Sunday School Teacher

Back in 1971, I was a rather naive 18 year old, but one summer afternoon I discovered a whole lot about human nature, as well as learning a valuable lesson. Never judge a book by the cover.

It was mid-morning on a weekday afternoon. The sun was hot and with high school already a fading memory, I was doing what most of my crowd did that summer before heading to college, which was hanging out.

Later in the day, we would gather around the field and end up playing baseball until supper time, but until then I was just sitting on our front porch killing time. Across the street and up a little way, I saw the garbage man pulling up to the Beckford's house.

That was weird because it wasn't garbage day, and the way that Carl Johnson, the guy that operated the rickety old garbage truck, was acting was even stranger. I mean, everybody knew Can Man Carl, a big black guy with a pot belly and a voice that sounded like that cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, so it wasn't like he was exactly sneaking around, but he was acting funny.

It was as if he was trying to act like he wasn't up to something, and since I often acted that way myself, I knew better. Fancying myself a detective, I kept watching as he fiddled with the back of his truck while looking around.

Then, all of a sudden he ducked down the driveway beside the Beckford's house. Maybe he had to take a leak or something, I figured, and just waited for him to emerge from the little patch of woods pulling up his zipper.

When he didn't come back out after a few minutes, my curiosity got the best of me. Maybe he was casing the joint, although what anybody would want out of the Beckford's house was beyond me. Maybe some bibles or hymn books?

The Beckford's were the holy rollers of the neighborhood. They were both old, probably in their 50's, and John Beckford owned a store in town that sold religious goods. He looked like death warmed over, sort of like a skinny version of Lurch from the Addams family.

His wife Martha was an incredibly plain looking woman who was probably 6' tall and skinny as a rail, resembling Miss Hathaway from the Beverly Hillbillies. If she had ever smiled once in her life, I would have been shocked. I spent a couple of years in her Sunday School class in my younger days, and Martha Beckford did everything she could to make them the most tedious hours imaginable.

She spoke in a monotone, and when somebody would eventually start to nod off she would slam the desktop with a ruler and raise her voice for a few seconds before returning to her drone. Mrs. Beckford wore these floral dresses that seemed about 20 years out of style even to somebody as clueless fashion-wise as me, and she often wore these stockings that had seams along the backs of them.

So while I had no great love for either of the Beckford's, for some reason I had to know what Carl the Can Man was up to. These were the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer out in our parts back in 1971, before computers and video games, and I was bored.

I did my best to act just as nonchalantly as Carl had, and darted into the woods like Carl did as well, keeping my eyes out for the garbage man while trying to come up with a reason for being back there should I be spotted.

No sign of Carl, so I wound my way over to the side of the Beckford house, nodding over at the bathtub figurines and assorted shrines that filled the yard. I found myself outside what was the kitchen, and when I peeked inside I saw good old Mrs. Beckford sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea or coffee, wearing a bathrobe.

Oh well, I said to myself, and I was just about to head back home when I heard that familiar raspy voice on the other side of the screen window. It was Carl the Can Man, and while I couldn't make out what he was saying, that was partly because I was stunned at what I was seeing.

Carl Johnson. Carl the Can Man was naked, unless you want to count the towel he was moving back and forth over his back. He was dripping wet, and my detective skills led me to believe that he had just taken a shower.

And Mrs. Beckford was just sitting there like nothing was strange about this. She set her teacup down and swiveled in the chair as Carl came over to her, wet and bare-assed, his little round beer belly making him look like a Buddha.

What was hanging below the beer belly was what caught me attention, and until Mrs. Beckford's lily-white fingers wrapped themselves around that fat black snake, adding a sense of proportion to what I was seeing, I thought I must have been mistaken.

So black that it seemed to be a whole new color, Carl Johnson's cock hung there like a snake until Mrs. Beckford's bony fingers lifted it upwards. I had seen plenty of dicks before in the locker rooms, and while I never really paid that much attention to them, I admit to what I felt was a normal curiosity about them.

Some guys have little cocks, and some have big ones. Most guys, like yours truly, fall somewhere in the middle. What Mrs. Beckford was handling fit no category I knew of. Carl the Can Man's cock did not look human, and what was even more crazy was that old lady Beckford was sitting there pulling in it.

Martha Beckford? The Jane Hathaway of Sunday School? The woman who not only wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful, but would smack your knuckles with a ruler if you said the word "damn", sitting in the kitchen of her house pulling on the longest, fattest and blackest cock in the world?

I would have given anything to have not only a picture of what I was watching, but also a picture of my reaction to this stag movie come to life right before my prying eyes, because it must have been comical.

The Can Man looking down on the puritanical Sunday School teacher as she kept pulling on his uncircumcised manhood, stroking her hair and then undoing it out of this bun she wore it in. Mrs. Beckford's hair fell down over her shoulders and back, long and straight black hair that now made her look entirely different.

Carl Johnson's cock kept getting bigger as Martha Beckford pulled it in, and it resembled an accordion the way it kept stretching and contracting. The head of his cock kept going in and out from under the foreskin, and the knob of his tool not only was as big as a plum, but also had that hue to it.

Mrs. Beckford looked up at the garbage man over the top of her glasses and then leaned forward, opening her mouth wide and putting the head of that monstrous cock inside. As she did, I realized that I was leaning against the house and my face was almost against the screen. If either of them ever turned my way, they would see me, but I didn't care because it was like I was hypnotized.

Carl Johnson was swaying as Martha Beckford's wide open mouth slid up and down the end of his cock while her hands held the rest of it, continuing to pull on it. It looked like the garbage man had an erection, because her hands started to move easier as they pumped away.

That proved to be the case because when the Can Man pulled away from Mrs. Beckford, his schlong was standing straight out like a salami, the head of it wet with Martha Beckford's saliva. I still hadn't recovered from the shock of seeing old lady Beckford giving head when Carl Johnson helped her up and pulled the robe off of Martha's shoulders and let it fall to the floor

When I got over the shock of seeing old Martha Beckford naked - and that took some time - I was stunned to see that, while it wasn't a case of the Plain Jane suddenly becoming a knockout, the truth of the matter is that she didn't look all that bad without her clothes.

Martha Beckford did not look nearly as bad what I would have imagined, IF I had ever actually fantasized about seeing her naked. I had spent most of my life picturing what just about every woman in the world looked like under their clothes, but I must admit that I had never mentally undressed Martha Beckford.

And there she was, standing naked in the middle of her kitchen, the palest white woman on the planet toe to toe with the blackest dude on earth. Martha Beckford was about a half foot taller than The Can Man as well, making them the oddest couple imaginable.

Although I would have bet against it, given how flat-chested she had always appeared, Martha Beckford had breasts - honest-to-goodness breasts - and while they weren't very large, she actually did have tits. Grapefruit-sized globes that looked lost on her wide and lean frame, and they looked pretty firm when Carl Johnson big black hands started kneading them.

"Oh!" Martha Beckford moaned as the garbage man squeezed her tits, actually showing emotion for once, and while Carl kept working her tits over my eyes went down Mrs. Beckford's body. She was very skinny, with her hip bones slightly visible, and her long legs were really thin as well, but my eyes were between her legs.

I had seen tits before and had gotten to play with three pairs of them, but I had never seen a real live pussy before, although I got my hand inside Rose Scaringe's panties for the few brief glorious seconds of having my fingers in pubic hair that wasn't mine.

Martha Beckford had a big bush, that much I knew from seeing pictures of other ones. The hair was black and grew in a wide V that probably fanned out beyond what her panties would have covered, and it grew so densely that I couldn't see her opening through the forest.

The Can Man moved Martha Beckford back down to her knees, and she took up where she had left off, sucking his cock and pumping the shaft with her hands, although she took her right hand off of it almost right away.

Omigod! She was playing with herself! First old lady Beckford was squeezing her own tit, and then her hand went lower, disappearing into her bush. She was fingering herself while getting her jaws stretched by Carl Johnson's tool. Carl seemed to be enjoying himself as well, rocking away and holding Martha's head in his hands, and who could blame him?

It was then that I realized that I was playing with myself. My hand was in my pocket and I was very timidly playing with my stiff dick right there on the side of the Beckford's house. There weren't any neighbors on that side of her house, and there wasn't much traffic on the road, but still and all, if somebody happened by and looked down the driveway they would see me.

I didn't care. This was better than any dirty magazine. This was even better than watching that stag movie in Jack Slater's basement that time because this was real, and the fact that I knew these people somehow made it even better. I wished that there was some way to tell the guys about this, so they could see it too, because they were never going to believe me when I told them.

On her knees, Martha Beckford was still working her hand around her pussy frantically, undulating and carrying on like she was possessed, slobbering all over that fat cock and stuffing as much of it as she could in her mouth.

That hoarse laugh of Carl Johnson's startled me, and then I watched as he took his cock away from Mrs. Beckford, who continued to play with herself while the Can Man cackled.

"You want it bad, don't you Martha?" Carl rasped, and Mrs. Beckford nodded, her mouth still open while he waved the fat log inches away from her face and chortled. "You want it real bad today!"

Carl Johnson touched her outstretched tongue with his cock, cackling as old lady Beckford kept leaning forward to try and get it, and then he started slapping her cheeks with his dick. I could hear the slapping sounds from where I was, and it was as if this was making Martha Beckford crazy, because she was babbling things I could not make out, almost like she was speaking in tongues.

"FUCK ME!"

Now THAT I could make out! Hearing those words come out of the puritanical Sunday School teacher would have bowled be over, if I hadn't been watching her kneeling on the floor naked performing fellatio on the trash man, that is.

Carl Johnson laughed at that, and pulled Mrs. Beckford to her feet, her red knees matching her red face and standing out on her pale torso. Martha turned away from The Can Man and leaned over the kitchen table, bracing herself with her hands as the husky dude moved behind her, his black pole in his fist.

It was like the shorter man was climbing under Mrs. Beckford, who looked like a giraffe as she spread her legs. He jerked forward, and Martha Beckford let out a sound that seemed like she had gotten the wind knocked out of her. From then on, it really got crazy.

I didn't know what making love was, but I didn't think that this was it. This was more like two animals mating, with Carl Johnson rutting savagely into poor Mrs. Beckford, grunting gutturally every time their bodies crashed together, and almost lifting her off of her feet with every upward thrust.

As for "poor Mrs. Beckford", it looked like she was pushing back into the The Can Man, making the collisions ever more brutal. The table was shaking so hard that things were tipping over and rolling onto the floor, and Mrs. Beckford's glasses even went flying off as they humped like animals.

It went on and on, and the rhythmic grunting was only broken by Martha Beckford squealing like a pig at one point. Carl Johnson's shower was a distant memory, as his body was dripping with perspiration, making his jet black skin glisten, and his sweaty body was pressed against Mrs. Beckford's back as he just about mounted her, his hands milking her tits as they swayed below her.

Suddenly, Carl Johnson let out what sounded like a roar and moved a step back, spinning Martha Beckford around and down onto her knees again, holding his cock in his right fist and Mrs. Beckford's hair in his left.

"ARRRGHHH!!!" cried the garbage man as he started cumming just before Mrs. Beckford's mouth got there.

I saw a jet of cum spray her cheek before her lips covered the plum-like head, and could see her throat moving as she tried to swallow the ejaculations as fast as Carl Johnson was spitting them out.

The Can Man kept grunting as he thrust his hips toward Mrs. Beckford, and semen was drooling out of the corners of the Sunday School teacher's mouth as it seemed she couldn't swallow fast enough to handle it all. She choked a little, but would not stop sucking on his cock until it finally looked like he almost had to pull her off of it.

I should have left right then and there. I didn't, for a couple of reasons. One was that I think I was in some sort of a trance, clearly dazed and confused about what I had seen. Not only the acts I had witnessed, but the unlikely cast of characters involved.

The second, and far more embarrassing reason, was that I was in the process of making a mess on the side of Martha Beckford's house. I really don't remember how it happened, but during the course of events, somehow my cock managed to slide out of the fly of my jeans, and I had been stroking it as Carl Johnson and Martha Beckford were fucking.

I was a little behind Carl, because I didn't start cumming until he was pulling his deflating dick out of Mrs. Beckford's mouth, but I was popping my load while savoring the sight of puritanical Martha Beckford on her knees naked with cum drooling down her chin.

As self-induced orgasms go, I fondly recall it as being one of the best, if not the very best I ever enjoyed. My body tingled from head to toe, and it must have been so good that perhaps I made a sound of some kind.

Anyway, the afterglow of my orgasm was short-lived, because I was still dripping semen when Carl's hoarse laugh brought me back to earth. I looked up and saw Carl Johnson looking at me, with my head likely very visible through the screen.

The Can Man thought it was hilarious, and he got a real kick out of seeing that he had an audience. As for Mrs. Beckford - not so much. She looked in the direction Carl was pointing, and as she fumbled to put on her glasses it suddenly occurred to me that I was busted.

I wasn't noted for being especially fleet afoot, but if there's record for running through a patch of woods and across a street while putting your dick back in your pants, I broke it that day. Flying up the porch steps in two strides, I slammed the door behind myself and tried to catch my breath as I peeked out the curtains.

What was going to happen? I didn't know what to expect. I suppose Carl Johnson coming over to kick my ass was a possibility, but I didn't think so. He seemed to be fine with me acting like a pervert and spying on him, although he probably didn't know that I had been pleasuring myself as I played Peeping Tom.

A more real possibility was Mrs. Beckford telling my parents when they got home, giving them the news that their son was a sicko. I think the old man would understand, but Mom would be a tough sell. She caught me looking through her underwear drawer years ago and still hasn't forgotten that, so something like this could follow me to my grave.

So I stood and watched, staring down the road at the garbage truck still parked outside the Beckford house and waiting for something to happen. A half hour later, Carl Johnson came out from behind the house, looking happy and satisfied, and just hopped in the truck and drove away.

I was staring to think I was going to be okay, and was considering making a run for the ball field when I saw her. Martha Beckford. No longer in a bathrobe but in her prim and proper dress, looking right at my house, and then she was walking across the street right toward me, with a look on her face that sent a chill down my spine.

I locked the door as I tried to plan my next move. Out the back door? Just don't answer the bell? Now the footsteps were coming up the stairs and a shadow appeared on the other side of the curtains.

She didn't ring the bell, and instead knocked on the door, loudly. Again, and then again.

"Timothy?" I heard Mrs. Beckford say in her strict disciplinarian voice that used to strike fear in the hearts of all the kids in class on Sunday mornings.

Nobody called me Timothy, but in a way I was surprised she even remembered my name, since even though we were neighbors we rarely saw each other these days.

"Timothy? I know you're in there," she informed me as I cowered behind the curtains. "I can either talk to you or go down to the mill and speak to your mother."

Shit. That was even worse, the thought of old lady Beckford going down to Mom at work and screaming about her perverted son in front of other people.

"What?" I said after opening the door a crack and trying not to make eye contact, and it occurred to me that now, having seen Martha Beckford with her clothes off, she looked different to me even through she was now fully dressed.

"I would like an explanation," Mrs. Beckford said, obviously freshly showered and looking like she usually did instead of the way she had an hour ago.

"Sorry."

"Sorry isn't an explanation," she informed me. "What gives you the right to trespass and violate my privacy?"

"I thought you might be getting robbed or something," I mumbled while babbling on, "saw the truck and it isn't garbage day..."

"Robbed? By who? Mr. Johnson? He's a member of our congregation and an upstanding member of our community. Do you think that just because he's a Negro he's a thief?"

"No," I said, and couldn't help but wonder whether The Can Man ever told her that this was 1971, and the term Negro had been replaced by black?

"Perhaps your mother will be able to get a better excuse out of you than that," Mrs. Beckford declared, and turned as if to leave.

"Maybe your husband would believe my explanation,"

I suggested, and when I saw that got old lady Beckford's attention I kept going. "When he gets home tonight I'll confess to him what I did."

Martha Beckford glared at me, and I did my best to return her steely look, and after I surprised myself by not withering away she seemed to change her mind.