Disclaimers: This tale's fictional fuckers are over 18 and avoid condoms. Tags: bisexual, mature, multiracial, impregnation, harem, fuckfest, school, lucky guy, reality-based, Kansas. If you object, stop reading. Voices and details may be unreliable. Opinions may not be the author's. Comments are demanded. Enjoy!
***** HAREM-SCAREM *****
(such a lucky lad)
He awoke in a hospital bed. What was he doing here? He remembered nothing. He did not really try to remember anything. His name? His past? Not important. All that mattered were aches and pain all over, especially his head. And the hospital bed, and all the tubes and wires attached to him -- they mattered, too.
Things looked and felt fuzzy and funny. Nothing was quite right. Wait, how could he know what was right? Whatever was around him and in him was not right.
People in green medical scrubs coming into the bland room with all the telemetry and stuff around him -- they looked fuzzy. People shone lights into his eyes, did stuff to his skin and fingers, and said stuff, but he could not really tell what was said. Then he went back to sleep.
He awoke again with pain and some memories and more beeping. He remembered who he was and where his life was. Jon Swenson, that is who he was. Wolverton, Kansas, that is where he lived, but he lived for his team, the Wolverton Wolverines, where he was star fullback on the tiny country school's tiny squad.
Why was he in a hospital bed and not at home, or in school, or on the field? Oh, the field... something about the field. Scrimmage on the field that winter afternoon. And then... and then he was here.
The nurse who came into the room -- he knew she was a nurse because her tag said R.N. and he remembered that R.N. meant nurse and M.D. meant doctor -- she said things to him and he almost remembered what she said but he mostly noticed her boobs under the ugly green scrubs. She looked like she had nice boobs. Nice butt, too, when she turned and moved. He admired her. Then he went back to sleep.
Things were clearer when he woke again. Another R.N. checked him, and an M.D. with bigger boobs and butt came into his room. They talked to him, asked him questions, and he told them stuff. But he mostly noticed that even though their hair was all inside tight caps, he could tell blondes and redheads from brunettes by their eyebrows.
He slept and woke and was fed and taken to the bathroom and he was weak, oh so weak. How could a star fullback be so weak? Why did he need a wheelchair? And when he was rolled past a window, why did it look like late spring outside?
He was told, and he remembered. He thought about it all the time he was in the physical therapy unit now. It was that winter scrimmage. His head was whacked real hard, enough for a concussion, enough to put him in a coma for four months. They had done stuff to him to keep his muscles from melting away but he still needed careful therapy.
That is what filled his mind: "I was in a coma for four months." All of 1990 from January to April was gone. He would be in therapy all of May. And he would not graduate in June.
Not just the school and the athletics -- he had also missed the spring planting on the family farm. How had Dad managed without his work?
His mind felt different and his vision had changed. He saw everything with crystal edges. He forgot lots of his football plays and remembered lots of other stuff. His thoughts took him places he had never been. Was his brain messed up? He tried to get grounded again.
He irreverently thought about the Kawasaki he bought when he was sixteen with his work savings -- and a loan from Dad. He rode that big red bike the twenty flat miles from farm to school and back every day except when snow was so bad he had to take the fucking bus filled with fucking losers. He wanted to ride again.
No riding anytime soon, doctors said -- too much vibration. No graduation, either, the vice principal said. Jon needed a summer school session to make up for his missed semester. THEN he could graduate and escape remote fucking nowheresville Wolverton, Kansas.
Dad and Uncle Frank had a solution. Jon was home at the farm from the Wichita hospital, still doing therapy exercises, able to walk on his own now. His coordination was returning and his muscles were nicely filling in.
"Hey kid," Uncle Frank said, passing him a cold soda can. "Your dad is okay with my idea. I got a field assignment back east for the summer. You can stay at my place in town while I'm gone. It's just a short walk to school and the co-op market is near. Tend my stuff and it's yours. Just keep everything watered and trimmed, don't make messes, no wild parties. I don't want to hear from the sheriff, okay?" Frank's rough hand waved his frosty beer.
Frank's so-called 'minifarm' was near Wolverton Country School at the edge of town. An acre of truck garden and heavy sunflowers surrounded the faded 2-story prairie house and small barn that had so far been missed by tornados. The plot was high-fenced for privacy. The black windmill-fed cistern and galvanized eight-foot watering tank stayed full. Frank kept no livestock so the tank was mostly for cooling off on hot days.
Jon was tempted. Keeping-up Uncle Frank's place would be easier than farmwork at home. He knew he could cook and clean for himself and yes, school was real close. He just hated being on foot -- no car or pickup was available -- and being stuck in more school.
There would be few summer students -- all seniors in his classroom, all girls who had missed too much of the last semester for various reasons. Jon only sweated slightly on the first day of class and the introductions. His pheromones spun a subtle aura.
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A half-dozen student desks formed a shallow arc around the teacher's desk in the sturdy tornado-resistant brick schoolhouse's classroom. Bookshelves, hanging maps and posters, and a blackboard gave it that iconic feel.
"What a nice small class!" The MILFy blonde mid-thirty-something teacher in a modest blue dress smiled warmly. "I hope you like the seating arrangement. I know we will have a wonderful summer session, only the few of us. I'm Teresa Emmons and I don't know all of you so why don't you introduce yourselves. Tara?"
"Sure, Mom." A tall blonde girl wearing pink shorts and a light flowered blouse stood. "Like she said, I'm Tara, that's Tara Emmons, and I hope I don't suffer too much with my mom grading me." Her grin was sarcastic. Her boobs and legs, like her mom's, looked good to Jon.
Jon did not recall ever seeing either of them, nor the red-headed girls, either. They must have arrived in Wolverton after he was head-whacked.
"I'm Deidre Gallagher, call me DiDi, and my sister here is Kaitlyn, call her Katy," said the taller redhead. Jon saw two Celtic babes standing. He loved what their thin tropical sundresses showed.
The slightly shorter girl piped up. "Before you ask, we'd be Irish twins even if we weren't Irish. Mom had us ten months apart and we manage to be in the same school year. My big sister thinks she's the smart one. We'll just see about that."
Jon knew the others a little; they were never in the same social circles. They were almost outcasts but he had never bothered them. He knew the Potawatomi (Prairie Band) Indian girl Letitia. He knew nappy-headed black Shakira, and Sandahl with cropped chestnut hair -- best friends, maybe queer, or so classmates said.
"How you doing?" the curvy Indian girl in a short lemon dress asked. "I'm Letitia Mankiller, call me Tita, and it was great-grandma who did the scalping, so don't worry Jonny boy, you can keep that mop." Jon brushed light hair back from his eyes and watched her jiggle.
The sharp-featured black girl said, "You can NOT have missed me, Shakira Lincoln, because I am the Token Negro is this school." She wore short brightly hand-embroidered light denim shirt and skirt, as did her best friend. They reputedly made each others' clothes -- which they both filled well.
"And I am the Token Freak here, Sandahl Osvold," said the girl with tribal tattoo patterns adorning arms and neck. "I see what must be the Token Jock for our summer. Hi, Jonny."
Jon mused for a moment. None of the girls, nor the teacher, were super cheerleader quality, not even for so small a hamlet as Wolverton, Kansas. But they did not look bad, especially on a hot day in scanty clothes. He brushed his neat jeans and Farm Aid t-shirt and stood.
"I'm Jon Swenson and I'm whacked in the head so you don't have to expect too much from me. Hi, everyone." He ostentatiously flexed his arms. "When is recess?" he asked with blue puppy-dog eyes.
"What, a motion to recess already?" Tara teased. Her eyes were bluer than Jon's. "Can he do that, Mom?"
"Sure he can, honey. It won't do any good. He, and you all, are stuck here for the duration if you want to graduate. This first hour is statistics. Math never goes on recess."
Morning and afternoon academic hours broken by lunch hour, whew. A busy day and not too intense. Teresa Emmons kept a brisk but bearable pace.
Jon was surprised -- no, astonished. He had not been a great student before he was head-whacked but this stuff all made sense now. Bits of formerly arcane information fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces. He saw the patterns. What a rush! Better than chuffing nitrous.
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The first day of summer class ended. Jon was quite ready to retreat to Uncle Frank's place that muggy afternoon. Tita surprised him. Her long hand touched his wide shoulder.
