Anya goes to her first college party and her boyfriend shows her a small town tradition.
My first story, hole you enjoy. Should I do a part 2?)
The mascara wand made its final, dark sweep, coating Anya’s already long lashes until they framed her vivid green eyes like a frame of wrought iron. She screwed the cap back on with a soft click, the sound final in the quiet of her childhood bedroom. Her backpack waited by the door, stuffed with textbooks and the faint, lingering hope that today might be different. She was nineteen, three months into community college, and the world outside her parents’ strict, faith-filled home was a vast, terrifying, thrilling mystery.
She smoothed the thick cotton of her knee-length skirt. Her t-shirt was soft, washed to a faded hue of blue. Flats, sensible and quiet, completed the picture of modest diligence. Keys jingled in her hand as she slipped out the front door, the morning air crisp with the promise of autumn in Nebraska. Her little Volkswagen Bug, a high school graduation gift from her grandparents, started with a reliable chug. She backed out of the driveway, the familiar route to campus stretching before her, but her mind was already there, already with him.
Paul.
They’d met in Sunday school at five, their small hands sharing crayons. They’d navigated the hallways of their religious high school together, a sanctioned pair under the watchful eyes of their families, who were friends in the same pew every Sunday. Their courtship wasn’t a question; it was an expectation, a gentle merging of two futures pre-approved by God and community. Now, at the local community college, that expectation had taken on a new, breathless weight.
She saw him waiting by his truck in the student lot, leaning against the driver’s side door. Tall, lean, with dark hair that always seemed to need a trim and glasses that he pushed up his nose when he was thinking. He was her future, written in the stars and the church bulletin. Anya parked, killed the engine, and took a moment. She fixed her skirt, tugged her shirt straight, and spritzed a discreet cloud of vanilla perfume at her throat—a small rebellion in a scent. Drawing a deep breath, she shouldered her bag and stepped out.
“Hi, Paul,” she said, her voice sweet as pie filling.
He turned, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Hey, Anya. Ready for the bio quiz?”
She fell into step beside him. “Oh, you know, after our study session, I think I’m prepared.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Yeah. Me too.”
The memory of last night bloomed between them, hot and secret. Dinner at a family restaurant, flashcards spread between their plates. Then, the suggestion: Let’s go to the parking lot, the light’s better in my truck.An hour of murmured terms—mitosis, meiosis—had dissolved into an hour of something else entirely. His mouth on hers, hungry and unsure. His hand, trembling slightly, journeying up her thigh beneath her skirt, fingers brushing the lace edge of her panties. She’d frozen then, a bolt of fear and desire locking her joints. She’d pulled away, mumbling about curfew, about being good. She’d worn a skirt today, too. A silent, hopeful signal.
Now, walking to class, he stayed close behind her. Not touching, but his presence was a physical pressure against her back, a heat that made the cotton of her shirt feel insubstantial. He cleared his throat.
“So, uh, by the way… after the game tonight? I wanted to take you somewhere. A popular spot. Kind of a college thing.”
She glanced back. “Yeah?”
“It’s called the cornfield. Out past the old Miller place. Everyone goes there after home games.”
The cornfield. The words landed in her stomach like stones. She’d heard whispers, snippets of conversations hastily cut off when she walked by. Stacy, her one friend from her part-time job at the library, had mentioned it once with a knowing smirk.
She turned to face him, her books clutched to her chest like a shield. “The cornfield?” Her voice was breathy.
“It’s just hanging out. Music, friends. A Nebraska thing. A right of passage.” His eyes were earnest behind his glasses. “We deserve to have some fun, Anya. Real fun.”
She bit her lip. The thrill of the forbidden warred with a lifetime of conditioning. But his eyes… he looked at her like she was already his. Like this was the next, natural step. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll… I’ll tell Mom and Dad I’m spending the night at Stacy’s.”
His smile was triumphant.
The football game was a blur of roaring crowds and crisp October air. Their team won, a decisive victory that left the campus buzzing. Anya left her Bug in the stadium lot, her heart hammering as she climbed into Paul’s truck. They drove in a silence thick with anticipation, leaving the streetlights of town for the pitch-black grid of country roads. Finally, he turned down a dirt track, headlights illuminating a sagging, two-story fieldhouse, its windows dark. Cars and trucks were parked haphazardly around it. The thump of bass from a dozen Bluetooth speakers merged into a chaotic rhythm. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, catching glints of beer cans and laughing faces.
“Here we are,” Paul said, parking. He turned to her, taking her hand. His palm was damp. “I promise, Anya. I’ll get you home safe. I just want you to have a great time. To be normal. Just for one night.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
They picked their way through the tall, dry grass toward the house. “Anya! Paul! Over here!”
It was Stacy, waving a flashlight, her boyfriend Jake a solid shadow beside her. Stacy engulfed Anya in a hug that smelled of peach schnappes and cigarettes. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you’re here! I was so hoping you’d come!” She leaned in, her whisper a hot rush in Anya’s ear. “This is so not a church girl scene. I’m proud of you, honey.”
Paul and Jake exchanged a fist bump. “Ladies,” Paul said, slipping easily into a smoother cadence. “You have fun. Me and Jake are gonna scout some drinks.”
The night became a liquid montage. Her first sip of cheap beer, bitter and shocking. Then another. The world softened at the edges. She played beer pong, giggling as she missed every shot. She danced, awkwardly at first, then with abandon as the music seeped into her bones. Paul found her in the crowd, his hands settling on her hips from behind, pulling her close against him. They swayed to a rap song, his body hard against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder. She let her head fall back against him, a floaty, warm feeling spreading through her limbs.
“Whoa there, babe,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough. “Let’s get you some air. You need water.”
Jake snorted from nearby. “Yeah, bro, get her some air.”
“Shut up, man,” Paul said, but there was no real anger in it. He took Anya’s hand, his grip firm, and led her away from the noise, past the edge of the crumbling house, toward the vast, whispering wall of the cornfield. The stalks stood eight feet tall, dense and rustling, a living fortress in the moonlight.
He handed her a bottle of water. “Drink.”
She obeyed, the coolness a shock. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the side of her forehead. “Thanks for coming out tonight,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “I’m having so much fun. And I’m glad you’re having fun. You deserve this. Normal, womanly experiences.” He paused. “I was nervous bringing you here. This place… it’s got a reputation.”
She finished the water, leaning into him. “Stacy said something. I didn’t really get it. I thought it was just a party.”
Paul nodded against her. “It is. But it’s more. It’s a place where good Nebraska boys and girls… can let loose. Been around for decades. Old Man Miller, he knows. Lets it happen. It’s a town tradition now.” He turned her slowly to face him. His eyes were dark pools in the scant light. “Listen, Anya. God created us. Our bodies. He created them to… fit together. To want each other. I respect your vow. I respect that you want to wait for marriage. I do.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “But God also created us to have life. To feel. He gave us this world, this bounty.” He gestured to the endless corn around them. “I promise you, on my soul, I will not enteryou tonight. That line is sacred. But please… let me connect with you. The way God wants us to connect. Let me show you the pleasure He built into you. Trust me, Anya.”
He kissed her then, not like the clumsy kisses in his truck, but deeply, purposefully. His tongue sought hers, and she opened for him with a soft gasp. The taste of beer and mint gum filled her mouth. He kept kissing her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other splayed on the small of her back, pressing her into him. She felt the hard ridge of his jeans against her stomach, and a corresponding ache blossomed low in her own belly, a throbbing pulse between her thighs that was terrifying and exquisite. She was too nervous to speak, too drunk on the alcohol and his attention to do anything but melt against him, her trust in him—her future husband, the man of God—a complete and yielding thing.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Do you trust me?”
She could only nod, a drunken, eager bob of her head.
“Good,” he breathed, a fervent light in his eyes. “God brought us together. This is His plan.” His hands went to her hips, then slid around to the back of her skirt. Slowly, with a reverence that felt liturgical, he began to gather the thick cotton hem. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, his breath hot. “I promise. I will not enter you. Everything that brings you pleasure tonight is God’s creation, given by His hand through me. You deserve pleasure, Anya. You were created for it.”
He eased the skirt up, over her thighs, bunching it around her waist. The night air was cool on her skin. With a deliberate slowness that made her whimper, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her simple pink cotton panties and drew them down. They pooled around her ankles, a pale circle on the dark soil. They were surrounded by the towering corn, a private cathedral of rustling green.
“Trust the process,” he whispered, his voice husky. “Spread your legs for me.”
He used his own hands, his fingers strong and slightly rough, to gently part her thighs. She let him guide her backward until her shoulder blades brushed against a thick corn stalk.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “This is tradition. Stacy’s done it with Jake. Hell, my sisters have. My mom probably did. Everyone who grows up here… they know. And now you will too. It’s God’s plan, Anya. Why else would He have put you here, with me, in this town, in this season?” He kissed her again, a soft brush of lips. “Bend over a little. Just trust me.”
Trembling, she bent at the waist. Instinctively, her hands flew back to tug her skirt down.
“No,” Paul said, the word gentle but firm. “Don’t. It’s okay. I’m going to marry you. I’ll see it all on our wedding night anyway.” He flipped the bunched skirt up over her back, exposing her fully to the cool air and his gaze.
She had never shaved. A soft, dark brown bush curled between her thighs, a truth of her body she’d always hidden.
Paul let out a soft, shuddering breath. “One day,” he murmured, almost to himself, “I’ll see it shaved, and I’ll fill it with my seed so we can reproduce, like God wills. But tonight… tonight, God’s bounty will bring you pleasure.” His voice firmed. “Trust me. Turn around.”
Confused, she straightened and turned to face him. She heard a rustling, a sharp snap of plant fiber breaking.
“Now close your eyes, Anya. And trust me. Okay?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She heard him moving, then a quiet, wet sound.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructed. “It’s okay. God designed you to feel this. He put you in this town, in this field, for a reason.”
Something cool, firm, and slightly damp nudged against her inner thigh, then pressed into the curls of her pubic hair. Her eyes flew open.
He was holding a fat, short ear of corn, still in its husk, torn fresh from the stalk. It was pale gold, premature, the kernels soft and milky.
“Paul, no,” she gasped, stumbling backward. Her feet tangled in her panties and she fell hard onto her backside, the impact jarring her teeth.
He stood over her, the ear of corn in his hand like a scepter. “I am your husband,” he said, his voice calm, patient, as if explaining scripture. “Your future husband. Trust me. God made you born here, into this tradition, to be with me. This was meant to be. You were meant to feel this pleasure tonight. He gave us this bounty,” he shook the corn slightly, “and we will enjoy it. Stand up. It’s okay, Anya. Trust me. Please.”
She shook her head, tears of fear and confusion springing to her eyes.
“Fine,” he said, not unkindly. “Lay down. It might be easier that way. Keep your legs open. It’s okay.”
Numb, she lay back on the cold, packed earth. He knelt between her splayed legs, hiking her skirt up over her thighs. He held the ear of corn, peeling back a section of the husk to expose the blunt, rounded end. He aligned it with her center.
“Take a deep breath, Anya,” he said.
He pushed.
The tip, cool and strangely smooth, pressed against her tight entrance. She gasped, a sharp intake of terror.
“It’s okay. Relax. Breathe. I even picked a small one. So it won’t be too uncomfortable. It’ll… prepare you. For me. For our wedding night.” He looked down at her hairy pussy, his expression one of focused awe. “Take a breath. I’m going to put a little more in now. You can take it, Anya.”
He applied steady pressure. An inch of the cool, foreign vegetable matter slid into her. A stretching, burning fullness.
“Nngh!”
“You feel stretched?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Y-yes…”
“Good. You are. You are made to be stretched. It’s okay. Don’t close your legs.” As he said it, her thighs instinctively tried to clamp together. He grunted, using his free hand to forcibly push her knee back down. “Stop. God also made me a man to be in charge. Do not test my patience. I need you to listen for this to work. For God’s plan to work. Do you understand?”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes into her hair. “I’m sorry, Paul,” she whispered.
“It’s alright.” He began to slowly rotate the corn inside her. The unyielding, ribbed surface dragged against her impossibly tight inner walls. She cried out, a short, sharp sound.
“Are you ready?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He began to sink it deeper.
The stretching intensified into a sharp, bright pain. She whimpered, her hips bucking involuntarily. “Oh, I feel it…”
“Breathe, brave woman of God,” he chanted softly. “Feel God’s bounty.”
He felt the barrier. The resistant, fragile wall deep inside her. He paused, the corn ear buried halfway. “Breathe, honey. Breathe.” He leaned down and kissed her, a messy, distracting kiss. Then he began a slow, probing motion with the corn, in and out, just an inch, working against the hymen. In and out. The friction was agony and a strange, building tension.
“P-Paul…”
“Praise God,” he whispered against her lips. “Praise God and His bounty and the design of our bodies.”
On the next inward push, he angled it sharply and thrust forward.
A hot, tearing sensation exploded inside her. She screamed, a raw sound that ripped through the quiet of the cornfield. “PAUL! Oh, GOD!”
“Yes!” he exhaled, a prayer and a exultation. “Praise God!”
He slowly withdrew the ear of corn. It came out glistening in the moonlight, streaked with dark red and clear fluid. “Stand up, Anya.”
Dazed, hurting, she struggled to her feet. He kissed her again, hotly, consuming her mouth, his own inexperience making it sloppy and wet. He backed her against the corn stalk. “Bend over. No arguing this time.”
She bent, gripping the stalk for support. She heard another rip, the sound of a larger, thicker ear being torn free.
“Get ready, Anya,” he said, his voice guttural. “Get ready for God’s grace and God’s creation.”
He placed one hand on the small of her back. “Keep your legs spread.” It was a command.
With his other hand, he took the new, thicker ear of corn—this one nearly eight inches long and fat around as a liturgical pillar candle at its thickest point —and, holding it by the base of the ear of corn, the stalk still attached, he guided the exposed, de-husked tip to her bleeding, violated entrance.
Slowly, he began to saw it back and forth.
Back. And. Forth. The tip slid in leading to the , unyielding thick shaft breached her, stretching the fresh tear wide. “Ohhh… thank you, God,” she moaned, the words torn from her, a reflex from a lifetime of prayer. “Thank you for your bounty!”
“Yes!” Paul encouraged, his own voice rising in a fervent chant. “Pray to God! Pray to God!” He murmured it like a mantra as he established a rhythm, swaying the stalk back-and-forth, back-and-forth, each motion sinking the vegetable deeper into her accommodating flesh.
Her body, betraying her mind, began to respond. The initial resistance gave way to a wet, sucking ease. Her muscles, confused and traumatized, nonetheless clenched around the invading object, trying to accommodate its rigid form.
Paul gasped, watching her body swallow the corn. “Good Nebraska girl,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming more vigorous. “Good Nebraska girl.” He said it like a benediction. “Take it. Take it like a good Nebraska small-town girl.”
He spanked her then, a sharp, stinging slap on the exposed curve of her buttock. The shock of it, the mix of pain and dominance, made her cry out and buck against the corn stalk.
“God created me,” Paul panted, his movements growing jerky, less controlled, “to command you! To be the head of you! !”
With a final, violent surge, he shoved the entire length of the medium corn ear into her. It was a deep, bruising invasion, hitting a place inside her that sparked a cataclysm of sensation—pain, overwhelming fullness, and a terrifying, convulsive peak that ripped through her center. It was nothing like the stories or the sly whispers. It was brutal, elemental, and utterly devastating.
She screamed, a long, ragged sound that seemed to tear the very air. She tried to collapse forward, but his hand on her back held her upright, impaled.
“Absolutely not,” he growled. “Receive. God’s. Bounty.”
He held her there, shaking the embedded stalk with short, brutal jerks, prolonging the agonizing, electrifying waves of her unwanted climax until she was sobbing, her vision spotting. In the distance, disturbed by the human sounds, a murder of crows erupted from the corn with a great clatter of wings, black shapes against the indigo sky.
Finally, he let go. She fell from his grasp, collapsing to her knees in the dirt, her body wracked with tremors. She was aware of a warm trickle—blood and other fluids—seeping from her, soaking into the soil between her knees. The ache between her legs was a vast, hollow throb.
Paul stood above her, breathing heavily. He surveyed the scene: the kneeling girl, the discarded, bloodied vegetables, the dark stain on the earth. A profound, satisfied solemnity settled over his features.
He bent down, cupping her tear-streaked face, and kissed her. It was hungry, possessive, tasting of salt and triumph. He carefully tugged her skirt down, smoothing the wrinkled cotton over her hips. Then he gathered her pink panties from the dirt and, with infinite tenderness, guided her feet into them and drew them up her shaking legs.
“My good, good Nebraska girl,” he murmured, kissing her forehead, her lips, her closed eyelids. “That’s my woman of God.” He helped her stand, supporting her weight as her legs nearly gave way. “I promise,” he whispered into her hair, his arms wrapping around her, “I will not touch your pussy until our wedding night. You did nothing wrong. You enjoyed God’s bounty, and you did what He designed you to do. You’re a good Nebraska woman. And you’re going to be a good wife.”
He held her for a long moment, letting her quiet sobs subside against his chest. Then he took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers.
“Now,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, easy tone. “Let’s go back to the party.
🔞 Candy.AI 🔥 AI Sex Chat – Roleplay, Erotic Stories, Try for Free 🕹️