Harem-Scarem

Prognoses. Plural of prognosis. I never used that word before, he thought. Hmmm.

Cute blonde Tara in denim shorts and a black-trimmed rose blouse snagged him as he left the classroom. "Doing anything?" she asked.

"I'll drop off my books at Uncle Frank's and then I need to hike to the co-op market for a little food. Can't ride my 'cycle, dammit. I have a rucksack to haul stuff. Want to tag along? I'll buy you a cold drink."

"Sure. I'll drop my books off too and pick them up when I head home -- it's in the right direction. Mom has the pickup so there's no easy way."

They survived the Kansas summer afternoon, walking the few blocks to Frank's place and then the air-conditioned co-op -- which amazingly sported an Orange Julius counter. They sipped frothy drinks while Jon picked out the few items he needed. His rucksack was not heavily loaded.

Jon listened carefully as they walked and Tara told of her life. She had grown up all around the Mountain West states where her mother Teresa taught in various schools, never staying in one place much. For a long time, they followed her husband from mining camp to mining camp. He had taken an assignment in Indonesia a few years before and never returned -- probably screwing any native women he could buy.

Teresa had taken whatever teaching jobs she could after that. She moved suddenly from their last home near Taos to Wolverton last cold March for a job offer she could NOT refuse. The mid-semester move screwed with Tara's class credits. She needed this summer session.

Jon had not much history to tell. Farm life. School, and football... which seemed less crucial. Scattered family. He mentioned his head-whack and how things seemed so different now.

"You're not the usual hulking farmboy or dickhead jock," Tara said. She rubbed his arm.

"I don't what I am anymore," he said. "I can't do football now. I never had a chance at an athletic scholarship anyway, and sports programs just seem... trivial. Wow, that's a REAL change! I'm no scholar but I keep seeing and learning and thinking things that meant nothing to me." He shook his head. "If I draw a map of my life, will it be highways, or just backroads?"

He took a chance and held her hand. She did not resist. Their strides synchronized.

Jon unloaded his supplies into kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator. He poured cold sodas and switched on fans for their study session at the kitchen table. 'PoMo' postmodern literary theory was crazy but Jon somehow saw it making sense. Did that make him crazy, too? Tara followed his thoughts until their brains melted in the muggy heat.

Yes, Jon suggested a wet cool-down. Yes, they slowly stripped -- Tara was a little shy and a little bold -- and showered, dunked, splashed, chatted, and played. Yes, they dried off and went inside. Yes, they kissed, hugged, sucked, and fucked on the big bed. And 69'd, and fucked again. What did you expect, a nice game of backgammon?

Tara jumped when the tower clock rang the hour.

"Oh no, I've got to run! Mom will be wondering..."

"So tell the truth -- but not all of it. We walked and talked and studied. Now you're sweaty again so she won't know you've swum and showered. Well, you might want to wash off--"

"Wash the sex smell off my pussy, you mean? Good idea, Jon. Or you can lick me clean."

Jon needed little time for that decision.

=====

Thursday cooked. Whatever Ms Teresa Emmons presented in the varied class hours, Jon or Tita or DiDi or Katy or Tara put together logically, and everything followed. Jon was about to leave at day's end but tribal-tattooed Sandahl held him back. She and Shakira wore matching tie-dyed Madras sundresses today.

"We hear you're good to study with, Jonny boy. Not like back when you switched all the exam papers between classes." That had been fun but was not one of his better moments. "This insane lit stuff? Can we work on that?"

Yes, they could work on it. No, the pitcher of cold lemonade did not free them from thick muggy air. Kansas is always either too hot and too windy or too cold and too windy and is almost always too humid.

"Fuck, I'm nothing but sweat and stink now," Sandahl said.

Shaky mopped her sweat-glistening nappy head with a kitchen towel. "You should talk! Don't inhale around me!"

"Only way to cool off here," Jon casually said, "is to shower outside and soak in the water tank. It's clean. And private"

The girls' eyes exchanged lovers' messages. Just how hot were they?

"Yeah," Shaky said, standing. "I could use a soak." She peeled her sundress over her head and draped it over the kitchen chair's back. "Unhook me, Jon."

Sandy pulled her matching dress over her head and said, "Me too." Both turned away.

Jon stared at their contrasting backsides, white and black, tattooed and not so much so, both wearing light sandals and blood-red bikini tops and thongs. He gulped and untied the tops. The girls caught those bits of cloth and stepped out of their footwear and thongs.

Sandy's tattoos fascinated him. Shaky's were more subtle, only chain links around her areolas and a woven vine around her dark pussy. Beside patterns visible on her shoulders, sides, and legs, Sandy wore the same chain and vine.

"It's because we're, like, equal and everything,"

They were totally different and equally alluring to Jon's inflamed mind and libido. Especially when they demonstrated their equality by licking each others' nipples.

The shower's single wide-spraying nozzle hung from a wood post. The youngsters were well-rinsed when they climbed into the water tank.

They splashed and chatted and played in the tank. The 'splashes' were harmless. The 'chats' were about music and other entertainments each did or did not like. The 'play' was some underwater stroking of thighs and an alert cock. And some above-water handling of faces and boobs. And sharing three mouths, three breaths, as one. And some boob slurping.

The new, head-whacked Jon had thought to leave a stack of fresh towels by the back door. The three laughed and toweled together; they did not drip on the old oak floor. Bedroom fans spun the inside air fairly bearably.

"Do you know how to lick pussy?" Shaky asked when they lounged on the king bed. Jon had changed the sheets regularly so nobody was bothered by smells or stains.

Jon thought a moment. This could get exciting!

"No, not at all. Will you show me how?" Yes, he was tricky now.

Shaky asked, "What do you think we are, dykes or something?" Then she soul-kissed Sandy.

"You're here with me so you probably aren't totally queer. But I could use expert training."

"Like this," Sandy said. She rolled between Shaky's nice knees, nuzzled Shaky's taut dark thighs, and licked her sacred slit from taint to clit.

"Oh, sort of like this?" Jon edged his face beside Sandy's and cunt-lapped along with her. To fit, they lay facing on their sides; Sandy's boobs pressed him. He stroked both bodies. Two tongues tangled in Shaky's tasty twat.

"Well, we can take turns," Sandy said. She rubbed what flesh she could. "You lick in here while I lick around here, and then we trade, and then we each lick one side up and down, like this." She demonstrated.

"And then there's the... ever heard of the G-spot?"

Jon mumbled 'no' -- his tongue was lodged inside Shaky's dark depths.

"It's kind of here." Sandy pulled his reluctant head away, pulled his compliant hand up, and pointed a finger alongside hers inside Shaky's cunt. "Like this." Her finger wiggled.

Shakira screamed. Brakes squealing on the nearby truck route muffled her ecstasy. Sandahl and Jon continued licking until she pushed their heads away.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, that was nice, guys."

"My turn, Jon," Sandy said. "Show me what you've learned."

"I don't know if I got it right. Will you help me here, Shaky?"

"You're a sneaky shit," Shakira said approvingly.

The girls squirmed around into proper positions -- Sandahl's tribal-tattoo-traced legs wide open, Jon and Shaky's white-and-black heads side-by-side inside her thighs, and...

"Wait," Jon said. "This can get even better. Lift up your leg, Sandy, yeah, just for a minute. Okay Shaky, spread-em!" He took her in a missionary fuck. "Now spin your arms and legs around me, yeah, hold on tight, and we roll back, right here, on our sides. Now let's lick. Mmmm, sure tastes good!"

Sandy spider-wrapped Jon. Their mouths worked together on Sandy's clitoris, labia, and vicinity. Each freed an arm to reach and fondle their victim's bright tattooed boobs.

Sandy panted, groaned, and writhed. Jon tried the G-spot trick she had just showed him. She screamed. No outside noise distracted from her orgasmic cry. No neighbors or pedestrians were nearby to report an assault. Whew.

Sandy pushed herself away. "Woah, that's enough!"

Shaky, still wrapped around Jon and his cock inside her, rolled him over and sat up.

"That's just a start. I am going to FUCK you Jon! Like this."

She fucked down. He fucked up. They both fucked around and bouncy. Her hips wiggled like a snake. His pale thighs pounded her tight black butt. Sandy sat near to suck and pinch her best friend's boobs. When she pinched Jon's nipples, he groaned and erupted with molten fury, or so it seemed.

Shaky groaned and fell on him. Her mouth found his. Her boobs pressed tight against him.

"That was damn good, white boy," she whispered. She turned her face to Sandy. "He's better than a dildo, girl, even double-ended Ivan."

"I bet I taste better, too," Jon said. His spent cock slipped out of her.

"Hey, maybe..." shaky Shakira said. She slid down his body until she faced his groin. She licked his dripping manhood. "I taste me on you," she said. She looked at Sandy. "Try him."

Sandy shifted but Jon caught her body and pulled her on top of him. "Like this," he said. He spread her knees beside his head. His tongue found her pussy. Her mouth found his cock. They slurped. He squeezed her butt and tugged her closer.

Sandy looked up. "I taste you on him, too. And he's warmer than a dildo." She sucked him again. Jon licked and kissed her cunny for some minutes. She sucked harder. He did the G-spot trick. His fat cock in her mouth muffled her cry.

"Oh god," Sandy wheezed after she rolled off, "he's almost as good as you, baby!"

"I bet I know what he wants now," Shaky said. "He wants to watch and do. Watch us, and do you, sure." She scooted up in bed and opened her legs. "Get your butt up in the air and eat me. Jon, get back there and fuck her."

Sandy's dimpled chin was low; her smooth ass was high. Jon lay close to watch. Seeing a girl's mouth loving another girl's pussy was so hot! He kissed along both girls' bodies, all the way to Sandy's bare feet. He licked her toes. She slapped at his head but kept slurping.

He moved up, kissed her ass, and slid fingers into her soaking pussy. She slapped at his hand, but not too hard. He knelt behind her. His stiff cock easily penetrated her.

He was considerate at first but goddam! Fucking Sandy while the white girl's face was buried between those fine black legs! And Shaky, squeezing her breasts and gasping! He held Sandy's hips as Shaky held her licker's head for stabilization during Jon's faster-paced fucking. Faster, and faster, and then a massive cum, big and bright and beautiful.

Jon fell away from Sandy's gleaming butt. Both girls moved around to suck the fragrant juices from his shrinking cock. Their coordinated tongues brought the 18-year-old athlete back to stiff life.

Jon asked, "Who wants more?" Both did. Each received another good fucking and a twatload of hot jizm. Everyone seemed happy.

Then the girls had to return to their homes for the evening. He only jerked off twice later. To ease pressure, sure.

=====

Friday was quiz day. For each class period, a quick review of the week, then the test, and then wandering outside when finished, to wait for the next class, and socialize. Jon learned more about his six classmates. None had pretty stories. People only located to Wolverton, Kansas if they had no options elsewhere.

Billionaire Ross Perot was asked why his family ranch was in the middle of wasted north Texas nothingness. He drawled, "Mule died." Many of Wolverton's citizens ended there during migration west for a similar reason. It was where their transportation or determination had croaked.

The last test was over. No need to hang around school. Jon stuffed books into his shoulder bag and was ready to go. But Ms Teresa Emmons asked Jon to wait.

"I'd like to talk about your work this week -- review and critique what you've done. You have a few minutes, I hope?"

"Yes ma'am, I can--"

A janitor at the door interrupted. "Sorry folks, you've got to clear out. I have to service and test the smoke-detector and fire-sprinkler systems. Classrooms are off-limits for the rest of the day. Sorry." She carried a toolkit and folding ladder into the room.

Teresa followed Jon into the small corridor.

The teacher had noticed Jon from the start of this summer session, only five days ago. Tall, with sun-bleached hair and lightly-tanned pale skin, a good face, admirable muscles -- and he was astonishingly perceptive. She wondered what he perceived about her.

She had overheard gossip and rumors about him. She almost feared finding them true.

Of course Jon had noticed Ms Emmons from the moment first he walked into class. The MILFy blonde mid-thirty-ish teacher's modest dresses revealed a sumptuous figure and excellent legs from the knees down. He wondered how to get between those legs.

Would the approach that succeeded all week on classmates work with their teacher, too?

"If you'd like, ma'am, we could go to Uncle Frank's place just nearby. There's plenty of room on the kitchen table to spread out papers or whatever."

"I won't need a lot of table space and Tara says your kitchen is very warm. Hot, even."

"I can turn on fans, ma'am. Come on, it's only a short walk."

"Well, okay, But I'm going home after, so I'll drive us over. No arguments, mister."

Her sedan's air conditioning refreshed them on the brief drive under ominous clouds.

They drank lemonade, sweated, and reviewed. Kitchen fans did little to relieve thermal distress but they managed. Ms Emmons was impressed by Jon's work, this very first week.

"I looked at your transcripts, and the girls'. My Tara is pretty bright and the Gallagher sisters have done okay academically but the others, like you, have not exactly been 'high performers,' shall we say. But you all have done extremely well in discussions and quizzes, especially the girls after they studied with you."

"I dunno, ma'am, I was a star fullback but never a star student. Then came my head injury, and I woke up, and everything seems different. It's like my brain's been shook-up in just the right way. The docs tell me I could have problems later, but I feel pretty okay now -- except I'm not as dumb."

"It takes more than being 'not dumb' to see implications leading from pre-modern to post-modern philosophies at first shot. And to see those mathematical relationships. You have--"

It wasn't a janitor interrupting this time; it was the village tornado warning siren.

"Uh oh," Jon said. "Uncle Frank's place has never been hit but why take chances? We need to get into the storm cellar. The door's right over there, ma'am. Turn on the light and head on down. I've got to go open windows so they're not blown out by overpressure."

Ms Emmons stopped to gather and organize papers from the sturdy oak kitchen table. Jon had quickly opened upstairs and was finishing the ground floor when he heard a thump and a cry. He ran to the storm cellar and saw Ms Emmons lying at the bottom of the steps, papers scattered beyond her.

"Damn damn damn... oh, I'm sorry, I didn't watch where I was stepping, and--"

Jon knelt beside her. "I've got to ask the obvious -- are you hurt? Did you bang your head?"

"No, my arms cushioned my fall. I scraped my elbows, ouch. And my left leg, it feels like I twisted and strained something."

"Can you stand?"

She put pressure on her leg and moaned. "Oh damn, no, not by myself."

The full basement was more than a storm shelter. It was fitted as a studio apartment with kitchenette, tables, chairs, couch, two queen beds, and toilet and shower closets. Jon easily lifted Ms Emmons in his athletic arms and settled her on a bed. She stretched and moaned.

"Oh damn, my leg... I'm sorry, my thigh and calf both feel sprained."

"Ma'am, may I?" Jon's hands moved on her left calf. "Yes ma'am, those muscles are sprained. Uh ma'am, in my football years, I learned how to massage away sprains. Non-invasive, no deep fingering or pressure, just surface moves."

"My thigh hurts more than my calf and... well, you've seen my thighs, when you picked me up. Can you massage my whole leg?"

"Yes ma'am, I can, but your dress..."

"Oh damn! And it's so hot in here!" They both sweated.

"Just a sec, let me get the fans." He switched-on slight relief. "And something cold to drink. What's in the fridge?" He retrieved a cold bottle of white wine. "This should ease any pain." He poured her a tumbler. She sipped, drank more, finished the glass, and handed it back.

"Oh yes, that's better, thank you. But I'll be cooler, and for you massaging my leg, it'll be easier if... if you help me out of this."

Ms Teresa Emmons was not sure why she invited this boy to put his hands on her flesh. This boy -- this young man -- was so startling. She had received and deflected attention from students and colleagues during her teaching career, over fifteen years now. She had not craved or invited attention from students. But this Jon... There was something compelling about him, something she had never encountered before.

She pointed at her modest teal dress. "I just need to get it up over my head."

She rolled and twisted with some discomfort. Jon lifted the light cotton up her legs, past the light panties on her hips, past the navel in her flat belly, past the light bra holding her well-maintained breasts, up the arms she held over her head, and lifted it off.

"Let me start at your ankle, ma'am," he said, not trying not to stare at the almost-naked, fit, blonde MILF teacher. She was a real blonde like her daughter.

He carefully worked up tendons and muscles, through her calf, around her knee, up her strained thigh -- those are thick muscles, even on women less fit than Ms Emmons. He worked up to her panties' edge, then back down. She voiced the most appreciative moans!

"Umm Jon, could you massage my other leg too? It's tight from when I fell. And you don't need to keep calling me ma'am. I think I'm entitled to be Teresa now."

"Yes ma'am, er I mean Teresa. Sure, I'll do your other leg. And then I'll repeat because an extra pass always seems to do good." He set to work -- right ankle and calf and knee and thigh and back down.

Both noticed the wet stain on her light panties.

"Oh, that feels so good," she said. "The pain is almost gone."

Jon took a chance. He licked and nibbled the toes on her right foot, then her left foot. She giggled but said nothing. He kissed up her sore left leg, his lips on her flesh, a tongue-tip on her knee, then to her other knee, and back down.

And then up again. Up her right calf, and knee, and thigh, and up to her navel with light tongue touches. His eyes gazed past her nicely-mounded light bra, almost transparent, past those mammalian treasures, to her other treasures, her blue eyes, wet and wide.

"Jon," she whispered, "I..."

"Yes ma'am? Er I mean Teresa. Yes, Teresa?"

"Yes, Jon."

His clean Rock The Vote t-shirt slipped over his head. Her pink bra unhooked in front and slipped over her shoulders. His mouth found one fluffy nipple, then the other, and then the warm, soft flesh around and between. He twisted to pull off his sneakers and denims and then returned to worship her mature breasts. His hands stroked her sides, her arms, her head. He pulled himself up to look in her face as an equal. Her wet lips parted slightly. He put his mouth to hers. No tongue, only lips and breath -- a breathy eternity.