Chapter 1

All of us folks up in Coon’s Hollow had heard tell of the tall tales about Misty McCoy’s long gone grandmother. The oldster struck most of us mountain dwellers as a bit mite peculiar with regard to her actual biological age and her appearance at different stages of her life.

I had not personally witnessed granny McCoy’s strange outward look of a teenaged female right up into her mid-forties and then the way she seemed to age at a much slower rate than other Hollow women born close to her age. Her year of birth was in a year when most nights were spoken of as darker than a witch’s pot in the midnight hour. She was born in the week just before the first full moon. Folks have commented about how it was right after most of the witches on the mountain were harshly evicted across the state-line to the disrespected next state. A lot of secretive snickering promised to give those shiftless city-folk in Tennessee the troubles that we didn’t want visiting us in Coon’s Hollow any longer.

Misty McCoy’s granny was born a short time before the bloody war between the North and the South. She grew up in the midst of a lot of grieving and crying about those good old boys who would never be seen tramping up the hillside trails ever again.

There was a considerable shortage of men-folk in those years during and after the war.

It caused a different kind of grief for the lonely women of Coon’s Hollow. Of course, the shortage of hard dick led the frustrated females to a number of unusual solutions to the problem.

I had to agree that the rise of the witchcraft influences was tied to the shortage of available hard dick.

For some unknown reason, those strange creatures flourished with their secretive ability to take care of the stoic mountain men’s need for punishing female pussy.

Misty’s family was rumored to be part of the witch clans and there was no doubt that she was endowed with those attributes that pulled even level-headed males into her web of ritualistic orgies.

Misty’s grandma was called Maggie and she was one of a long line of ageless females in the McCoy line of womenfolk. It was said in some quarters that she spent three full decades of looking like a teenage hell-raiser with pert bouncing breasts and boasting the hindquarters of a newly ripened woman complete with the cloying desperation of a cat on a hot tin roof.

She had that anxious look of a she-cat in heat looking for some randy Tom to pounce on her and pin her down with a set of sharp claws and no inclination toward pity.

The crowd down at the barber shop all had stories about how she had favored them with her feminine wiles at one time or another in their otherwise uneventful lives.

My pa is a man of few words but he waxed right eloquent on the subject of how much he had enjoyed licking Misty’s grandma’s cunt on Wolf-head Mountain. He spoke of how she had tasted just like a honeydew melon taken from a dew laden field in the middle of the growing season. He was of the opinion that females should leave their hair down there where the grass grows greener. Then, he would reminisce about how thick and tasty it was to munch Misty’s granny’s female parts under the moonlight.

I had to admit that even at her late stage of life, Misty’s grannie was still an attractive woman and there were few men that could resist her invitation to sample her private garden out in the woods.

For those of you that have a hankering to know exactly who the fuck I am, my name is Solomon Makepeace and I am now a full citizen having reached the ripe old age of twenty and one years.

Let me hasten to add that I am not some shrinking virgin having dipped my wick in both Misty’s and her grandma’s pussy on more than one occasion. In fact, I can lay claim to the fact that I took her grandma’s still fine-looking buttocks right in front of Misty with both of them all laughing and giggling the entire time.

My only regret is that I never did get to poke Misty’s cute little dirt factory, because she was having some problems with it being all irritated from too much use by the high school football team. Those fellas were pounding her pretty bottom so hard right around that time that she couldn’t sit down proper for almost a week after it happened right in the middle of hunting season.

I would have expected her to be all upset by that experience, but she would get a funny look on her face when talking about it and would pull my fingers into her crotch to give her some sugar.

My only alternative was to make-do with my step-sister Amy’s plump backside to keep me from going crazy with the unrequited need to take sinful advantage of Misty’s cute ass with my desperate business.

Amy was a friendly and cooperative little bitch and I say that with all respect because she knows how to take care of man’s needs real good even when she is hard-pressed for time. Sure, she is a bit on the hefty side just like her mama with her huge tits and bubble ass getting my beloved widower pa all hot and bothered in his middle age like some schoolyard lothario, but it is downright inspiring to have something substantial to grab hold of when an oversexed little bitch starts feeling in the groove.

It is with a great deal of pride that I must tell you that little Amy, even at seventeen, was able to suck any man into complete submission in the shortest time imaginable. She had this cute little way of pushing her tiny fingers into a guy’s back door to make him shoot a record distance with sticky spunk that never seemed to stop when she was using her mouth with inspired enthusiasm.

Misty had sucked me off a few times.

Only her talented tongue was talking another language and I was eager to learn every little nuance of her directions and whispered depravity that made me leak pre-cum just with the thought of following her obscene instructions.

I came to the conclusion in record time that Misty was too high maintenance for me after all was said and done.

As a consequence of that resoning, I sort of settled for my step-sister Amy’s comfortable saddle on those cold winter nights. We weren’t really related, but, in a way, she was family and I knew she was loyal to a fault. The following year, I took Amy’s hand in marriage and nobody on the mountain objected when the preacher asked that all-important question.

Time having its never-changing rules moved forward faster than the speed of light and I found Misty in my field of vision twenty years later looking exactly the same as she did way back when.

She was in the company of a couple of high school jocks that sported more muscles than common sense and they both moved like they were on leashes and walking on eggs invisible to the naked eye.