work just as well."

She placed the groceries down on Mrs Flood's convenience store counter.

"And what are you girls going to be cooking today?" asked nosy old Mrs Flood, surveying the unusual selection of produce.

"Er... Today we will be making banana, cucumber and zucchini... soup," said Michele, shrugging at her friend.

"I've never heard of that," said Mrs Flood. "Will you be serving some for the Pastor?"

"I'm sure he'll have a mouthful," said Michele, while her friend jabbed two fingers into her side.

"Well, have a wonderful day, Mrs Flood" said Cindy, trying to steer them quickly out of the door.

"Say hi to the Pastor," she replied.

The little bell on the door tinkled as the two girls left the store.

"Why did we buy squirty cream?" Cindy asked her friend.

"It's part of your training."

"What about the taco shells? Are they part of my training too?"

"No, those are because I want tacos later."

When they arrived at Michele's house, they sneaked the bag of assorted fruits up to her bedroom and laid the items out on the bed.

"Okay, so let's begin lesson one... With cocks, you've got three broadly different groups of sizes," said Michele.

It was as if she had run this masterclass dozens of times.

"You've got your small," she said, and she held up the modest-sized zucchini, "which is a breeze. It's like sucking on a thumb... You could honestly do two of these at once if you had to, they're not a big deal... Then you've got your mediums..."

This time she picked up the banana.

"Most men are going to fall somewhere in this category. Bananas can be a stretch, but I'll show you some secret ways to work with them... And finally, you've got your big guns..."

She lifted up the cucumber with one hand and patted it into the palm of the other, like a baseball bat.

"These don't come around too often," she said. "But when they do, they leave a mark."

She glazed over for a moment, as though remembering a disquieting stint in Vietnam.

"This one is going to break your jaw if you're not careful," she added. "It's one of the occupational hazards you'll need to look out for. The secret with big ones is to get them off quick, by concentrating your tongue on this area..."

She used a sharpie to draw a crude cock-bulb on the underside of the massive cucumber, and tapped the region of the frenulum with the back of her pen.

"These are the ones!" Cindy said with longing. "These are the cocks I want!"

"I know, Hun. But we'll discuss them last, because they're super rare, and don't come around too often... OK, let's get started shall we? Let's see what you've got."

She handed her friend the zucchini.

Cindy closed her eyes and gathered herself, as if she was preparing to deliver a soliloquy from Twelfth Night.

She let out an exhale of breath and tentatively closed her mouth around the tubular fruit.

"Oh, dear God no," said Michele almost immediately. "No teeth honey. Just lips and tongue ... OK. That's better. That's actually not bad at all... Now open your throat a bit more, like the start of a yawn. Wait ... What are you doing?"

"I'm cupping the balls."

"Cupping the balls? Did I tell you to cup any balls? The balls are going to be on the other side of the wall," said Michele angrily. "You can't rely on the luxury of cupping balls. You can add a hand to the shaft if you like, but you really need to be able to do this with just your face."

Cindy spent the next half-hour going down on the increasingly sized produce.

Michele taught her a dazzling array of new techniques; among them, elite ninja moves she could achieve with her lips and tongue, using varieties of suction and pressure; and unique methods of accommodating the zucchini and banana in malleable areas of her mouth that she barely knew existed.

"You are really getting the hang of this," said Michele with excitement. "It's like you were born to blow. OK. All that's left now are your sword-swallowing skills."

She held up the cucumber, like it was the holy grail.

"Here you have to be a bit more careful with the tricks you've learned. Because if not, you are going to choke and gag on this one, and all the rules will go out the window."

Indeed, Cindy struggled much more with the gigantic cucumber.

But she adored the challenge.

It made her wet imagining that somewhere out there might be a real one of these - a cucumber covered in soft flesh, engorged with blood, and filled with sac loads of lava, waiting to erupt.

"What's this gunk filling my throat?" she asked, after a few attempts to get as much of it into her mouth as possible.

"That's your sex-puke," said Michele matter-of-factly. "It collects in your throat from the spit, then it gets joined by mucus that your immune system sends because of the foreign object ramming at your windpipe. When it's a real cock, it's gonna mingle with the pre-cum that will also be seeping out. So that can be a lot of fluid!"

Cindy looked daunted.

"You're going to have a choice with it, and there's no correct way to proceed, but you need to commit. You can swallow it as you go, pause to expectorate some of it - although I don't recommend this, because it slows things down. Or you can try to direct the liquid to spill out the sides of your mouth. This is easier with zucchinis and bananas, and less so with cucumbers. To be honest, when you're dealing with a big one, your best bet is just to get the thing to blow quickly. It can also help to practice holding your breath underwater in a bath."