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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 7 Jun 2002 01:53:32 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Scout's Honor Ch. 5 (Mf)
Date: Fri,  7 Jun 2002 04:10:06 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Scout's Honor
Chapter 5 (of 10)
By theGreatxIam

THE STORY SO FAR: A childless couple devotes themselves to a Girl
Scout troop. The wife dies in childbirth; the surviving child dies
soon after. The husband goes into a funk, relieved only when the
couple's old troop asks him to drive the bus for its last camping
trip. But the former scouts seduce him and reveal their plan to fuck
him out of his funk. After a full day of sex, he wakes on the second
to two naked nymphs whose attentions lead him to a cathartic release
of his memories and a kinky encounter involving shaving cream. And
that's all before breakfast.

--- --- ---

Traci helped me get to my feet, but my back was protesting. So I
gratefully lowered myself into the canvas chair she offered.

She had put a pair of yellow shorts on under the T-shirt. There was
plenty of long, tanned leg still on display. I took advantage, running
a hand up her silky thigh when she brought my breakfast, bacon
sizzling and scrambled eggs steaming.

She let me do it, but she tut-tutted. "I already had my turn, buster."

I shrugged. "Couldn't do much about it now, anyway. Sue and Sue Two
wore me out."

"That's why you're going to have a good breakfast." She winked. "And
an even better dessert."

"That's the second time you mentioned that. Just what is this special
dessert?"

"You'll see. So ... Are you having a good time?"

Not the most subtle way to change the topic, but it worked -- mostly
because I was having an incredible time and I wanted to tell her. "I
can't believe you organized all this yourself!"

"Oh, I had lots of help."

That wasn't what Sami had told me the night before. According to her
version, Traci hadn't just come up with the idea of luring me to an
orgy to drive away my isolated depression. She'd also planned every
detail, meticulously working out the stories they'd have to tell to
bamboozle their parents, drawing up shopping lists of supplies and
divvying them up among the group. Even setting the schedule for all
the, ah, extracurricular activities.

The camping trip had already altered my perception of many things, of
course, but of no one were my assumptions more challenged than Traci.
I remembered her as a tagalong, always latching on to someone and
being an eager helper, but never showing any initiative. I had been
surprised to find her the informal leader of the girls on the trip;
shocked to hear just what she'd planned. But as we talked over
breakfast some of it started to make sense.

Traci, I came to realize, hadn't been following others because she was
afraid to lead. No, she'd been serving a kind of apprenticeship. In
her gestures, her words, the way she oversaw the other scouts without
seeming to, I could see echoes of people we both knew. As for her
ideas -- those were all her own. I suspected she'd held herself in
check for years, figuring that if other people were leading, they
should call all the shots.

Sounds awfully sophisticated for a 17-year-old. I know. But Traci was
no ordinary teen. She actually talked about some of this that morning,
and it was an earnest discussion of how to be a leader.

Oh, I know she was also deliberately talking my ear off to keep me
occupied, keep me from falling back into a funk. But she did it in a
very mature way. This wasn't just babble.

And there was more to it. She was fun. Not Open Mike Night at The
Improv funny, but a gentle, self-deprecating humor ran through
everything she said. It was the kind of personality that had always
appealed to me. In fact -- no. I didn't want to go there.

I don't want you to think that the whole breakfast was one long
monologue by Traci, either. To be honest, I suspect I did most of the
talking -- just answering her questions. And it wasn't just "How was
work?" She listened and asked intelligent questions, questions that
made me think. I guess right then, for example, was when I decided to
get a new job. I complained about my boss, the way you do, but Traci
didn't just nod in sympathy. What exactly did he do, she wondered. Had
I told him how I felt? Complained to his boss? What was there about
the job that I did like? What about it was fun? What did I want to do?
They were questions that might have been a bit naive, but they
challenged me. I realized that my dissatisfaction with work wasn't
just part of my general depression. My job had changed; I'd stopped
doing the things that appealed to me. That's a lot of insight to
swallow first thing in the morning.

Sitting in the sun, using the last toast triangle to bulldoze a final
pile of eggs and potatoes toward my fork, talking about the future as
if I had one, I started to feel like a real human being again.
Watching the play of light and shadow on Traci's face, I even felt an
itch for my old charcoals so I could sketch her, and I hadn't thought
about drawing in ages. I began to wonder why I'd wasted so much time.
I used to draw, read science fiction -- I used to have a life. I
wanted one of those again.

Yeah, it seemed that Traci's medicine had really worked for me -- and
I don't mean the Viagra. I told her as much.

She wasn't so sure. "I don't believe in miracle cures," she said.
"And, anyway, this cure isn't over yet."

I groaned. "I hope you don't mean what I think you mean. A man can
only do so much, you know."

"I haven't seen any evidence that you're, hmm, flagging," Traci said.
"You certainly wolfed down your breakfast."

"Sure. But, that just shows I was hungry. Who wouldn't be? And those
were good eggs."

"They must have been. You had two full plates."

"Two? No, I ... Two? Really?" 

"Yes. But I hope you've got room, because it's time for dessert."

"Oh, the long-awaited dessert. I really am full -- couldn't it wait
until later?"

"I don't think so. And I'm pretty sure you'll have room."

I smiled at her tenacity. "What is it, Jello? As in 'there's always
room for'?"

"Gee, I wish we'd thought of that. But, no. You'll see soon -- here it
comes."

Up came Lana, the 16-year-old who'd been refilling my coffee and, I
suppose, my plate (I still don't remember that second helping, I
swear!). She whisked away the empty plate. Then she also took the
small table I'd been using. I suddenly remembered I was naked. When
Lana tried to take away my big yellow napkin, I held on tight and kept
it on my lap.

With my table not only cleared but disappeared, Lana came back --
empty-handed.

After everything else that had gone on, I knew something was up -- but
what? Lana wouldn't answer my questions and Traci excused herself and
walked away.

Lana busied herself policing the ground, picking up the litter. She
refused my help, which was good because I was feeling increasingly
embarrassed about being naked.

The girls, who all flitted past at one time or another, were fully
dressed by now. Even Sue Two, when she came past to pick up her
breakfast, had put on a pair of jeans and a white tank top. Lana,
playing the waitress, had a calico apron over her short cream dress. I
felt like you do in those dreams where you slowly realize you forgot
to change out of your pajamas before you left for school.

I was shifting the napkin around in my lap for maximum coverage when
Traci returned, bearing a shiny bowl and a small cooler. She handed me
the bowl and set the cooler down beside me. The bowl was half full of
raspberries and blackberries -- gathered fresh that morning, she said.
But she slapped my hand when I reached for some.

"Not yet," she said. "Your table's not set yet."

"Set? My table's not even ..." My words trailed off as I looked past
Traci and saw Lana approaching with the kind of look I'd become
increasingly familiar with.

She stood in front of me and carefully untied her apron, then handed
it to Traci, who spread it on the ground. While she was doing that,
Lana turned her back to me and lifted her wavy black hair off her
back. "Unzip?" she asked. I did. She let her dress fall to the ground
and stepped out of it, then kicked off her tennis shoes.

 From the back, Lana was already an interesting study. She didn't have
the curves of cheerleaders like Sue. But all those years of figure
skating had given her a trim figure and, like Sue, she had definite
muscle tone. The difference was that Lana was more streamlined. Her
waist was narrow, smaller even than the Sues', but it didn't look like
it because her hips were boyishly narrow, too. And her upper body
seemed to float on impossibly long legs, with strong calves and thick
ankles. Her butt was tiny. But, wow. Two perfect half-globes, not a
micron of sag.

And when she turned, it got even better. Lana had always tended to
dress in baggy clothes -- maybe a reaction against the frilly
froufrous she wore on the ice. With her hair falling over her face and
a verbal style that rivalled Harpo Marx, it was easy to lose track of
her. I'd seen glimpses of her true form, glances at her face, but
never the whole picture. Off the ice, she seemed to melt into the
background. The few minutes I'd chatted with her on the bus ride to
the campsite were the first time I'd really noticed what appeal she
had.

But, boy, was I noticing that morning. Stripped naked, Lana was
revealed in all her glory. A dark green headband pulled her thick,
black hair back from her face, and for the first time I saw what an
elegant, chiseled visage she had. Her olive skin was utterly
unblemished, so pure that it looked like a polished gemstone. Hers was
a complex beauty. There are some women who present an aura of beauty,
but when you catch them in profile or focus on their eyes or such, you
realize the pieces and parts are ordinary. Not so with Lana. She had,
I guess you could call it a fractal beauty -- like those hypnotically
alluring geometric figures where the loops and whorls of the broad
pattern are repeated in smaller and smaller form as you peer deeper
and deeper into them. Your first look at Lana takes your breath away.
Then you notice that her face is a masterpiece, her body an art form.
But go closer and you see how her breasts, though small, are in
perfect proportion to her body. How her long neck draws you up like a
classic temple. How her lips curl up at the corners even when she
isn't smiling. How her thin, straight nose flares subtly as she gazes
at you. And look closer -- but be careful or you'll lose yourself
forever in the prismatic wonder of her amber eyes.

Lana stood before me, silent as ever. I could have stared at her
forever. But Traci tapped her on the shoulder and Lana knelt on the
apron, then stretched out on her back. Her breasts sank into her
chest, just slight rises but with prominent nipples standing up. "The
table's set," Traci said. "And I can see you're ready."

I looked at my lap and saw what she meant by the last comment. The
yellow napkin was tenting up like a magician's trick. But the table?

Traci retrieved the cooler and popped it open. From its insides she
produced an aerosol can of whipped cream.

Psssssht -- and a tower of white foam covered Lana's navel, jiggling
precariously as she laughed.

Psssssht -- her pussy disappeared under a creamy blanket.

Pssh-pssh-psssh-psssht -- two white circles formed on her breasts,
with exaggerated nipples.

Pssssssssssssssssht -- a line of whipped cream swooped around each
breast, down to her belly, creating an elongated heart.

Psssshwappt -- a burst filled Lana's mouth. She swallowed it and
licked the residue off her lips lazily, savoring.

Traci tossed the spray can back into the cooler and grabbed the bowl
from me. Berries plopped on top of Lana's cunt, toppled the peak of
cream at her navel, carefully crowned the nipples, rained onto her
body and rolled over her smooth skin, fenced in by a whipped cream
heart.

Traci saved the last few berries, putting them into her own mouth. She
kissed me. Our tongues crushed the berries, juice oozing out and
dribbling down our chins.

Lana cleared her throat. We looked down at her. "Sorry to interrupt,"
she said, "but I'm melting! I'm melting!"

Laughing, Traci snatched away the napkin that was my only covering --
not that it was covering much by then, given the state of my cock.

"He's all yours," Traci said, skipping away.

Getting off the chair and onto my hands and knees, I found that my
appetite had returned. My appetite for something, anyway.

Lana's laugh, a fluting sound she managed to produce without opening
her mouth, died off as I approached. She didn't look afraid, which
would have shut me down immediately. But she did look uncertain. I
offered to cease and desist. Her answer was quick.

"No! I mean, yes, I want you to ... do it. I just -- well, I know I
don't look like the other girls ..."

It's amazing what one jerk with a big mouth can do. Lana admitted that
she was embarrassed about her body because the guy she'd lost her
virginity to had told her -- after he'd taken her, of course -- that
he couldn't be with her anymore because she looked like a boy and it
freaked him out.

Yeesh. What rotten luck for her to end up with a guy who'd spent way
too much time in front of "Baywatch."

This called for a response, but in the condition I was in, I was in no
mood for an avuncular speech. I did the next best thing. I tickled the
soles of her feet.

Berries went flying everywhere. Lana shrieked and jerked away. I
grabbed her ankle and administered another dose, while hauling myself
up closer to the dripping mounds of whipped cream.

One hand snuck between her legs and tickled her on the velvety skin of
her inner thigh, just below her crotch. Instinctively she slapped her
hands down to protect herself. I ducked my hand back out of the way as
hers landed smack in the pile of whipped cream atop her pussy. It
squirted out like a sweet volcano.

Lana sputtered and pulled her hands up. I slipped one of mine in
between and scooped a handful of whipped cream off her navel. She
tried to smear me. I limboed under, feeling the breeze as her hand
whizzed by, and scored a direct hit as I sent my load of whipped cream
toward her nose. She snorted, wiped her nostrils clear and grabbed for
me. I started to roll away but she sold the feint so well that I
didn't notice her legs maneuvering into position; before I could react
she had them wrapped around me and I was trapped.

The same legs that used to propel her into triple toe loops had me in
an unbreakable grip, and I found myself flipped onto my back, Lana
landing on top of me. Whipped cream and crushed berries smeared
together as we wrestled, with Lana trying unsuccessfully to get a hand
free to attack my face.

All at once a grin burst out as she had an inspiration and put her
head down, bonking my nose with hers and in the process covering my
face with the goop I'd tossed onto hers.

Lana was slathered like a sundae left out in the sun all day, with
globs of whipped cream clinging to tendrils of her jet-black hair,
berry juice like war paint on her chin. She was, in short, the cutest
thing you ever saw. I kissed her.

At first her hands, caught by the wrists, still tried to break free.
We held the kiss, though, and Lana's arms stopped struggling. I let go
and hugged her. She ran her hands onto the sides of my face, but
tenderly.

Like day fades into night, our laughter and play turned into something
serious and sexy. At first our kisses were discrete events, momentary
osculations. They grew longer, lips lingering together, reluctant to
part. One blended into the next until it was one long, uninterrupted
kiss. Our mouths opened, devouring each other. Lana's tongue
tentatively ventured out. Soon we were frenching vigorously.

We rolled over and back and I was on top. She rubbed her legs along my
sides. Her hands stickily roamed my back. My cock was trapped between
us, but Lana began to move her hips under me, causing a very
delightful friction.

I propped up on one hand. With the other I explored her slender,
streamlined body. Ignoring the mess of cream and berry pulp, I sent my
fingers to her chest, seeking out the rubbery, erect nubbins there.
They proved to be quite sensitive, and massage and tweaking soon had
Lana moaning huskily.

Now her hands traveled, sliding down and around until she was grasping
my rod in both hands. They were so small and delicate that I felt like
a horse when they wrapped around my cock.

"You're so big," she said, which told me more about the pencil-dicked
jerk who'd messed with her than about any heretofore unknown
prodigiousness of my own.

"You're so beautiful," I answered, and it was heartfelt and sincere.

Lana positioned my cock at her opening and I entered just a little,
the head fitting snugly. She bucked up to take me in, but I resisted,
still trying to give her more than her meager experience offered.
Thick and hard, my cock rode in her labia like a boat bobbing in the
ocean. I kissed all over her face and neck. She begged me to push
deeper into her cunt but still I held back, prolonging the
anticipation.

Finally she split her legs almost 180 degrees apart, daring me to
resist, and I couldn't. I slid wetly into her, so smoothly and so
deeply that I felt as if I'd go right through and poke out the other
side. I was afraid I'd hurt her, but Lana hissed her enjoyment and
urged me to move in her.

Each stroke was like falling into a bottomless well, down and down
until I could feel her pussy lips kissing my balls. Lana made it even
more special because she could do amazing things with her legs -- not
only splitting them, but pointing them straight up in the air without
waver, bending them at the hips so far that her toes almost touched
the ground by her head, and any manner of combinations with legs going
off in separate directions. Each permutation imparted a different
shape to her cunt, so it was as if her twat had a life of its own.

Fucking almost always becomes mechanical at some point, a metronome of
in and out when the compulsion has more to do with rhythm than
passion. There was no period like that with Lana. She swore she was
only doing what felt good, had never had any instruction. All the more
reason to despise her deflowerer, too caught up in himself to realize
what a rare natural talent he'd discovered.

She inspired me to do my best, swinging my hips to enter her eager
cunt at the best angles, paying close attention to her reactions to
adjust my timing. Our sex grew hotter. Her fingernails clawed at my
back. Our kisses took on a new aggressiveness, like the mating of two
of the jungle's big cats. With every stroke I grunted like a
weightlifter. Lana ran the scales in moans. Our bodies grew slippery
and we clung to each other tighter and tighter as each thrust shook
us. Again and again and again, long sweet plunges through nirvana,
Lana's body writhing beneath me, pinned to the ground by my cock over
and over.

We held each other so close that instead of long strokes we were
reduced to short, rapid thrusts, never separating, just pounding,
pounding until at last, at last sweet release. First Lana, stiff as a
board, stuttering, her heels beating on my butt whap-whap-whap. Then
my own orgasm, more emotional than physical, a pinching deep inside
riding on the edge, so close, so close and then, yes, release of
tension, wave of thunder ripping from stern to stem.

We rolled to one side, peeled our sticky bodies apart carefully.
Cuddled, staring into space. Shared momentary kisses, transitory
touches. Floated on cushions of sexual fulfillment.

Idly, I licked Lana's neck. The sweetness of the berries mingled well
with the tang of her sweat. I licked some more.

I worked my way to her breasts, suckled the subtle mounds, scraped the
sweetness from her nipples with my teeth. Took forays to her sides,
her navel, her fingertips, licking them all one by one, sucking them
in through pursed lips. Returned each time to her tits.

When I began to work my way to her bush, she stopped me. But only for
as long as it took to retrieve the can of whipped cream from the
cooler.

Lana spritzed some onto my chest, then licked it clean. She reached up
to kiss me on the lips, then twisted around. Covered my cock in cream.
I demanded the can, got it, sprayed around her slit. Snuck one shot
inside; that made her laugh.

We settled into a 69. Her cunt was a heady melange of flavors, creamy
flow that covered my face as I tongued her.

She took her time with my dick, nursing it back to full erection with
slow sweeps of her tongue along the underside. When I was stiff again
she turned her attention to the sensitive helmet. Lana's pointy tongue
teased the rim, making me see stars. I was trembling when she
relented, opening her mouth and swallowing me.

By then my finger had joined my tongue inside her box. I gorged myself
on her quim, mouth open wide and pressed tight to her flesh.

Lana fit more and more of my length inside her, hands attending to the
leftovers. This time I couldn't hold off long. After only a few
minutes I passed the point of no return. Though she tried to slow me
down, I spurted briefly into her mouth and shriveled quickly.

Lana took longer. And even after she surged to orgasm on my tongue and
I broke away, she wanted more. Shoving her own fingers into her cunt,
she frantically frigged herself. A third wave washed over her,
bouncing her body around almost in perpetuity.

When it was over we were still reluctant to split. We caressed each
other lightly, humming softly and tunelessly.

Or we did until what felt like an icy tidal wave burst over us. We
looked up, spluttering, to see Traci standing over us, hoisting a
second bucket and tipping it into position. "Break it up, you two!"
She feinted with the bucket when we didn't move. "It's almost
lunchtime and you're still not finished with breakfast?"

She pitched the bucket forward, splashing us a little more before she
pulled it back. Lana and I scuttled away. She went to the pond, but
Traci said I couldn't be trusted to go with Lana to wash and actually
just wash. Instead, she soaped and rinsed me herself -- somewhat more
briskly than was entirely necessary, I thought. And I was finally
allowed to put some clothes on. A good thing, because the sun was high
and I didn't like the idea of a full-body sunburn.

Lunch was light and over quickly. The sun was definitely kicking in,
so I welcomed an invitation to head into the woods with several girls
-- Sami, Sue, Sri, Sereka and Baby.

It started as just a walk. But early on, Sue pointed out a flower she
identified as Queen Anne's lace, and Sereka disagreed. Then all the
girls got into a debate on a bird call we heard. The value of certain
scouts' merit badges was called into question. I had to nix a
challenge of woodsmanship that involved picking mushrooms, being very
shaky myself on which were safe.

Eventually Sri and Sereka squared off as the two most vehement in
defense of their skills. Sereka insisted that Sri was too young at 16
to have learned much about nature. Sri shot back that Sereka had
probably forgotten what she ever knew after so much time in Paris and
other spots not known as wilderness habitats.

They decided on a contest to decide and appointed me the judge. I
picked out five plants and had them identify them. It was no help;
they both got them all correct. Or incorrect -- I did mention I'm no
woodsman, right?

I suggested we call it a draw, but their competitiveness was legendary
in the troop. Sue said that there was more to survival in the forest
than naming plants. How about knowing how to use them? Quickly they
agreed to a cooking competition using ingredients gathered right
there, and again I was named judge.

"But if we're doing all this," Sri said, "we should have some prize
for the winner, shouldn't we?"

"Yes," Sereka agreed. "But what shall I deserve when I win?"

Before Sri could protest, Sami put her two cents in. "I know just what
the prize should be," she said. And she looked right at me. "And it's
something either one of you would enjoy. Trust me."

To be continued ...

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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