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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 ...