Community Service

So, you're young, and you need guidance about sex, and they send you to a religious leader, who either thinks sex is a sin, or isn't supposed to have had any, ever. Sounds like a government program. Doesn't make much sense, does it?

My take on an alternative. I hope you enjoy it.

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Ah, small town life. It's everything you ever thought it would be, and less.

Gimme a B... gimme an O... gimme an R... I... N... G!

Thank goodness for the internet and Netflix, otherwise I'm sure I would have lost my mind growing up there. Our town was so rural it made the Andy Griffith Show look like a major metropolitan area. I know, because one of the channels we did get had that show on reruns, every Tuesday.

When I was young, my opinion was much different, of course. Lots of friends my age to play with, lots of room to roam, and lots of sunshine in the summers. Friends with pools, friends with dirt bikes, friends with cool parents that didn't mind feeding the neighbourhood kids. It was fun then. If only I didn't have to grow up.

But I did, and the same area that was once my playground now became a prison, where time never moved. It used to seem like the days just flew by, so fast we ran out of daylight before we ran out of energy. Then I got older, and each day was an eternity.

An eternity with very little to do.

Well, for the adults, there did seem to be at least one activity that filled the void. Most of the families in the community were on the large side, and some were getting bigger with regularity, so the logical conclusion was that someone was getting laid. I suppose it's like the statistics about a spike in births, nine months after a blackout in a big city.

When there's nothing on TV, sex is great entertainment.

That didn't apply to us, however. Those of us who were in the no-man's-land between childhood and adult status. We had no such outlet, unless you count masturbation, which is something we all did, but never talked about.

To that end, I had a nice cozy little pocket carved into our hay loft, where I could have some privacy to deal with the urges of youthful sexuality. Tucked in there as well was a considerable stash of Hustler, Playboy, Penthouse, and various other men's magazines. It was my hobby. I'd make a visit there every day, at least once, and polish my hard cock lovingly while looking at the busty nude women in the glossy pages, all while yearning for the day that the woman I lusted over was more than paper.

That day was coming, pardon the pun, but not quickly enough for my tastes.

***

There were plenty of girls around to fantasize about, of course. I don't want to paint the picture of an all-male community, pining for females. Lots of girls my age, and their mothers.

The problem is that, being a very small community, everyone knew everyone else. So, if you had a date with a girl, the whole town knew about it. It was gossip for days in advance. No pressure there. With the whole town watching our every move, there's little wonder everyone was still a virgin right up to their eighteenth birthday, despite our best efforts to change that.

It's also little wonder that the teenagers here were eager to go away to college. At least there, they would only face the usual challenges of dealing with the opposite sex. I noticed that some of my elder friends became much more relaxed after they turned eighteen, something that none of them would talk about, but I presumed was because they were anticipating that first time. It was within reach for them now.

I had no idea how far off base I was. I wouldn't know for sure until I had my birthday.

In the centre of town, we had a small square, and on one side there was our local church. It was small, like everything else in town, but well attended, and every Sunday the entire population would squeeze into that one building for a few minutes of subtle peer pressure.

Pastor MacMillan was not a typical religious leader, preferring a kinder, gentler form of guidance over the fire and brimstone so often preached elsewhere. All he really did was remind us that we should be good to each other, and put ourselves in the other's place from time to time. 'Do unto others' was his stock sermon, and it worked just fine, as the town was quite peaceful.

As previously mentioned... so peaceful, it was boring.

The Pastor and his wife lived in the small house behind the church. He was a fair bit older than his wife, but there was surprisingly little gossip about that subject, at least among the adults.

Among the teen boys of the town, however, Mrs. MacMillan was a prime topic of conversation. It really wasn't fair, wasting such a gorgeous creature as her on a man who probably didn't appreciate her beauty as much as he should.

Even though she always dressed very conservatively, in long skirts and buttoned up blouses, there was no hiding her spectacular body, or her incredible beauty. Long, dark, almost black hair, with a fullness and wave to it. Plump, luscious lips, that looked very kissable without makeup, and even better on the few occasions she wore lipstick. Glamourous, dark eyes, surrounded by long, sexy lashes, and a tanned, Latina complexion. She was truly beautiful.

As for the aforementioned body, well, she was tall, and lean, and just about the only thing in this town that the word 'small' didn't apply to. To be fair, there were other women in the community who had lovely, ample chests as well, but Mrs. MacMillan had them beat. That she had every male in town drooling was a given, but she was not only married, she was married to the Pastor. So, public drooling was kept to a minimum. Add to that the fact that she was just about the nicest person you'd ever met, and you can see why most of us felt a little guilty about the thoughts that she sent rampaging through our heads.

As it turns out, those thoughts were a little conservative.

***

We had this tradition in our town, intended to usher those of us approaching adulthood into a spirit of community service. Every year, all those who would be turning eighteen in the next twelve months would form a crew that took care of various town projects for the year. Cutting grass, painting fences, pruning trees, trimming hedges, that sort of thing.

Not everyone who was drafted for this service went along quietly, as there were a few who viewed it as slave labour, and said so vocally. By some inexplicable coincidence, it was those same malcontents that wound up doing the worst jobs, a fact that made me happy my parents taught me to think before speaking. I was assigned to the main square area, where the town hall and Pastor MacMillan's church were situated.

In retrospect, I was very happy that was the case, but at the time, in the sun, on a day I'd rather be hanging out by one of my friend's pools, checking out their sisters... well, it's fair to say that while I was silent, I wasn't pleased.

I was up on a ladder, using a wire brush to scrape loose paint and rust off the scroll work at the top of a lamp post. It wasn't difficult work, but it was hot work. From my elevated vantage point, I saw Mrs. MacMillan come out of the church, and walk across the square, towards the supervisor.

She was dressed in her normal, very conservative fashion; a black skirt reached just below her knees, but was snug enough that it showed the curves of her backside and thighs underneath, while a white blouse was covered by a thin, tight-fitting beige sweater. She strode across my view in profile, with her long dark hair flowing behind her, and the impressive projection of her breasts jutting forward ahead of her.

She stopped, and had a brief conversation with our supervisor, smiling as usual the whole time. She gestured, and glanced in my direction, causing me to look away from her, and concentrate on my work, pretending I hadn't been watching her closely.

I was scrubbing furiously with the brush, prepping the lamp post for the next worker, who would slap on a fresh coat of paint. I didn't even see Mrs. MacMillan silently glide to a stop at the foot of the ladder.

"Hello, up there, mister Andover," she smiled.

I didn't need to pretend, because her voice, wafting up from below unexpectedly, surprised me. I looked down, startled, and my eyes fell right on the slightest hint of cleavage that was showing from this angle, a view I'd never had before.

"Oh, hello, Mrs. MacMillan," I mumbled, tearing my eyes away from the shadowy crease, and meeting her gaze.

"I've got a few jobs that I need help with around the church and home," she smiled, her eyes sparkling in the sunshine. "I had a talk with your supervisor, and he told me to take my choice of helpers. You are the lucky winner," she giggled. "I promise not to make you do anything disgusting, and it will be cooler inside."

"Yes Ma'am," I smiled, starting down the ladder. It wasn't much of a choice to make; stay out here and bake on this ladder, or follow her and go inside where it's cooler.

The view, and the company, was better inside, too.

I fell in behind her, following her back toward the church. I couldn't help watching her ass wiggle under her skirt, as she walked ahead of me. There were those inappropriate thoughts again, coming to the surface of my mind, made even more untoward when we walked into the church itself.

Inside, a tall stepladder stood behind the pulpit, just in front of the large cross high on the wall.

"Not much to do in here," Mrs. MacMillan said softly, her voice still surprisingly loud in the quiet space. "Just a couple of bulbs to replace, and the cross needs its semi-annual dusting. Most of what I need your help with is in my house. I'd do this stuff myself, but the ladder scares me. I'm glad to have your help, mister Andover."

"No problem, Mrs. MacMillan," I nodded.

"Please, call me Valerie, at least while you're doing work in here," she asked, smiling again. "I know you're just being respectful, but sometimes it makes me feel old."

"I understand," I laughed. "It's a deal, as long as you use my first name, too."

"Deal," she smiled, shaking my hand. Hers was so soft, and her grip so gentle, I actually found myself getting slightly aroused just from touching her. "Mackenzie, isn't it?"

"Actually, the whole thing is Mackenzie Tiberius Andover III, but thankfully, no one calls me that, not even my parents," I replied, shaking my head. I don't know why I was telling her the whole story. She was just easy to talk to. "At home, I'm just Junior. My friends call me Mac."

"Okay, Mac," she giggled, still holding my hand. Or maybe I was still holding hers. "That name is quite a mouthful. Mac is much easier." She released my hand, and walked to the base of the ladder, taking a grip on the legs. "I'll hold it steady. You climb up, and do the dusting, please."

Dusting with a rag was much easier than scrubbing away old paint with a wire brush, and I made quick work of the job, going from top to bottom, rounding up dust bunnies as I went. I came across a small collection of pennies on the top of the cross, and Valerie asked me to leave them in place. When I reached floor level again, she was smiling at me, and holding a single, bright copper coin.

"My husband doesn't like using the word 'superstition', which I suppose is understandable in his business," she giggled. "Call it a tradition, then. Every year, a new penny, with this year's date on it."

"Would you like me to put it up there?" I asked.

"My tradition... My job," she smiled. "If you wouldn't mind holding the ladder for me?"

But... You're wearing a skirt? the respectful part of me forwarded, before the horny teenager in me told him to shut up.

"Yes. I'll hold it very still," I nodded.

Valerie turned her hip, and went up the ladder side-saddle, in a very lady like manner. Still, from my position below her, it was difficult not to look up and watch. Watching her made it difficult to ignore the fact that my lower perspective let me look up her skirt, and see a few extra inches of smooth, Latina thigh. As she came within reach of the top, she settled on her left foot, and reached up as far as she could with her right hand. Her right foot left the rung of the ladder, angling outward a few inches to balance her, and giving me a view all the way up.

All the way to her white panties.

I looked away in time not to get caught, but not before the image registered on my memory, and triggered the beginnings of an erection. By the time she inched back down and stood beside me, my dick was swollen uncomfortably.

"Whew! It's warm up there," she giggled, fanning herself. "You don't mind if I take off my sweater, do you?"

Who was I to argue? It was her house. I shook my head, and watched her carefully peel the tight top layer off. 'Peel' is a good description, since it was like a second skin, but despite its form-fitting nature, it was meant to cover. When at last, she wrestled it off over her head, she took a deep breath, drawing my attention to her breasts again, even if it was only a fleeting glance. It did nothing to quell my erection.

We moved the ladder, and I made quick work of replacing the few light bulbs that needed it. It wasn't easy to hide the bulge in my pants from Mrs. MacMillan, especially when I was up on the ladder, with my crotch at a much more conspicuous and convenient viewing height. I was quite embarrassed by the time I finished.

"I think it's time for a break," she smiled, hands on her hips as she looked at the progress. "Let me make you something to eat."

Sitting at the table in her kitchen, I swept the loose hair, a little less sweaty now that we were inside, out of my eyes. I watched her scuttle about, back and forth, assembling a snack for us to eat. Earlier when she had removed her sweater, I had been surprised, but too busy to enjoy the unprecedented access to view her choice of undergarments.

Now, there was little for me to do but sit and observe the slight jiggle of her wonderfully large breasts, as she clacked around on her low heels. Her white blouse was a very snug fit, especially where her breasts pressed out against it, straining the buttons to contain them. As she placed a big glass of milk on the table in front of me with a smile, I could see those buttons more closely, and clearly make out the lace of her white bra through the fabric.

"So, talk to me, Mac," she said happily, wielding her knife like a skilled surgeon, with her back to me. "What does Mac want to do with his life? You just turned eighteen, right?"

"Yes Ma'am," I nodded.

"Hey!" she laughed, brandishing the knife menacingly. "Mrs. MacMillan is bad enough! Ma'am is worse! What's my name?"

"Sorry, Valerie," I smiled, raising my hands in surrender. "Yes, I'm eighteen now, and going to college in the fall. As for what I want to do? I'm not really sure. I guess I haven't made up my mind yet."

A plate of finger sandwiches appeared on the table, as if by magic. You know the ones? Tuna, salmon, ham, etc, with the crusts cut off, and cut into little triangles? The kind everyone likes. She scraped the crumbs and crusts into a pile.

"For the birds, later," she smiled, taking her seat across from me, and folding her hands in a moment of silent thanks. "Amen. Go ahead, Mac. You start."

"Thank you, Ma'a... I mean Valerie," I ducked, as she took a swing at me playfully. "Thank you. I love these."

"Always go with your best pitch," she giggled, picking up her glass of milk. She took a big drink, and sat back, her tongue flicking out to erase the milk moustache that resulted. It was a moustache that in my mind might have been made of a different, more personal type of creamy liquid.

"You're looking forward to going to school?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm not really sure what to expect, class-wise," I said honestly, munching another sandwich.

I said before she was easy to talk to, and it's true. The problem is that she was too easy to talk to, and when I continued, the truth just came out.

"I guess I'm just eager to get away from here," I said, and immediately regretted it. I just knew she'd ask why, and I didn't feel like I could lie to her.

"I remember when I was your age," she said softly. "I felt largely the same way. The town I grew up in wasn't much bigger than this one, and I for whatever reason, I just wasn't happy there. I wasn't lucky enough to have the option of college, so I got a job as a waitress, which I hated. Every day, waiting on friends and people who I'd known all my life. It made me feel like a complete failure, and I ran away. Just up and left, on the first bus I could get, going to somewhere nobody knew me."

"I had no idea," I replied.

"Yes, well, that wasn't the half of it. Running away only made it worse," she added, reaching across to take my hand. "It rarely makes it better."

"I understand. I'm not running away," I answered, enjoying her touch. By reaching across, she was resting her big boobs on the edge of the table, pushing a bit more cleavage into view. The buttons on her blouse strained to hold back the massive globes, and while I watched with great interest, one of them gave up, popping open, revealing even more.

I immediately felt even more guilty. What was I doing, ogling her breasts? She was old enough to be my mother. She was married. She was the Pastor's wife, for goodness sake.

"So why are you so anxious to leave?" she asked, still holding my hand and giving me the same show of cleavage. "Don't you like it here?"

"Oh no, it's not that so much," I smiled, trying not to stare at the crease between her big tits. "The town is nice. The people here are nice. I guess... I mean, I'm hoping for a little more, um, social life."

"Well, yes, that I can understand," she giggled, releasing my hand and sitting back. She crossed her arms. "This place is hardly Times Square. I've seen you out on dates though. What's the problem?"

"Well, none of the girls here seem to like me that much," I lamented.

Mrs. MacMillan sat there, looking at me with her big, expressive eyes, for several seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was soothing.

"Mac, may I ask you a very personal question?" she asked.

"Um, yeah, sure. I guess," I nodded.

"Are you a virgin?" she said softly.

Ooooooo boy! Why did she have to ask that, and why did she have to be so perceptive, and why did she have to be so hard to lie to? In response, I merely looked down, and nodded.

"Uh huh," she breathed. "Thank you for being honest, Mac. So, what you're really talking about here is sex."

What? My eyes flew open, and I looked up, startled. Mrs. MacMillan sat there, her face calm, no judgement in her eyes. Her arms were still crossed, causing her breasts to bulge upward, catching my gaze again.

"I, um... Uh... Well, I... Um..." I stumbled, before hanging my head.

"Don't be embarrassed. It's perfectly normal for young people your age to be preoccupied with sex," she smiled, leaning in again to speak softly.

Was it my imagination, or had another button come undone? Yes, it had, and now I could see the edge of her lacey bra cup. Preoccupied with sex? Yeah. You could say that.

"You mean young guys my age, right?" I replied. "The girls here don't seem to care."

"I'm not sure that's true, Mac," she smiled. "You may know that I counsel the young ladies in town, and I can tell you that most of them feel the same way you do, and several of them think you're cute."

"Really?" I asked. "Names! I need names!"

"Those I can't give you," she giggled. "I'm sure you understand... Confidentiality, and all that."

"Oh, alright," I sulked.

"Hmmmm, I suppose..." she tapped her lips, thinking out loud. "I guess there is one name I could give you, that wouldn't break any confidence."