Snow Jobs

Author’s acknowledgement: I want to thank the Lit members who cast their votes and made Chapter 2 of Bigger Bites of Taboo Apples the Interracial Story of the Year. This is an honor I never expected to come my way when I first began posting my humble offerings. Thank You.

Even more, I want to personally thank all of my readers who voted and made it Story of the Month for December, which put me in the running for Story of The Year in the first place. Without you, I (in fact all writers here at Literotica) would just be another hack writer in search of approval. Thank you! Thank you! Thank all of you! JL

Snow Jobs

Part 3 of Seniors Only

Chapter 1 Victory Party

Fort Getaway…

The Summerset Community College Salamanders won its next to last game of the season handily; 48 to 3. And in a nail-biting finish the day after Thanksgiving, with a near blizzard blowing directly in his face, “Surprising” skinny Jimmy punched a 51 yard field goal dead center through the uprights to give us an 11 to 10 victory over our archrivals — a touchdown and 2 more on the extra point in the first quarter, then a safety on the very first play of the third quarter by them/ an almost too late fourth quarter touchdown and 2 point PAT and then that miraculous field goal, with no time left on the clock, for our side.

What this added up to wasn’t just giving Summerset C C its first-ever undefeated season; it also provided some of us a “convenient” reason for throwing another black cock/Sluthood gangbang orgy. For showing their grit and determination on the field of honor, and also for being so incredibly triumphant with their hard black cocks off the field, my select cadre of starting players deserved a salaciously special victory party.

This private victory party had to wait for the following weekend, however, because the town of Summerset threw their own blowout for their victorious team. I swear half the town was in the jubilant, serpentine snake dance out to the huge bonfire Saturday night, and Sunday was an all day picnic—which had to be held in the auditorium because it was snowing to beat the band all over the county.

It also had to be postponed because something as multiply taboo as an interracial/ intergenerational/ teacher-student/ with a generous helping of same-sex orgy required some hush-hush planning in order to keep it hushed up. The participants in this private party spilling the beans wasn’t a concern; that had been taken care of when we had returned home from my initiation into the Sluthood. Before anyone had been allowed off the bus that night, I had walked down the length of the bus, stopping and personally thanking each one of this select cadre of black cocks, and Julie, for making my initiation into the Sluthood the most memorable weekend of my entire life… bar none.

Having passed out the honey, I then served up the bitters. Diane’s Rules of Order were laid down, and would be followed to the letter.

There were only six unwritten, yet inflexible rules, which I felt were both reasonable and prudent. 1) Remaining clothed longer than five minutes after arriving at a party—except for panties (preferably crotchless) and jockstraps—was not an option. 2) That all sex must be consensual, but anything agreeable to all parties engaged in a sex act (including pee games) could not be condemned. 3) At a gangbang party, whether it was for sucking off a hard black cock, noisily slurping the cum and cunt cream out of another slut’s cunt or asshole, or begging and pleading for a never ending supply of both, a white slut’s mouth had to be available to all cummers. The same rule applied to both her cunt and asshole. 4) As for the guys, they were to come prepared to have their black cocks used and used well, and also—since sluts were bound by the rule of non-refusal—it was only fair that any slut’s request to be used by any one particular black cock, or by any number of black cocks, could not be refused by its, or their owners.

Rule #5 was for Chantel’s benefit, but I was all for it and, legally, it made good sense. Except for necessary medications (Midol, asthma inhalers, aspirin, and the like.) no drugs of any kind. Period. End of discussion!

Rule #6 was, by far, the most important: If there was to be another “anything goes” gangbang, everyone “Keeps their fucking mouths tightly shut!” about what went on, or about what might be being planned, or anything about anyone involved. So much as an accidental slip of the tongue, or an overheard whisper concerning who we were or the things we did with and to one another could bring the tenuous house of taboo cards we were hiding inside of crashing down on our all of heads. And I—being the “supposedly responsible” adult—would suffer more than all of them combined.

I had received solemn vows from everyone that they would abide by these prudently inflexible rules and, after all the hot and sweaty and very wet intimacies we had so recently shared together, I was willing to accept their promises at face value. But it was Amir backing my play by nodding out the window, were Ike and Mike were stalwartly standing guard, that actually sealed the deal. No one wanted to chance getting paid a late night visit by those two intimidating, with ice water in their veins, blocks of loyally lethal black granite.

Julie came by the house that Monday evening—ostensibly to study with Chantel, but really to get in on the hush-hush slut confab concerning the major obstacle to what was being planned; where to hold our private victory party. Upstairs in Chantel’s bedroom (so there would be no chance of us three annoying ladies disturbing Edwin—who was already closeted in his anal-retentive study) Chantel and I kicked a number of options back and forth, but we kept coming back to the motel where my weekend induction into the exclusive Sluthood had taken place. It was far enough away from Summerset for us to safely carry on any way we wanted, and Amir owned it, therefore, our privacy was assured. The motel‘s only drawback was that it was too damned far away this time of the year; 60 miles, on unpredictable winter roads.

Julie—bless her All American wholesome/blackcock slut, carpet munching heart—came to the rescue. “Why not throw it up at my parent’s cabin?” she offered. “My parents never go up there in the winter.”

Seeing that she had our undivided attention, Julie expanded on her reasons why we should choose her parent’s cabin. “I’ve had several parties up there and mom and dad haven’t had any problem with me having parties there. Young people don’t need a couple of old fuddy-duddies around when they’re having a good time, seems to be their philosophy.” That a couple of those parties may have degenerated into butt-naked sex orgies was something her parents really don’t want to know anything about. “As long as everything’s ship shape the next time they go up, no obvious signs that anything ‘out of line’ had been going on, they choose to believe that nothing has.”

Julie took a breath and was about to launch into more reasons why her parent’s cabin would be the best choice, when I took her hand. “Biggest mistake a lot of salesmen make,” I cautioned, “don’t oversell the product.”

“We’re convinced,” Chantel added, grabbing Julie’s other hand. “All you have to do is call your folks and make sure it’s okay with them.”

Julie bounced off the bed and called home. And she didn’t have to say anything when she hung up the phone; the gleam in her eyes was a clear indication that the deal was sealed. Julie’s parent’s mountain cabin would be the site of our Black Cock/Sluthood Victory Party.

*

A cabin? The towering structure separated by a flagstone walkway from the heated four-car garage Julie pulled her father’s Navigator into wasn’t a mere mountain cabin; it was a sprawling, three-story, slate-roofed, log mansion, with—if the three wide and deep flagstone chimneys I had counted coming up the gravel drive were an indication—at least three huge fireplaces, if not six.

“You said your parents never come up here in the winter?” I incredulously asked, climbing down out of the tall SUV.

“Come all the way up here to Fort Getaway? In the dead of winter!” Julie shook her head. “Not a fucking chance in Hell. Dad, even though he’s got this great big ‘go anywhere-climb anything’ 4wheel drive Navigator, doesn’t like driving on snow packed mountain roads. And mom? Within two hours after getting here, she’s already bored to tears with nothing to do except watch TV or stare out the window at the spectacular mountain scenery.”

From the gigantic split-log deck—that went entirely around this log mansion—where Chantel and I were impatiently stomping our feet, waiting for Julie to stop fumbling with the keys so we could shag our shivering asses inside and get a roaring fire started in one of those big fireplaces, the view was indeed spectacular. The world up here was pristine white with several inches of new snow and the sides of the steep mountains were carpeted with dense stands of dark pines, powdered sugar-dusted and randomly gashed by jagged outcroppings of naked granite. I couldn’t wait to get up to the top floor—which had appeared to be one big room, glassed in on all four sides. The “cabin” was still in the foothills, but from that high above the surrounding scrub pine trees, a person would be able to see, like… forever.

A blast of warm air rushed out at us from the stained glass French doors when Julie finally managed to get them open. “Dad sent a couple of guys up yesterday to make sure everything was ship-shape,” she explained as Chantel and I raced past her. It might be spectacular up here, but it was also bone-chilling cold. “You know, like… making sure the electricity was still on, that the phones still work, the heat was turned on and the water pipes hadn’t frozen up. You know, ship-shaping shit.”

She unzipped her ski parka and shook the snow out of her hair. “Sure hope they didn’t forget to make sure the wood boxes were filled. Otherwise, the guys are going to be worn out hauling some in when they get here. I mean, you know, being all pooped out, they like… might not be able to get their black cocks up for us.”

“In that case,” I assured her—even though the likelihood of my select cadre not being able to get their black cocks up and ready to service a white slut were less than slim to none. “Well, we’ll just have to settle for having a hot and sweaty lezzie orgy… all by ourselves.” I quickly added, “Till their blacks cocks are up and ready to do us some good, naturally.”

“If by ‘all by ourselves’ you’re counting just the three of us, Diane…” Chantel nervously cleared her throat. “I’m ahhh… I’m afraid you’re going to have to up the number of hot and sweaty lezzies in your woman/girl/girls orgy.”

“Up the number?” I scowled at Chantel. “By how many?” I was prepared to take on whatever was pointed in my direction this weekend, but… “And I don’t recall anywhere in the unwritten rules—that we all ‘supposedly’ swore solemn oaths to abide by—there being any provisos made for invited guests.”

“They won’t be guests, Diane; they’re your other two Sluthood sisters.”

“Rhonda and Holly are coming!” Julie exclaimed. “When are they supposed to get here?”

“They’re coming up with the guys this evening.”

“Oh wow! This is gonna be like… a mega bash now.”

Any more exuberance out of Julie and she would be breaking out her pompoms. But, I couldn’t really blame her. I sort of knew Rhonda and Holly, not in the Biblical sense, but from seeing them around school and at the football games. They were both on the cheerleading squad. Rhonda was a nineteen year old sophomore, one of those unmistakably Midwestern, fresh-faced girls, with a rash of freckles on her face and cornflower blue eyes. A natural redhead, with a very healthy chest, Rhonda’s personality was bubbly and effervescent.

An eighteen-year-old freshman, Holly was even more fresh-faced than Rhonda and was even more bubbly and effervescent, if that was possible. A long haired brunette, with dark eyes, and an only slightly less impressive chest, young Holly was the very epitome of the squeaky clean, staunchly Baptist, rosy-cheeked farm girl.

I never would have suspected either of these innocent appearing young ladies to be blackcock sluts, let alone that the two of them would also be avid carpet munchers, which would account for Julie’s enthusiasm. Chantel’s cheeks were blushing bright pink, and it wasn’t from the cold. I gave her my stern, ‘I am not overjoyed with this unexpected turn of events’ look. “Well, young lady?”

“I only heard they were coming along this morning, Diane,” she waffled “I’m sorry, and I know, I should have told you before we left town, but you not knowing either of them, I was afraid you would want to call the whole thing off.” Chantel’s luminous dark eyes went all sheepish. ‘Forgive me… mom?”

There she went with that damned “mom” again! It had worked on me the first time we’d had sex, and she knew it. And, damnit… it was working on me again. “You’re forgiven, you forked-tongued slut,” I sniffed. “Besides, since Rhonda and Holly both have seniority on me, I wouldn’t have had the right to call off this victory party. The guys deserve it, and so do we… all five of us nasty Sluthood sisters.”

“Have you ever got that right, Mrs, Chapel,” Julie pouted. “I haven’t had anything except my fingers or a dildo inside me since Monday night when we played stink-finger/pussy-lick on Chanty’s bed.” She slid her eyes over at Chantel. “Sorry about you having to change your sheets and comforter, but you guys spurted, too.”

“Our explosive orgasms didn’t have pee in them,” Chantel sniped back. Seeing the embarrassed hurt come into Julie’s eyes, she backed off. “Forget it. What’s a little harmless urine between nasty sisters of the Sluthood, anyway? It isn’t like we haven’t tasted girl piss before.”

“And the odds are better than excellent that we’ll get the opportunity to taste even more this weekend,” I interjected. “Now, you two Sluthood sisters kiss and make up; we have a victory orgy to get ready for.”

Chantel and Julie kissed and for a minute I thought they were going to take “making up” to a more intimate level right there on the wet floor of the tiled entry way.

Their “make up” kiss finally broke and her voice more than a little breathless, Julie said, “Well, we have about five hours till the rest of the gang gets here.” I fully understood Julie’s breathlessness; Chantel’s kisses had the very same effect on me. “You guys want the grand tour Fort Getaway before we go back outside and unload the Navigator?”

“Why not,” Chantel and I chimed in together. And each of us taking an elbow, we let Julie lead us on a room-by-room, floor-by-floor tour of grandiose Fort Getaway.

I knew Julie’s parents were well off, but this second “getaway” house made my primary residence look like a cheaply furnished hovel. The main room was easily as big as my living room, den, and dining room combined, if not larger and more spacious. And the way it was furnished, being well off came awfully close to being wealthy. All of the furnishings—the deep double recliners, the two long, overstuffed couches, the coffee tables—rough cut slabs of highly polished cherry wood, the matching end tables and occasional tables—were expensive rustic and expensively big and comfy. The entire westerly facing outside wall, parquet floor to the open-beamed ceiling, was triple-paned thermal glass, which afforded a picturesque view of the winter wonderland outside.

There was a den off of this breath-taking great room with a gigantic wall-mounted plasma TV that made the big screen in my den look like a dinky portable TV. There was also another of those big comfy couches, two more deep double recliners, another cherry wood coffee table and four more end tables, and three velour beanbags each the size of an opened beach umbrella. There was also a lead-paned picture widow that offered a very nice view to the north.

Through a door into a full bathroom and out the door on the other side, brought us into a kitchen you could set mine down in the middle of and would still have room left over for a bowling lane on each side of it. Off of this gleaming chef’s kitchen was a laundry room. Nothing special in it, not unless you consider two double-load washers and two industrial size dryers being just a bit much.

“Clothes get wet when you’re playing in the snow, or skiing, and need drying so you can go back out and play right away,” Julie remarked with a “no big deal’ shrug of her shoulders as she escorted wide-eyed Chantel and I up the half log staircase.

What’s there to say about the second floor? Other than all four big bedrooms were just as expensively furnished as the downstairs rooms, that each bedroom had thermal-paned corners windows that provided its occupant with great views south and east, east and north, north and west, and west and south respectively; that all four bedrooms had king size, pillow-top, four-poster canopy beds; not to mention the little “niceties’ in those to-die-for bedrooms; like having its own normal-size fireplace, and also their own private bathroom… Well, you get the picture, I’m sure. Or, you should.

The top floor was just as I had suspected; one big room, walled in by pane after pane after pane of triple thermal glass—giving us a panoramic view of the world outside in all four directions—with a fireplace in the center that, stooped over, I could have waddled through, from one side of the room to the other, if it didn’t already have logs and kindling properly laid in it, ready and waiting for someone to toss in a lit match.

Except for some overstuffed easy chairs and occasional tables widely scattered about, the room was cavernous, and would become even more so at night. But, you would have one hell of an unobstructed view of twinkling heavens… provided there was no cloud cover obscuring the night sky.

“Dad calls this the Lookout,” Julie said, staring off to the west. “It’s my favorite place in the whole house.”

Standing along side her, I put my arm around Julie’s shoulders. “Mine, too, Julie.”

Julie raised her eyes to mine. “It is? You really honestly like it up here in The Lookout, Mrs. Chapel? You’re not just saying that you do to be polite?”

“It’s simply breathtaking, Julie,” I assured her. “In fact, the entire house is a bit overwhelming to grasp in one viewing.”

Julie turned her attention back outside. “When it’s all mine—after mom and dad have gone on to their great rewards, naturally—this is where I’m going to live out the rest of my life.”

“If I owned it,” Chantel said in a soft voice, “you wouldn’t be able to blast me out of here with a ton of dynamite.”

I chuckled. “The size of the logs used to build this fortress, it would take more than one single ton to even scratch the surface.”

Standing there with Julie and Chantel, silently viewing the majestic wonderland outside, I got the strongest feeling that a fortress was exactly what this house was to Julie; her fortress from the world outside; a refuge, where no demands were put on her, where she could be free to be whomever and whatever she chose to be; a private place, where no one would expect her to be what she didn’t feel like being at that moment—not a wholesome All American cheerleader, not a Sluthood sister, not a ditzy-headed, pseudo-Valley Girl, not a submissive lesbian slut.

The longer I thought about it, the more certain I became; Fort Getaway was a safe haven, where Julie could drop all facades and just be who she was deep down inside; just… Julie.

You call this winning…

It was after dusk when Julie hollered down for Chantel and I to haul our asses up to the Lookout. Not sure if she had meant “as soon as you can” or “Right now!” Chantel and I raced up the two flights of stairs, only to find Julie standing at the south window wall with her arms calmly folded across her sweatered chest. “Injuns comin’.”