tagIncest/TabooOf Cannabis and Cannibals

Of Cannabis and Cannibals

byKethandra©

Author's Note:

I have received feedback from readers with greatly varying opinions toward unprotected sex, birth control methods, and pregnancy as it relates to erotic fiction. For this story I have left out references as to whether characters in the story may or may not have availed themselves of various birth control methods previous to or after the sex depicted. I trust readers to fill in any unspecified details in a manner that best pleases themselves.

The story touches on cannabis and historical cannibalism, buck-skinners, a menacing biker-preacher, incest, and virgin birth, as well as several unlikely events, so some small suspension of disbelief on the part of the reader is appreciated. All characters are both entirely fictional and over the age of 18, and are portrayed as such throughout the story.

This story is an entry in the 2017 Nude Day story contest. Votes and Comments are appreciated.

Enjoy.

- Kethandra


*

Almost 20 years ago.

Martin Baumgartner stepped back to look at his project. A room within a room, that's what all the experts said you needed for maximum soundproofing. He had, with help from his father, built his small recording studio in the garage last summer, and it had been fine until last week. Now it was not nearly soundproof enough, so he was adding a second buffering layer to the outside.

The previous neighbors had sold their house next door, moving back East somewhere. That had cost Martin and his parents the frequent use of the pool hidden behind the tall wooden fence. It had also cost him Chuck, his only good friend in the quiet cul de sac neighborhood.

Then the new purchasers of the house had roared in, literally. A double column of motorcycles, maybe twenty in total followed the two rental trucks. Not Ninjas or whiny modern bikes, these were big, grumbling Harley's, throwing out deep vibrations that shook plates and windows inside houses up and down the street.

The newcomers, like rebels everywhere, followed the strict dress code of leather - black - over black T-shirts and sleeveless wife-beater underwear, and more black leather. Black leather vests and jackets almost all had sewn-on curving labels stating "CHRIST'S BLOOD" and "SHED FOR THEE." Apparently, the only allowable colors to be shown as a limited substitute for black were faded blue on denim jeans and the bright red of the embroidered labels, both the capital letters and the realistic hand in the middle, a huge nail piercing the palm, dripping graphic blood.

There had been quite a few women, but only one rode her own bike. The others rode behind a man. Martin and his father stepped out to watch the spectacle. Most of the street had stayed indoors, but a few stood on their porches looking on wide-eyed.

Most of the bikers looked older, 40s, 50s, with many showing grey hair where they weren't balding. More than a few of the leather vests stretched tight over sizable guts, even with the side laces let out generously. The doors to both trucks had been thrown open and boxes and furnishings moved efficiently into the house. The crew had looked like they might have some experience quickly unloading trucks, maybe even in dark alleys when the truck's contents didn't strictly belong to them.

The women went inside, presumably to begin unpacking. The exception had been the one on her own Harley. She started barking orders, the hard-looking men jumping to her commands. She was less then half their size, smaller than any of the other women, but radiated authority. Other than her voice, and the respect she commanded, the only thing big about her was her breasts: on her lean, muscled, but slight frame, those jugs struggling to free themselves from her tight white sleeveless shirt could not be confused for natural.

A huge man, the first one to ride down the street, just stood, arms crossed, and watched, scowling below his mirrored aviator glasses. He was shaved bald, the only hair showing was a dark, pointed goatee flecked with grey. He saw Martin and his father and strode toward them, removing his glasses before hanging them on a chest pocket. As he got closer they realized just how big he really was.

"Tiger Willoughby." He growled. Martin had hoped the face the giant made was a smile. "Pastor Tiger."

Martin's father took the massive mitt offered, shook it. "Will Baumgartner. Did you say 'Pastor'?"

"Yes, sir. Just took over the old First Methodist building outside town."

Even with one of the unique people Martin had ever seen up close offering him a hand to shake, the young man's eyes and attention had gone past the man-mountain. Pastor Tiger twisted to see where he was looking.

A gorgeous blond girl, perhaps his own age, a flash of innocent color in this sea of threatening monochrome leather, had slid down out of the cab of the lead truck. Her sunshine-golden hair, white shorts over tan legs that ended in red canvas sneakers, and pink Hello Kitty t-shirt, only accented the way her radiant smile lit up her dark, gritty companions. After a quick wave at the pastor and - Martin wanted to imagine - himself, she headed inside.

"Martin! Mister, err, Pastor...Tiger wants to shake your hand." His father's voice brought him back. He'd reached out and found his hand locked in a huge vise.

"That's my daughter." If either was possible, Martin's eyes had gone wider and Tiger's voice had grown more gravelly. "My only daughter."

Martin's hand was still a prisoner.

"And whether a man believes in eternal damnation or not, if he treats that lovely girl with anything other than the utmost honor and respect, even casting lustful eyes her way," squinty biker eyes stared into Martin's, then his father's, then back to Martin, "I promise he will become intimately acquainted with Hell on Earth."

He had smiled wide, showing silvery reinforcements to several teeth. Martin's hand was finally released. "Nice to meet you, neighbors. Hope to see you at service Sunday."

-----

After several days of Harley-Davidsons roaring, Martin had finished plans for his new construction: a thick, heavy walled room, built at a slight angle, surrounding his entire studio, with no solid surfaces touching each other or paralleling another surface, to minimize the transmission of deep low-end vibrations. Rolls of special weighted vinyl, a stack of 2x4s, plus one of dense sound board, and another of thick Sheetrock, and a case of acoustic adhesive now blocked the driveway, freshly loaded off the delivery van.

Martin stretched, considering how much to move into the garage and what could be left outside until needed over the next couple days, until he completed his sound-absorbing 'room within a room.'

An odd motion in the sky pulled his eyes to a rare sight rising out of the shallow canyon that dropped off behind the house. A large hawk was carrying a writhing snake in its talons, and coming toward Martin. The snake wasn't very big, but it's flat, triangular head reared back and struck at the flapping monster carrying it off. The big bird dropped its meal and Martin watched the snake fall, seemingly just over the fence from where he stood. The fence that hid the large pool now belonging to the new biker-preacher neighbors.

A piercing shriek of surprise filled the air, followed by a longer, more panicked one. Followed by barely discernible words punctuated by more cries. "Jesus, oh Lord help me no! No! Oh my...please no!"

Martin was sprinting toward the gnarled oak that hung over the fence. He and Chuck had used the long limb that stretched over the low flat-roofed pool shed as a quick shortcut between their yards. He climbed the lower limb on his side and jumped, hands grabbing the higher branch with a practiced motion.

Lifting his legs high, he cleared the fence by inches, then dropped onto his feet on the flat roof overlooking the pool.

One person was in sight, in the pool, splashing with frantic energy as she paddled back away from the snake writhing in the water. Her red face was twisted in terror, coughing on inhaled pool water, but he knew it was the beautiful blond dream he had not seen since move-in day. She saw him too, screaming, "Please help me! Please!"

Martin was off the roof in an instant and grabbed the long aluminum-handled leaf net. He had the snake wriggling in the net by the time the terrified girl reached the wall near him. Definitely a small rattler.

She scrambled onto the concrete deck, and kept running until he was between her, the pool and the snake. Sobbing tears had replaced the screams as he reared back and launched the snake on its second airborne journey, using the net like a huge lacrosse stick to send it far over the back fence and down into the canyon.

"Is...it gone?" He turned to see her hands clenched in front of her, face a mask of fear. Though her hands covered the top, he couldn't help but take in her flowered bikini bottom above smooth tan legs and below the most perfect, feminine belly he had ever seen.

Martin tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring. "It's gone."

The small wet bundle hit him, bare arms wrapping tight around his chest as her face buried itself under his chin. He took a step before catching himself so they didn't tumbled into the pool, and found his arms holding her, hands on smooth, wet shivering skin.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you." A convulsive shake passed through her body. Martin was very aware of small, firm breasts clad only in a wet bikini pressing against him. He could almost feel Pastor Tiger's eyes drilling into him, reminding him of the promise of Hell on Earth.

"Uh, you're okay now. It's safe. Are your parents...is anyone home?" He knew he should get space between the two of them immediately, but his hands denied him, instead beginning a soft stroking of her wet back.

Her head shook against his neck as she continued to shiver. "Nuh-uhh. They're leading a Bible study."

As the adrenaline eased and she realized she was safe, she broke down into a sobbing cry. He held her tighter as he felt her go almost limp against him. Her breath was wet and warm against his neck. Only when he eased up on his arms' pressure around her did she cling back close.

"Thank you." Boo hoo.

"So much." Sniffle. She finally pulled back enough to look him in the face. Her swollen eyes were red, snot ran out her nose, and her lips were still curled in a pouty horror. Martin thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Then she smiled up at him and his knees almost buckled. "My hero. You saved me."

The smile stunned him. It was a smile that could melt glacial ice, cause a Golden Glove fielder to drop a simple fly ball, a ballroom dancer to trip over a curb.

"Yeah. Like a superhero, the way you swooped in and landed on the roof." He was frozen in place, a deer in the headlights of her smile. She ended the brief silence, before it had a chance to become too awkward, with a kiss.

Just a soft, quick peck of thanks on the lips. Perhaps. But delivered when it was, after that stun-grenade smile had exploded, and by whom, the forbidden blond beauty draped against him in nothing but a wet bikini, Martin was lost.

He couldn't quite remember the rest of the encounter. She had wrapped up in a big towel, no longer shivering. Led through the house, still jumbled with moving boxes, he had exited through the front door. He was pretty sure she had been wearing a long robe as she thanked him again - with another clinging hug - before her final wave as she slowly closed the door.

Delma. She had said her name was Delma. He couldn't concentrate on the piles in the driveway after that, finding himself standing in a daze, fingers touching his lips where she had kissed him. With no ability to focus on any further assembly, he at least managed to pull a large tarp over everything so dew wouldn't damage the expensive materials.

He was quiet at dinner. Fortunately, his parents assumed he was going over his construction project in his head. His jump at the sudden loud knock on the door almost spilled all three water glasses on the table.

"Well, hello, Reverend...Pastor." At his father's surprised tone answering the door, Martin felt cold sweat drip down his spine.

"Hi, Will. Could I speak to your boy?" The low voice didn't shake the plates likes the big motorcycles did, but it still penetrated poor Martin to the core.

His mother looked at Martin with a puzzled expression as his father called for him. He forced his legs to work.

Tiger loomed in the doorway, filling it. His smile showed even more metal this time as his huge mitt came out again. "Marty! It is Marty, right?"

Martin thought Marty sounded less serious so he usually corrected people on that one. He preferred Martin; it was his name after all. The biker got a pass. 'Marty' nodded, not trusting his voice.

"I owe you my thanks. My daughter tells me you came to her rescue today." He chuckled, shaking his head. His laughter was not contagious. "That girl does not like snakes."

"What's all this, Martin?" His father was confused now.

"Somehow, a big rattlesnake got in our pool while my daughter was swimming. She panicked. Marty here swung in like Tarzan and wrestled the vile serpent before finally heaving it half way to Denver. That's the way I heard it." He gave the young man a more serious look. "Though I have never seen no rattler go swimming voluntarily."

Martin found his voice. "It wasn't a very big one, really. And I didn't wrestle it, of course. I caught it in your pool net. And it wasn't a volunteer."

"Then how in Heaven's blessed name did a non-volunteer snake end up in the same pool as my snake-terrified daughter, young man?" Both men were looking at him with no trace of smiles.

He explained, stuttering. Pastor Tiger's doubting glare did not leave much room for comfort. Apparently, the story was unlikely enough to be believable. Any boy who would toss a snake into a pool to scare a pretty young girl would be more likely to plead ignorance of how it got there and not bring in unsuccessful reptile-eating raptors.

"Would you mind showing me how you swung into my back yard, young man?" The huge hand on his back felt as heavy as a loaded backpack as he led the pastor to the sideyard and the overhanging oak. He mentioned Chuck, the pool shed, and how they had used it as an easy passage between their yards.

"Good boy. I can always tell a liar. Every time. And your story rings true. Strange, but true. You have my deepest thanks. Nothing means more to me than that little girl."

The hand tightened on Martin's shoulder and Tiger growled. "But I will remind you just this one more time of my earlier warning. Stay away from her."

The bikers voice somehow deepened, added gravel. "Hell on Earth. Understand?"

Martin tried not to squirm as pain shot down his arm under the pastor's grip.

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir." He managed to squeak.

"Good boy."

After retelling the story for his mother, he excused himself to go to his room. Massaging his shoulder helped the ache in his arm as he lay in bed, but it was the feeling of soft lips on his, a wet body pressing close, that kept his mind racing and sleep far away.

He jumped again at a low mechanical rumble from outside followed by a high loud whine. He recognized the sound of a chainsaw at work.

The following morning, one look confirmed his suspicions: the overhanging limb was gone.

-----

"Thank you."

He had been facing toward that part of the driveway, retrieving more lumber, so he saw her pop up into view.

Delma was looking down at him, leaning her elbows on the top of the high wooden fence that separated the two properties. She must have been standing on something tall. The houses were staggered, the Willoughby house toward the front of their lot, Martin's toward the back.

The angle, and her flowered bikini top, gave Martin a perfect view of her teen cleavage. It was dry this time. She smiled, showing her straight white teeth, as her blond hair swung side to side behind her head in a ponytail.

"Oh, uh. I'm modifying my recording booth."

"You have a recording booth? Seriously?" She sounded genuinely impressed. "You sing? Record songs?"

"Well, no. I talk. I do voices." Martin paused, composed himself. His voice took on a bigger, more animated tone, like a TV announcer as portrayed on a cartoon.

"In the news, lovely girl survives rare combined airborne and aquatic rattlesnake attack, father blames demonic attack by flying serpents on society's moral decay and overhanging tree branches. He suggests Jesus's parable of the chainsaw applies to both problems."

The lovely face changed, suddenly guarded. "I hear Keri. Gotta go. Bye."

She vanished, but Martin heard a final "Thanks!"

This time he was able to channel the surge of energy brought on by Delma's appearance, working through lunch and late into the afternoon.

-----

"Whatcha doing, Marty?"

Martin looked up from the fourth wall panel, assembled but not yet tilted upright, to complete the second, outer shell. He drew in a deep breath of nervous surprise, thankful he hadn't been holding anything to drop at Delma's sudden entry.

The questioner had haunted his dreams when he'd finally fallen asleep. Now her silhouette, hips accentuated by a flaring frill, stood in the wide garage doorway.

"Huh...Hi, Delma. This is the booth I'm modifying."

"For your voices?" She made an expression of childlike delight. "Can I see it?"

"Of course." For completely different reasons, he gave a second Willoughby a pass on 'Marty.' Grasping the reinforced handle, he pulled open the heavy, padded door to the original studio, now corralled on three sides by the new framing.

A mic hung from a ceiling-mounted boom, blocked from clear view by a fine mesh screen. Headphones hung from a wall hook, cables tentacled like ivy taking over. A battered black steel music stand held sheets of printed copy, with notes in pencil.

"This is so cool!" She twisted at the waist as she scanned the tiny room. The motion pulled the bikini top tight, giving Martin a glimpse of the bare side of her breast. It looked so soft and smooth.

Still smiling, as though she had no idea what a powerful stunning agent she wielded, Delma stepped close to Martin.

"Um. Did...does your dad know you're here?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Did he give you the old 'hell on earth' line? He loves that one. Don't worry, he's just a big teddy bear." She stepped closer still, biting her lip as eyes raised to meet his. "Though I'm snugglier."

Her arms slipped up around his neck. Martin swallowed hard. His heart was pounding. Even though he had fooled around with other girls, and gone all the way with two of them, Delma made him feel like a nervous virgin. He had trouble talking, thinking, making his body work right when she just smiled at him.

She wasn't smiling now. Her lips were parted, reaching up toward his. He couldn't move. "My handsome hero."

She whispered it so softly he barely heard. Or maybe she shouted it and the roaring in his ears drowned it out. Either way, he again felt firm bikini-clad breast pressed to his chest before soft lips found his. This time the kiss lingered. She made a small, satisfied sound. Almost a coo.

Strangely, a calmness settled over Martin. His heart didn't slow, his breath still felt short, but he was no longer fearful or panicked or anxious. This was right. Where he was meant to be.

Delicately at first, her tongue tickled at his lips. His tongue met it. Her mouth opened wider and the kiss deepened. The next coo was closer to a moan. His arms wrapped around her, hands meeting smooth naked skin and pulling her closer against him.

When one hand, stroking her back, tangled in the knit trying her bikini top, Martin quickly pulled it away. Kissing was one thing, and a wonderful thing, but the idea of taking things further caused a painful twinge where his shoulder had been squeezed last night.

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byKethandra© 16 comments/ 44666 views/ 65 favorites

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