Sunday at the Lake
by Mr. Nobody
Chrissy has a picnic.


--adult fiction/fantasy; original of an identically entitled version that
appeared last autumn; contains violence and sexual explicitness; names are
coincidental; actions are not endorsed; questions or comments to
assigning@aol.com; thank you.--

Davey sat in his truck and waited for Chrissy. He bided his time and watched
as Sunday School kids exited from the basement of the small church and ran to
the cars that now entered the parking lot. Some kids waited for their parents
to join them for the eleven o'clock service. Davey and Chrissy had already
been at the eight o'clock. She then stayed to teach Sunday school and he went
home to change his clothes. His parents' farm is almost thirty miles out of
town, so he had to move fast to get back in time to fetch her.

He made it, but, alas, she would be late. Teachers have to stay after Sunday
School and move the portable partitions that are used to create classrooms.
Space in the basement has to be made for the reception that follows every
eleven o'clock service. That's when and where parishoners gather to chit-chat
and sip weak punch and coffee. Some of the older women provide cookies.

Chrissy finally emerged with Mrs. Monash, one of the other Sunday School
teachers. The two stood at the edge of the parking lot and talked for a
moment. The elderly woman was leaving for Cleveland the next day to tend to
her ill sister. Chrissy put in a kind word and gave the woman a light kiss on
the cheek. Then she turned and waved at her boyfriend and hurried gingerly
across the gravel to his truck. Once in the cab she slid across the front seat
to kiss him discretely.

She is a pretty girl, Chrissy is, probably the prettiest girl in town. She's
fairly tall, but most people who meet her for the first time take note of how
athletic she looks. It's the way she moves. Her boyfriend's no slouch either.
Davey is truly big, a strapping farm boy who stars on the football team. The
two of them make a very imposing couple.

Chrissy clutched her Sunday school materials, plus her Bible. She was a
conservative dresser today. Unless it's dreadfully hot and humid, she usually
wears slacks, this time a dark pleated pair with a high-collared cotton
sweater and her favorite dress sandals. Pantyhose under her slacks. No make-up
of any consequence or any jewelry or adornment. She ties back her hair,
simply.

Her house is all of four blocks from the church. Her dad stood outside and
examined his roses, about to leave for the eleven o'clock service with
Chrissy's mother. The two kids arrived and Chrissy ran up and bussed her dad
on the cheek. She gushed about his roses. "Hiya, Mr. Emory!" Davey boomed from
the front porch. The two disappeared inside. Mr. Emory smiled at his roses.

She ran upstairs to change while Davey stepped over her little brother who
sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to the television with a game
control stick in his hand. He had just run home from Sunday school. "Hey
squirt!" Davey joked as he avoided the boy's attempt to trip him.

Chrissy's mom finished packing a picnic lunch in the kitchen. "How's my boy?"
and patted Davey's cheek. She stepped on to her toes to reach the tall boy to
kiss him and Davey stooped over to accommodate her. "You kids know where
you're going?"

"We'll find some place." They had done this last week as well, but it had been
spontaneous and without food. It was Chrissy's idea to take something to eat.
She asked her mom to pack extra in case they met up with a friend.

Davey took the picnic basket from the woman's hand. His girlfriend bounded
downstairs and the thudding sound of her feet was too much for her mother's
ears. "You stop running like that inside the house!"

"Okay, Ma," and she smiled with her arm around her Davey's waist. She wore her
track warm-up suit today. Underneath were running shorts and a school
tee-shirt. On her feet were some heavy leather sandals, the ones she wears
hiking. Davey was in an old lumberjack shirt and jeans.

The mother excused herself for church and bid the kids farewell. Davey and
Chrissy managed past her little brother and went outside. They waved good-bye
to Mr. Emory and headed south out of town. Davey mentioned how nice it was for
her mother to do all this work. Chrissy talked about Mrs. Monash's sister.
They passed a new store under construction, just beyond town limits. Davey
wondered if he should delay college and stay in town to work instead.

Carter Lake is one of many that dot the foothills. It sits in a mildly
forested area too dry for anything other than evergreens and the occasional
Joshua. It is spring-fed, unlike the higher lakes that feed from run-off.
There is privacy, good scenery, and reasonable accessibility. If the Fish
Department has done its job, then ample trout can be found. A narrow road
leads to the lake and is best suited for a truck like Davey's.

They parked at the shore. "Mr. Baird!" Davey shouted as he climbed out and
waved. Chrissy waved, too, and unloaded the picnic basket. Davey walked about
a hundred yards to where Mr. Baird worked and extended a hand, "Hiya. Told ya
we'd back. Look, lunch!"

"Aren't you kids somethin'!" shaking his head.

He was a small man in his late fifties and lived in the big city, hours away.
Two Sundays ago he came here to paint. He returned again last week and that's
when he met Chrissy and Davey for the first time. The conversation was
friendly as the two kids expressed a genuine interest in his work. "Do you
mind if we watch?" she asked him. "I've never seen someone paint before." That
was last week.

"Not at all, but I'm finished for today and next Sunday's my last trip up
here." That's when Chrissy came up with the idea of returning with a lunch.

Chrissy waved her arm to signal that it was time to eat. "When you said you'd
bring some lunch, I had no idea you were serious. What on earth did you do,
pack for an army?" Mr. Baird asked as he walked with Davey back to the truck.

"No," the boy chuckled, "she has a picnic quilt in the basket. Her mom packed
the lunch, so you have her to thank, not us."

Chrissy spread the quilt on the soft grass. The lake lapped nearby. The sun
was intense, but the breeze maintained an autumn cool. Each person sat on a
corner of the quilt in a triangle. The basket sat in the center. Chrissy
shuffled to it on her knees and handed out sandwiches and scoops of potato
salad. Then she poured fresh lemonade from a cannister.

"I can't say enough," Mr. Baird beamed in gratitude.

Davey rolled on his back and stared into the sun with a leg propped on his
knee, bouncing his foot and dipping a sandwich into his mouth. Chrissy sat
beyond with her legs crossed and a paper plate balanced on her lap. She ate
potato salad with a plastic fork. Mr. Baird faced both of them and used the
top of the picnic basket as a table. The three chit-chatted.

".... what's your next painting, Mr. Baird?
.... you kids grow up around here?
.... yup, rebuilt the engine two years ago with my dad.
.... Daddy runs a hardware store and Mom's a nurse. Yeah, I'm the tallest in
the family!
.... sold insurance for years. Divorced. Then moved out here and retired, say,
two years ago.
.... Mom and Dad don't want me to farm. A lot depends if I get a scholarship
to play football in college.
.... track's my event. I used to do gymnastics all the time, but got too tall.
.... for relaxation. I paint for the fun of it. Never sold one, either. This
one's going to a friend.
.... Davey won't admit it, but I'm faster than he is.
.... never was much of an athlete, myself. I have two daughters. One of them
played tennis in college.
.... don't listen to a word, Mr. Baird. Chrissy ain't THAT fast!"

Casual conversation and a peek into personal lives. The enchanting ways of two
kids jousting in mild competition.

Davey rolled on his stomach. "Am I ever full!" He used his folded arms as a
pillow. Chrissy stood and grabbed a camera from the truck and aimed it at her
boyfriend, then at Mr. Baird, and then at Davey again.

"Mind?" and she handed Mr. Baird the camera.

Chrissy sat on her haunches with her knees touching Davey's head. She reached
forward and massaged his shoulders. The heat of the sun and the heavy food
nearly sent the boy into a slumber. "Don't stop! That feels so nice....soooo
nice."

She looked up and smiled as Mr. Baird took a picture of them. She looked down
her beau's long body, but spoke to her guest, "You wanna massage, Mr. Baird?"
Then she looked up at him as if her offer had not been seriously taken. She
paused and repeated herself, "That interest you?"

It didn't register. Her guest watched Davey for a moment, "Hey, guy, you
asleep down there?"

"He's asleep," she answered for him. Then she bent down and kissed the back of
the boy's head. Mr. Baird handed her the camera and she stood and walked
around, looking for plates and utensiles to collect for trash. "We gotta go,
babe," she said to her boyfriend as he rolled onto his back and watched her do
the chores. Chrissy went about her way, taking the picnic basket to the truck
and fussing about for a moment before returning with three plates full of
chocolate cake.

"Gotta have desert!" She reached to give Mr. Baird his plate and placed
Davey's on his tummy. She stood and ate hers against the side of the truck.
Davey and Mr. Baird ate more leisurely. Then she walked around the quilt and
surveyed for trash. She came to a stop behind Mr. Baird.

He looked small. As she stared, a silent chuckle developed deep inside. Her
mouth dropped open a tad and made a lazy smile.

Pulling on the fabric and not on the metal snap itself made it much more
difficult for Chrissy to open the front her nylon shell, but this increased
the cadence and theatricality of it all in a manner she preferred. As she
began with the top snap, she lifted her head and stared off into the distance
to silently announce by the look on her face that something was about to
happen. Her mouth fell open a little further and her jaw started to sway, as
did her hips.

Her hands are powerful. Davey's dad likes to watch her do chores when she
visits his farm, and he tells stories to people about the strong hands on his
boy's girl. Chrissy undid the second snap. She made fists. Her wrists flexed
as she pulled oppositely on the shell's front. Then she opened a third snap
and her jaw swayed in the other direction. The same routine repeated on the
next snap, and then the next, as each snap became an escalation of sorts with
her jaw and hips moving more excitedly with each progression.

Her big eyes peered down her nose at Mr. Baird. The look on her face was
impudent and she let out a barely audible grunt as she unsnapped her shell
again, "Unnnnh," a grunt that stopped short of gaining the man's attention.
She spread her feet apart a little more and shifted her weight, as if to
sashay. The slick material of her pants made a "zip-zip-zip" sound as her legs
rubbed against each other. With the next snap, "UNNNNGH!" she let out a much
louder grunt.

"Wanna rub?" The question had an insinuative air that Mr. Baird could not see
to appreciate. She let her shell catch the breeze and flap like a flag. "Huh,
Mr. Baird?" and she repeated herself in a teasing way.

He was oblivious to anything she did. His lips cleaned the cake frosting as he
pulled the fork from his mouth. "Thanks Chrissy, I'll pass. Now Davey here, I
think he's ready," winking at the boy.

Chrissy expanded her chest and rolled back her shoulders to allow the shell to
slide down her arms. Her lips puckered and then tightened to peel back and
bare her teeth. She gently bit on her lower lip and kept gazing down at Mr.
Baird as her fingertips held the shell in the wind. When she released, it
parachuted to the tall grass.

Her shoulders are well-developed. You notice them very easily as there's more
than a hint of considerable power in her upper body. At lunch she sits across
from Davey in the high school cafeteria and extends her her legs under the
table to grab at his feet, her toes playing with the tops of his socks. She
looks over his shoulder at a girl named Jennie and then looks back at her
boyfriend. She makes a comparison between herself and the round-shouldered
Jennie, a comparison so unfair it is sexy. She asks who has the better body,
the scrawny girl over sitting over there or herself. She sits up, asking him
again, spreading her wings impressively. Davey's erection makes him wonder how
he will get back to his next class without being noticed by anyone. Her toes
pull on his sock as she waits for his answer, teasing him. She likes making
Davey hard.

Mr. Baird put his plate on the quilt. "So, Davey, they offer painting classes
at your school?" but Davey ignored him and watched Chrissy sink to her knees
and place her hand on the shoulder. Mr. Baird dipped away and spoke
courteously, without alarm, "No, no need to...."

"Oh, just a little ruhhhhb!" with the plaintiveness of a little girl denied
her treat. "Come on, Daaaaveeee lets me," pouting and then touching him yet
again.

"No, Chrissy," dipping away one more time with a tone that suggested
irritation at her insistence, "please."

"She won't bite," said Davey. "Let her."

Her hand tried again. Mr. Baird sighed with resignation and did not move. He
said nothing. She began a timid massage on his right collarbone.

"DAMN....ALMIGHTY!" and he bolted ahead explosively with electrifying pain in
his shoulder, like a sharp knife had just been shoved deeply into him and
twisted about. He dipped and lunged in motions that were frantic, to the left,
to the right, and to the left again. He could not stop her.

She would not let him. It was frightening how tightly her fingers gripped his
collarbone.

Both hands grabbed each side of his neck and dug in. Her fingers pinched so
hard that he was incapacitated within seconds. His move to crawl away from her
appeared almost manic. Chrissy fell forward onto his back as he went to his
hands and knees. She rode him, giggling as he screamed at her, "Get off, GET
OFF!" but she kept on giggling and riding him.

"You bitch...., let go of me! GET OFF!"

Chrissy squeaked. Her open mouth adverised her pleasure. She wrapped her legs
around his lower sides as he moved across the quilt. She tightened and rubbed
him conspicuously with her pelvis, "Goin' somewhere, Mr. Baird?" biting her
lower lip and humping him harder and harder with each inch he covered.

"DAMMIT! I.... I.... oh, jeeeez, that.... tha.... hurts....!" and a cough
broke off his sentence.

She straightened her arms. This lifted her from his back, her hands still
planted to both sides of his neck. "How's that again, Mr. Baird?" She looked
about, waiting for him to respond. He didn't.

The pressure buckled him at the elbows and he sank. She released one hand and
grabbed the back of his head and slammed his forehead to the quilt,
piledriving him two or three times with her arm. "That hurt? Huh, Mr.
BAIRRRRD?"

Her hand released and she lowered on his back once again, wrapping her arm
around his neck like a boa. With her face next to his ear, she whispered
loudly, "You like this?" and sunk her teeth into his lobe. Just as she bit,
the big arm wrenched the neck with a deadly crimp.

"AaaaiiiiIIIIEEEE!" and the man shrieked like a gored hyena.

She let go his ear and slid herself off of his back, swinging one leg clear
and pulling him with her as she stood up on her knees. With his neck clasped
in the crook of her bent arm, she held his head fast to her side as she fully
straightened and squared her shoulders broadly. The manipulation was total.
One-arming him this way spoke of brute strength. She peered down and watched
her arm work the neck.

Mr. Baird's panic increased exponentially with his repeated failure to get his
feet underneath to leverage against her. She kept his center of gravity too
low and his legs outstretched too far to allow the traction he needed to do
throw her off balance. His mistake, as well, was in not slapping her, clawing
her face, or pulling her hair. Instead, he tugged at her forearm relentlessly
in a pathetic attempt to pry it loose, but his hands and arms could not defeat
her arm. The girl stared into the distance as the man struggled. She found
this tedious, and tightened. She heard him gag, and tightened more.

Davey sat there with his legs folded and one hand on his knee. His pelvis
bucked wildly. The boy didn't have time to unzip, so he rubbed his jeans as
hard as he could. Chrissy was too absorbed to notice his wet spot. Her look
was one of concentration and control with Mr. Baird hanging from her arm, his
puffy tongue fully extruded, and his pupils half hidden in the tops of his eye
sockets. His right arm reached out and his finger pointed at Davey. "Pleee....
pulllleeeez," but the hand dropped to the quilt. The two kids watched a foot
then shake like a leaf.

Her moans grew huskier with her mouth fully opened. She grabbed her fist and,
in a pumping movement, practically encircled the man's neck with her arm and
pulled his head to within inches of her face. She stared at the top of the
scalp as she spoke to Davey. "When I break him I want you to come. Lots."

Of all the things the two do, making Davey come is her favorite. She loves to
watch it and feel it with her fingers. She does this as often as possible, but
only when they're beyond suspecting eyes. Chrissy is not a demonstrative girl
in public, either socially or sexually. The two are not known for their
displays of affection. She saves the nasty stuff for when they are alone.

After school is an inconvenience. Davey has football and she has track or her
volunteer work at the local hospital where her mom works. The best time is
after church on Sundays, after she gets out of Sunday School. They park for an
hour somewhere isolated. Perhaps it is Carter Lake. Perhaps Chrissy sits with
her back to the passenger door and extends her leg until her foot plants
firmly on the steering wheel. Perhaps she pulls up her skirt, or takes off her
slacks. Perhaps the other foot points and her toe tickles Davey's face until
he turns and sucks on it. Perhaps he slumps forward between her legs and licks
his way down to her crotch, making her soft skin spitty and slippery as he
swabs with his tongue. Perhaps she coos, "I can crush your head, Davey," and
closes her thick thighs around his head and holds him fast.

Her hands clutch the boy's hair and pull his face into her panties. "Tell me,
now, tell me how I look next to Blevins," a reference she makes to a very
recent incident where she stands before Mrs. Blevins' class and writes verse
on the blackboard. Davey is beside himself that day with Chrissy up there in
front of everybody, showing off but not really showing off -- it's hard for
Chrissy not to look hot in a skirt. She's so incredible this time, up there,
stretching to write, raising herself up on her toes. Ms. Blevins, such a nice
but naive woman, she looks totally inconsequential next to the super healthy
teenager.

Davey describes it as his voice muffles against her panties. She senses it's
time and releases him. He sits up, unzips, and faces forward. She points her
feet and places the jagged interiors of her flexed calves on opposite sides of
the his engorged organ, and then she slowly goes up and down and coaxes a
torrent of cum onto her legs. Her jaw rocks the way he likes it, rocks to the
rhythm of her legs as they pump away. The girl drinks in his semen with her
eyes. Her chest releases a deep contralto of self-indulgence, "I just love
cum."

Mr. Baird moved back and forth on the quilt in a rocking fetal position with
his hands clutched at his throat to sooth the pain that consumed his neck.
Chrissy's look said she itched for the kill. It was evident in any number of
ways, for the way she yanked open the tear-away legs of her warm-up pants, to
her impatient fumbling with the elastic on her waist, or in the exercised
sweep that kicked away the pants that slid down to her feet. With one
heelstrap clipped against the toe of her other foot, the girl popped her
sandal free, repeating the other sandal the same way.

Davey's father sits at the dinner table in the farmhouse one summer evening,
reflecting on the girl's visit that day. He likes having her around. "She's as
strong as any field hand I've known, with legs of a Clydesdale." Davey's
mother uses words other than those referring to a horse to describe Chrissy
"as very mature and athletic," but nods wistfully in agreement with her
husband's words as they describe the girl's particular gifts. Although
experienced in ways of sex that are unknown to his parents, Davey is too young
and naive to understand the musings of two middle aged people who find a
teenage girl privately alluring in different and similar ways. As such, he
takes his parents' compliments as just that, compliments, oblivious to the
spell his girl has over people other than himself, like his father, or even
his mother. But Chrissy knows full well her effect on others, like that on the
male teachers at school who are suddenly rendered silly by her presence at
their office door in a very short skirt, or on the wives at the local swimming
pool who look away in discomfort as she arrives to soak up the plentiful sun
and the incredulity of their jealous stares.

Most of all, it's Betsy Truitt who knows Chrissy's effect -- Betsy, Davey's
FORMER girlfriend and Chrissy's FORMER best friend. It happens when Chrissy
bums a ride from Davey one day. She swivels in place and plants her heel on
the transmission housing of his truck. Something about this girl is
sickeningly dangerous in a skirt, and on this day she lets it billow up her
curvy legs. "Is something wrong?" She giggles. "Doesn't Betsy sit this way?"
The ashened boy drops her at her house and drives home with his window rolled
down to dry out his pants.

With her warm-up pants free and clear, Chrissy looked nothing short of
remarkable next to little Mr. Baird. She worked him with her legs in a manner
that would make a castrato hard, her approach to breaking him distinctly
casual, from the slight smirk on her face, to the nonchalant slouch on her
hands placed to her rear, to the total envelopment of his face and neck
between two calves muscled up like classic Greek statuary. "Please; please
don't....," he begged to her with words she completely ignored as she
serpentined him, flexing to show off.

It was a slip-scissors. Sitting at a right angle to his head, she slid her
right shin under the back of his neck as he worriedly gazed up at the sky
overhead. "Pleeeez....," and she cut him short by placing her left calf on his
face. She pressed. Her leg smothered his face, obliterating his features. Both
teens watched two hands both small and enfeebled attempt to pull the leg free.

She pressed down more and the neck bent backwards over the contour of the
lower shin. The mouth was pulled open by this. The neck became distended. The
man's Adam's Apple stood erect like a large acorn on his throat. She pushed
more.

She stared at Davey without expression.

He watched her feet clasp together to create a fulcrum, and her chest
expanded, and her shoulders rolled back as she lifted off the quilt onto her
hands and right heel. Her body straightened. Her shin lifted and his neck was
lifted. The other leg pushed down. The big calf spread further. Her eyes never
flinched as the neck deformed and her muscular legs snapped him and held him
as he vibrated.

She lowered herself down to the quilt and unclasped her toes, saying nothing,
still staring at Davey. She placed the ball of her left foot on his forehead.
Then the girl shoved. She shoved hard. She played with the skull. Davey
watched the veins in her instep as her big foot abused the head for her
amusement. She stared straight into Davey's face and jammed harshly against
the head with her heel, smiling at Davey, extending her tongue at him as she
bit it, repeating her hits over and over until Davey could take it no more and
rose up on his knees to unzip himself.

He spurted aimlessly at first but then his gizz bubbled under his control onto
her foot and leg. Her breathing intensified at the sensation of his
ejaculation and she worked the skull remorselessly, building herself like a
spoiled brat into a bristling orgy of indulgence with each pronounced thrust
of her leg. She reached down, eyes closed, and spread Davey on her skin until
a stinging climax froze her in place and furrowed her brow. Davey watched her
chest heave as she tensed up and growled with profound satisfaction.

She sits on the tailgate of Davey's truck twenty minutes later. Her legs swing
in the wind as she finishes a second piece of cake. Just like old Mr. Baird,
she pulls the fork slowly from her mouth and cleans it with her thick lips.
Her left leg extends and she rotates her foot to examine her calf. Reaching
down and touching her skin, she blurts out to Davey, "Hey, your cum's still
wet!"

Davey appears anxious. He asks if any of it will remain on the man's skin or
clothing, but Chrissy is too absorbed with the sticky goo on her leg. She dips
her finger into the cream and sucks on it. "Mmmmm. Good cum."

"Chrisssseeee! Come on! What about him....," pointing to Mr. Baird's body,
"what about his neck and shirt?"

She hops off the tailgate and walks over to Mr. Baird, staring down at him and
saying nothing. She bends over and grabs his hands, dragging him while walking
backwards to the shore, again saying nothing. She backs into the lake a few
feet, lowering him face down to obscure any evidence. She places her foot on
the back of the head and presses down, pressing it into the soft mud.

"Well.... satisfied?" she asks, looking up at nervous Davey as she twists the
ball of her foot back and forth on the skull. Then she steps fully onto the
man's head, teetering at first and waving her arms carefully to balance like
the good gymnast she still is. The skull slowly sinks to just below the
surface of the water. She stands there, as if standing on water.

The big toe of her free foot pokes at the calm surface, skirting it like a
water nymph. She smiles as she plays, balancing herself and not interested in
hearing Davey's concerns.

They return to her house by five that afternoon. Chrissy slumps against Davey
in the cab of the truck, tired. "Seven-thirty? School?"

"I'll be here. By the way, you have some mud on your foot still."

Chrissy draws her knee to her chest and removes her sandal. She looks at her
ankle and rubs away the dried mud. She turns and faces Davey, pulling open the
snaps on her nylon shell in a flirtatious manner as her chest expands out
considerably. "Check me." Both of them stare at the large splotches that run
across her school insignia. With her head shaking back and forth in a teasing
way, she says, "Nope, no mud," and pauses for a moment to lick her lips. "Just
cum," as her nose crinkles sexily, "and lots of it!"

Chrissy slides out of the cab and sticks her head back inside through the
window. "Mom doesn't know what it is anyway." She giggles. Davey watches her
tight ass swing as she walks to the door of her house. He hits the accelerator
and drives home, the wind blowing on his wet pants.

Inside, she helps her mother with dinner. Later that evening she uses a
tweezers to remove a rose thorn from her dad's thumb. Then she helps her
brother with homework problems and combs his delicate hair when she's done.
She kisses the little boy's forehead. Then she goes to bed and reads for a few
minutes. Her fingers reach down and rub her itchy shin. She picks at herself
and the crusty cum flakes off and on to her sheets. She sleeps like a rock
that night.