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Dexterous Dexter 01

By: Hypoxia



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life. I have adapted and edited these notes and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series.




"MOTHERFUCKER!"

I stood out on the empty farm road, screaming at the uncaring late afternoon sky.

"MOTHER-FUCK COCK-SUCK TURD-BURGERS PISS-HEAD JESUS-SHIT!"

I was a bit perturbed.

My almost-new 1970 Honda 125cc bike lay at my feet. Oil seeped from the cracked cylinder head. I was in the middle of almost-unpeopled farmland across the valley from encroaching suburban sprawl. It was five miles to the nearest phone booth, where I could call for help.

Hey, could have been worse. My oldest sister's husband had grown up in Panama, son of a Canal Zone worker. Dan and a buddy were riding their trail bikes in the jungle and ran into a hidden sinkhole. They had to push their drowned bikes twenty-five fucking miles in mucky rainforest to get home.

So yeah, five miles was nothing, in comparison. But I would miss Wendy's party. I would be miserable. More miserable than the drudgery of pushing a dead cycle five miles. A fuckless disappointment.

Most of my classmates threw stereotypical parties, with drinking, barfing, streaking, fighting, stupid social games. I could give a shit about high school society, and cliques, and jock-worship. I found it all so tedious. I only put enough effort into school to keep an easy A- average; the rest of the time, I threw myself into the Clarion Colleges scene, or fun with Wendy and our friends.

Wendy entertained on a different level, with just a few select invitees. I *always* got laid, multiple times, at her small gatherings.

But to get laid, I had to reach the party.

I had pushed the useless bike about a half mile when I heard an engine behind me. I turned and saw a faded red pickup approach. It stopped beside me; a farmworker in overalls leaned to the passenger window.

"You got trouble there, 'migo?"

"Yeah, my bike blew up. I need to get to a phone, call for somebody to haul me home."

"Well, the Circle-K store's just a few miles ahead. But where are you going? I'm heading into East L.A."

"Actually, my place isn't far from the freeway onramp."

"Then throw your bike in back and I'll take you there."

"Wow, muchas gracias!" I said. I shoved the dead bike between hay bales in the truck bed.

He dropped me off just a short block from my home a half hour later. I thanked him profusely, then rolled the bike into our garage and jogged down the lane to Wendy's home. Whew! Made it!

___

Wendy's parents were corporate financial consultants who were on the road most of each month. The housekeeper who supposedly chaperoned when Wendy was home alone was rather lax. Thus, Wendy's group activities were not much impaired by adult supervision. But Wendy was discreet.

Wendy's "brunette brigade" of Lindsay, Marissa and Teresa were already soaking in the enclosed hot tub with my only jock friend, Stefan, who looked very pleased. I quickly stripped off my clothes and slid in between Lindsay and Teresa, nipping at their nips. I took a slug from the passed bottle of Thunderbird wine and a hit from the hash pipe that followed.

"Sorry I'm late, guys, my bike blew up on my way back from Grandpa's shop. I was lucky to catch a ride."

"You just made it, Dex. Now it's kiss-and-tell time," said Wendy, as she bent over and stuck her tongue into Marissa's wide mouth. My tongue battled with Teresa's while Stefan and Lindsay played tonsil tag. 

Our hands were not inactive, of course. I started by gently molding Teresa's breasts to my palms, with her nipples hardening as I slowly spun my hands. I reached down to brush a finger along her vulnerable vulva, then inside. I felt the soft fluffiness of her cunt lips, the muscular contractions of her vagina on my finger, the excited stiffness of her clitoris, and her mons pulsing in my palm. Similar touches occurred among the other couples.

After a few minutes of groaning and twitching, Wendy broke loose and said, "Switch," then moved her face to Stefan's. I shifted my attention to Lindsay, and Marissa and Teresa tried to swallow each other while their hands explored outer and inner surfaces.

Soon we were just a writhing mass of late-teenage flesh, with frenzied anatomical admixtures. I sat on the tub edge kissing and fondling adjacent Marissa's fine firm breasts while Lindsay knelt in the tub and alternately blew me and ate Marissa's spicy dark pussy. Wendy sat in Stefan's agile lap in the water, impaled on his long hot cock reverse-cowgirl style, rising and falling in sweet agony, while Teresa slurped Wendy's face and tits and fingered her drowned clitoris. Then we switched around again.

Wendy and I were great friends and companions, often jogging together, or practicing karate, or hanging out, studying, talking, fucking. Right now, we enjoyed a nice slow relaxed missionary fuck on the tub deck. We watched the other girls swarm Stefan, taking turns double-tonguing his ruddy cock and sitting on his flushed face as he happily asphyxiated. Wendy emphasized our closeness by tightly wrapping me in her arms and legs and sucking my breath away.

We all broke apart, recombined. Marissa and I 69'd, my nose happily drowning in her dripping pussy. Stefan and Teresa 69'd, his corrugated cock driving down deep into her thirsty throat. Wendy and Lindsay 69'd, writhing wondrously from side to side. That makes a total of 207. Do the arithmetic. 

It was just another everyday orgy for the senior stars of Piedmont High's MGM (Mentally Gifted Minors) program, the 160+ IQ kids. Well, maybe we *were* a clique, but a very private one.

The party wound down sometime after midnight. Lindsay and Teresa, long lean athletic green-eyed cousins who looked like sisters, walked hand-in-hand to their adjacent homes around the block. Marissa threw a terry wrap around her chunkier naked black body and putted off on her Lambretta. Stefan headed home on his unicycle.

Unicycle? Black-haired Stefan matched my height of 6'3", short for competitive basketball, but the unicycle was his equalizer. His grandmother gave it to him when he entered middle school. He thought it was dumb at first. But as he mastered it, he gained the balance, grace, agility, and muscles that made him the league's leading center. Juggling whilst unicycling helped too.

Wendy and I could have remained coupled all night in the tubside chaise, but we had classes in the morning. And besides, we were busted by 19-year-old Juliana, the housekeeper's short dark daughter.

"Hey you guys, it's almost two o'clock, you gotta get going now, and it's MY turn in the hot tub, and no, I don't wanna have sex with you vatos locos, not now, maybe in a couple days, OK? Now vamos, scram!" hissed Juliana as she stripped down and slid into the warm water.

"I'll hold you to that, mamacita," Wendy smiled.

___

We all dragged into first period classes the next day, worn but happy.

I had a second period Photography class with Wendy and Lindsay. We each had Pentax K1000 SLRs; we shared lenses and accessories, and worked on lighting and shoots together. We did NOT process our nude and sex shots in the school lab. I had a darkroom in my home's garage, a bit cozy and warm when more than one was inside, so we generally worked almost or totally naked there. This enhanced the porn-making experience. But school had better enlargers, and color processing gear.

"Hey Dex, here's the cart from last night's shoot," Wendy whispered to me.

"Cool, I'll soup it when I get home this afternoon." I stuck the cartridge in my pocket.

I had rigged a Super-8 movie camera to shoot one frame every two seconds. Wendy hid it to record action in the hot tub, triggered with a motion detector. One film cart held two hours of frames. I developed the film in my own special soup, a mix of Dektol, Acufine and Kodalith developers, to push the speed while keeping the grain fine and maintaining contrast. The camera was our little secret; other invitees knew nothing about it, heh heh.

"What have you guys got there?" Lindsay asked as she crossed the lab to us.

I lied, "It's the latest Stones bootleg concert tape. I'll dub it later and give you a copy. Hey, how are you doing with your infrared project?" I hoped a change of subject would distract her.

Lindsay's long brown hair shimmered as she passed an accent light. Her generous boobs bounced nicely. She always walked like a stalking lioness, a smooth slinky predatory motion.

"Pretty good. I'm using ultrawide lenses for daylight 'scapes, and short telephotos for portraits and nudes. Yeah I know, those are kind of clichés for normal films, but they do work best in IR. And fuck shots look really amazing right as they're cumming; their skin really glows in IR. Too bad I can't turn those in for grades."

"Yeah, teach has no sense of humor. Hey, do you still want to borrow my fisheye?"

"Thanks, yeah, I'd really appreciate having it for the week. That cool with you?"

"Sure thing, Linds. It's in my bag." I passed the lens to Lindsay. She smirked.

"I'm going to use it for real close-ups as I jill-off. My clit will just look HUGE."

"Hey, be sure you don't squirt on it. The coatings are pretty delicate," I warned.

"I'll be careful," Lindsay promised. She had better be, or she'll buy me another.

"I've gotta make some Cibachrome prints now. Damn, that's hot work," Wendy said, pulling off her blouse as she closed the color darkroom door behind her. Her dark-rose bra was non-reflective.

"And I have some poster-size prints to mount. I've been accepted for a gallery competition at Clarion," I said, heading for a worktable.

Lindsay leafed through my big folio. "Dex, these are nice shots of musicians."

"I was shooting at the folk club. Mostly blues players. Lighting was tricky."

"I wonder if they'd let me use an infrared flash in there? Some shots like that would be good for my project," Lindsay said.

"Can't hurt to ask."

___

Most of we Piedmont MGM kids were pretty wired into the Clarion Colleges scene. More than a few of our alumni had received scholarships to those prestigious liberal arts schools. And of course we were into the college party circuit.

The Greeks at Clarion were pretty tame -- no wild frat parties on campus. Clarion was originally a Quaker town, and even surfer-hotrod-doper culture could not change that. The good parties were mostly clandestine and quiet, in someone's back room or backyard. For trashier parties, we had to drive to Los Angeles or the coast. More on those beach parties later.

One party did get a bit out of hand. Art major Crazy Eric rented a tidy little wooden cottage behind the campus. On the day he got his draft notice, he announced a good-bye party -- he was running for Canada. The crowd that converged got wasted but stayed quiet, so no cops arrived. I left just past midnight after screwing a couple of drunken coeds. When I came by the next day, the house was gone, demolished, kaput. All that remained were a big porcelain bathtub with its shower pipe sticking up, and a layer of boards scattered around the yard. Sayonara, motherfuckers.

Interesting stuff was everywhere at Clarion. Music, art, poetry, peace vigils, anti-draft rallies, ethnic fests, invention. An engineering group was building experimental bras. A religion group was rewriting Genesis from the serpent's viewpoint. A botanical group was hybridizing legal hallucinogenic plants.

A famous folksinger from Boston kept a big house in the foothills above Clarion. Her friends often stayed over during or between tours, so sightings of high-profile musicians in local shops and the folk club were not rare. I sat in on a number of jams with my bamboo sax and nobody told me to go away.

For me, the cultural heart of Clarion was the music store attached to the folk club. The walls were lined with instruments from around the world. I was there one day, thinking of buying a small Arabian bagpipe. A well-known older blind guitarist arrived, to play the club that night. He spent the afternoon tuning autoharps by ear and softly telling stories of Appalachian life. It was a magical time.

I was in a Morris Dance group let by a fruity old ethnomusicologist. We did ritual Old English steps. Our signature piece: Six guys all in white, with black boots and belts, performed intricate moves with wooden swords, accompanied by fife and drum. At the end, we bent low, quickly jammed the swords together to make a 6-pointed star, and jumped up, throwing the star high into the sky, while we spun in place, and caught the star just before it hit earth.

We performed at Renaissance Faires and folk festivals around southern California. We rolled through the weekends in a little Benz bus, the dancers and musicians and whatever friends would fit. Pale blond Jenny was the fife player. She played my skin flute pretty well too. We always shared a tent and practiced tantric sex. Practice makes perfect, or at least produces sustained ecstasy.

"Dammit Jenny, quit flexing your cunt muscles, you're breaking my meditation."

"I can't help it, my inner voices tell me that I'm ovulating and I need to CUM!!"

"OK then, set-up a rhythm, and I'll flex my dick in synchronization, like this."

"Oh yeah, that's good... om - om - om - om om Om Om OM OM OMMM OMMMMM OMYGODDD!!"

Well hell, we tried...

___

I tore down my motorbike's engine, replaced the cracked cylinder head, and got the sucker running again. I resumed my short shifts at Grandpa's farm equipment shop on the far side of the valley. And I still had fun.

A Clarion contact told me of an imminent party at Balboa Beach on a warm night. Wendy and I packed a couple blankets and towels and a little tent on my bike and rode on down there.

We arrived in time to watch the sun set as scads of campfires were lit. As darkness fell, each fire became the glowing nucleus of swarms of partiers. Some were drinking jug wine, or playing guitar and bongos, or drying off after bodysurfing, or flexing and bullshitting. Others were just fucking.

Three big blond surfer-looking guys stood close together on a blanket. They took turns punching each other's guts, HARD. After a few minutes of this, they clung together, exhausted, and kissed, then stripped off their baggies and got down into a cocksucking daisychain. Nearby folks applauded.

They switched to a butt-fucking daisychain, standing and thrusting. Wendy took pity on the guy whose cock was unoccupied. She knelt in front of him and administered a toe-curling blowjob, her long brown hair swirling around his knees. Then she stood and kissed him, hard, and squirted his own cum down his throat. He visibly swallowed. More applause.

Wendy was excited when she came back to me. She rinsed her mouth with a swig of Ripple Red wine, then frenched me. I licked the inside of her mouth for traces of flavors.

"Wow, that was pretty gnarly," Wendy gushed. "Now I need my own action."

We had seen a couple of bleached surfer girls pull off their bikinis on a nearby blanket. They rolled and kissed and fondled enthusiastically. Then one lay on her back with her pussy open towards us, and the other straddled her head, back towards us. They reached for tits; the bottom girl slurped.

The bottom girl spread her legs. We took this as an invitation. Wendy and I pulled off our shorts and tees. I crawled between the bottom girl's knees and started smoothing and kissing her upper and inner thighs. She moaned and grabbed my hair with her fingers and shoved me in closer. 

Wendy stood in front of the top girl and pulled the girl's mouth into her walnut muff. They manipulated each other's breasts. I took the bottom girl's cushiony tits in my hot hands as my tongue worked in and around her sunny vulva. Damn, she was wetter than a Yucatan rainforest and twice as bushy!

The pussies they were eating muffled the surfer girls' moans. Wendy's mouth was unobstructed -- she yelled, loud. None changed positions after their climaxes; they just seemed to settle into place.

I crawled up the bottom girl's legs and introduced my extended rod to her puffy pussy lips, lined up, and funneled into her tunnel. I twisted and pumped, faster and harder. Her screams were muffled again, and triggered two more orgasms upstream.

The bottom girl dislodged her friend from her mouth.

"Oh fuck, I need more of that cock! Do me like a dog." 

She rolled over onto forearms and knees, butt up. I knelt behind her and slid inside again. She growled and pushed back against my groin. I slammed into her, and again, and again. Wendy lay on her back and guided her crotch into doggy-girl's mouth. The other girl straddled Wendy's head and settled her pussy onto Wendy's titillating tongue. Everybody vibrated from our impact. Everybody eventually yelled.

We disengaged, fell back exhausted, Wendy and me on one side of the blanket, the surfer girls on the other. We all panted. Wendy recovered first. She leaned over me, kissed my mouth, then my nipples, and then took my cock into her mouth. Her tongue worked around my little head, and along my shaft, and back. I started to stiffen again.

Two fairly tall and muscular Latino guys were sitting on a nearby driftwood log, watching our show. They did not applaud; their hands had been busy, stroking themselves. Now they came to us and stood over the surfer girls, who rolled to their knees and started blowing them.

Wendy grabbed the nearest guy's hand, dragged him away, his cock leaving his girl's suction with a loud plop.

"Oh no you don't, not so fast, you can't have her yet. I need some double-dipping first."

Wendy grabbed my hand too and pulled both of us guys behind her. She sat on the driftwood log and blew us both on ten-counts a few times. She lay back on the log with her pelvis at the cut-off end, her legs spread and dangling, and pulled the Chicano in that direction.

"Fuck me," she told him, and pulled my cock back into her mouth.

We both pistoned. He fucked her cunt; I fucked her head, forcing her face into my pubes. Time passed. She came. We guys were both on the brink. She pulled us both out of her.

She looked at the muscular Latino. "Get over here and cum in my mouth."

She looked at me. "Get your sweet dick in me and fill me till I explode."

We swapped positions and kept pumping into our newly-assigned orifices. 

The Chicano did not last much longer; he squirted a flood of jism into her mouth, and then reluctantly pulled out. Wendy reached up, grabbed his neck, pulled his head down, kissed his mouth, and squirted his juice back into him. He looked startled but could not pull his head away from her strong grip. She kept at him till he swallowed. She released him. 

He stood there, looking stunned. Wendy asked, "Do you want some more?" He just nodded.

Wendy fisted his long dick again, pulled him into her mouth, moved him in and out a few times, then aimed that dark uncut cock into *my* mouth, suspended a few inches above hers as I leaned into her. I slurped him for half a minute; then Wendy pulled him back to her own mouth. We repeated this, sharing his cock, until he came into Wendy's mouth again. She pulled my face down and squirted his creampie down my throat. I swallowed, smiled, and kept pumping into her.

"Nothing gets wasted here," Wendy smiled.

We looked over at the blanket we had been on. The surfer girls were closely side-by-side with their legs spread. The other Latino moved from one to the other, a dozen cock-strokes in one, a dozen more in the next, then back again.


Dexterous Dexter 01



Wendy grabbed the brown cock we had just sucked. She aimed it towards the blanket, shoved the guy's butt and said, "Go get'em, tiger!" He shook his head, smiled, and went over to help his friend service the two surfer girls.

All this time, I had continued thrusting into Wendy's loving depths. With the other guy gone, she returned her attention to me, and to her pleasure. I held her hips. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulled me closer, twisted her nipples, panted. My orgasm approached. I exploded and yelled. Wendy shook and screamed "Dex Dex FUCK FUCK DEX!" a moment later. She shoved tightly against me. I stood there till my now-limp dick slithered free.

Wendy sat up on the log, pulled me to sit beside her, and leaned her head on my shoulder with both her arms around my waist. She nibbled my upper arm.

"Wow, Dex, that was pretty fucking good. But now I want some personal time with you."

We pissed in the sand, walked to the surf, and splashed salty water onto our genitals for a superficial cleaning. We went to a campfire where a wine jug was being passed. We each took a mouthful, then sprayed each other's gonads with wine to rinse away the seawater. Oh yeah, that really works, sure. Duh.

Hands in that campfire circle touched and rubbed our bare flesh as we walked away. We retrieved our dropped clothes but did not put them back on. We got on my motorbike, still naked, and rode a short way down the beach to a secluded spot. We pitched the self-supporting tent on the sand. We threw our blankets and stuff inside, and crawled in.

We 69'd to finish cleaning off the wine and salt water, and just to taste each other some more. Then we rolled into position and enjoyed a nice slow relaxed fuck again, our favorite. She wrapped her arms and legs around me. We rolled onto our sides, eyeballing, murmuring, kissing, stroking. Life was good.

___

I should maybe explain our relationship.

Wendy and I had been classmates and friends forever, best friends and confidants since middle school, and best-friends-with-full-benefits (super fuckbuddies) since she got on The Pill. She had grown from a skinny little tomboy to stand almost as high as my nose, with long brown hair, an oval face, perfect medium breasts and hips, toned runner's legs, and a very sharp and creative mind.

We loved each other, and really loved being with each other, but we knew that we could not be exclusive. We were more like intimate partners-in-crime than miraculous soulmates. We knew that we would be mentally and emotionally close for as long as we lived, whether or not we actually lived together. If we could be together, great; if not, we would still always be the best friends we'd ever had.

Wendy had a basic rule: She would have sexual contact with whomever she wanted, but only her very closest male friends could ejaculate in her vagina, preferably with me present as her guardian angel. So far, those "closest male friends" had only been a very few guys from the Piedmont MGM program. Everybody else was just too stupid for her.

I had my own basic rule: I would also have sexual contact with whomever I felt comfortable with or lusted for, and I would tell Wendy all about it. And she said she would tell me all about her own fun. We loved sharing and comparing our experiences. Some were pretty funny, some were sad or pathetic, and a very few were terrible.

"I was riding back from Grandpa's shop one evening and I saw this cute girl in a short skirt on the road, right about where my bike blew up. I asked if she needed a ride. She was crying, said her boyfriend had dumped her there because she wouldn't take him up her ass. She said she wanted to get even. She pulled off her panties and my pants, got on the bike facing me, slid onto my cock, and told me to roll.

"Vibration fucks are great, but it's kinda hard to steer carefully when you're cumming. I went off the road into a pasture. I fell into a mound of hay. She landed in a big pile of cow shit. She's, like, sitting there half-naked, covered in manure, screaming about what a rat bastard I was, that all guys are rat bastards. I didn't dare to laugh; she probably would've murdered me. I rode her up to the Circle-K so we could clean up in the johns and she could call home. That was about my shitiest fuck ever."

Wendy was convulsing with silent hilarity, rolling around, unable to get a laugh out or a breath in. Her face was turning purple when she finally gasped and forced her lungs to work.

"That is about the funniest fucking thing I have ever heard!" she cackled.

"But wait; let me tell you about this couple I hooked up with at Clarion. We were all in bed; he was eating her out while I was sitting on her face. She came, but then she farted something terrible, right in his face, and he turned green and barfed all over her, and then *she* turned green and barfed into my pussy! She almost choked! 

"Turns out that they ate some peyote just before we started making out. They could hardly move now. I got us all into the shower and got us hosed off. Then they just lay there in the shower, they couldn't get up, and they started talking about the colors, how groovy the colors were. Real stone freaks, I tell ya. And then I found out they were brother and sister!"

"Big deal," I said. "You're like a sister I can fuck. Let's keep it all in the family, baby."

Yeah, we had some great experiences to share. Ha.

Our immediate future looked good. We each got a partial-ride scholarship at a Clarion college: Fitzroy for me, Polson for her. Partial was OK -- we did not need room and board money. We lived close enough to campus that we could stay at home. We did not have carved-in-stone plans, did not need to declare majors till Junior year. We knew that once we graduated from Piedmont HS, we would still be pretty much together for the next four years. And together, we would fuck our way through the best of the whole student body.

___

Wendy's next hot-tub party had a different cast of characters. Curvy half-Nigerian Marissa was there again, and Megan, a short fiery redhead with large freckled breasts. Also Fred and Ted, tall pale thin identical twins who were the ping-pong champs of the county, and the best violinists at Piedmont HS. The girls were also in the school orchestra. Marissa clutched a cello between her strong steaming thighs while Megan won piano competitions.

We all liked eating both pussy and dick of friends, although I much favored women and the twins were a bit more boy-oriented. Remember, this was 1971: before Stonewall and Gay Liberation, before bisexuality was cool, and before AIDS. Same-sex connections had to be discreet and/or anonymous. 'Queers' and 'dykes' were subject to raids, jail, beatings, death. Even heterosexual oral-genital contact was considered 'sodomy' in some jurisdictions.

All our fun was tempered by realistic paranoia. We had to read the signals very carefully.

Wendy's home was private; her family's hot-tub was a safe zone. Word of our activities never leaked.

At this particular party, all the girls got triple penetrations, and the twins got doubles while being blown. (I did not take stuff up my ass. Even liberals have their limits.) Every mouth and pussy received tongues and cocks, sometimes in multiples. Nobody got hurt.

This party broke up a bit early. As Wendy and I lay on the chaise in slow lazy coitus, the housekeeper's daughter Juliana arrived, the well-endowed little Chicana beauty just a year older than us.

"OK you guys, I got time now, Mama's dead till morning, who's gonna fuck me first? I tell ya, I don't wanna have to wait too long to cum, you wouldn't believe how horny I am. Hey chico, get your fat chorizo over here, I really need some meat in me, NOW! And you little puta, you better start sucking my tits."

For hired help, she sure was bossy.

Wendy slipped me that night's film cart the next morning in Photo class. Lindsay was across the room and saw us handling it. She strode slinkily over to us.

"Hey Dex, is that the Stones tape you promised me?"

"Oh yeah, I have it right here." I handed her a dubbed reel in a box that looked a lot like the packaged Super-8 cartridge. "Sorry for the delay; I had to wait for parts before I could fix my Nagra. How's my fisheye working for you?"

"It's rad! I got some really gnarly close shots of Teresa and me cumming and pissing, and I didn't even get it wet."

"A lens is like humor or a martini, baby, best when it's served dry," I quipped in my Bogart voice.

I developed the film in my special soup when I got home. I ran it through a viewer and printed a few of the best frames, which I gave to Wendy. These pix were strictly for our own amusement and stimulation, we told ourselves. We had zero plans for future blackmail, although we were aware of the possibilities.

We did not record just our own activities, of course. The motion detector switched-on the camera whenever anything moved in the tub enclosure. So Wendy's folks and their friends, and Juliana and her friends, had all their hot-tub sessions recorded. Some of these got pretty interesting.

___

Rosalita was an occasional hot-tub dipper. She was tall for a Mayan girl, almost up to my chin. She had the typical long legs, long black hair, deep brown eyes, and sassy, snide smile of Quiche (KEE-chay) women from Chichicastenango (chee-chee-kass-tay-NAN-go). Her family had emigrated from Guatemala first to Mexico and then the USA a decade ago. They flew back to Guatemala a few times each year to stay in touch.

Mrs Bernalillo, the Piedmont HS Spanish teacher, was a Castillian from Spain, with the characteristic upper-class lisp. That accent does NOT go over well in much of Latin American, any more than the funny Cuban accent with its swallowed consonents. Rosalita was my main language coach, as well as being an excellent fuck. I learned the soft Guatemalan dialect, rather unlike the harsher Mexican variant. I also skipped the Mexican practice of calling everybody a motherfucker.

"Dextro, you almost got that, but you need to roll your R's more."

"I'd rather that YOU roll your arse. Maybe you should wear higher heels."

"You're a real shit-pie, Dex. How about if I just roll your balls some?"

"Hey, that works for me. Yeah, right there. Oooh, that feels good..."

Rosie continued handling my scrotum as she bent over and licked my dickhead, then down the shaft, and back again. I put my hands on her narrow hips and pulled her light brown body atop me. I positioned her dark snatch right over my mouth and engaged my tongue. My hands were on her butt; I kneaded her delightful buns like putty. The deep massage really turned her on. She swallowed my cock energetically. I handily rubbed her butt cheeks some more, then turned my face aside so I could speak.

"And there's yet another way to roll your arse. Like it?"

Her faster rate of cocksucking indicated her approval. She also approved of my finger in her anus.

___

As I entered my homeroom class, I was handed a note to report to the Assistant Principal. Hmmm.

I trooped into Miss Tompkins' office and found Wendy seated in the waiting area. I plopped down beside her. We looked at each other silently, communicating with our hazel eyes. We could read each other pretty well as we blinked and our pupils shaded between brown and green like semaphores. The signal: trouble.

The intercom buzzed. The harassed-looking secretary told us to proceed. We entered the windowless inner sanctum.

Assistant Principal Diana Tompkins PhD closed a folder on her desk and looked up at us.

"Mister Garson, Miss Reynolds, please be seated. We have an important matter to discuss.

"First, let me congratulate you two again on receiving Clarion scholarships. What you and your classmates have achieved shows that our MGM program is very successful. We're proud that the nation's very best colleges and universities welcome our students.

"As you know, these scholarships have strings attached. Of course, you must do well academically. You two should have no problem maintaining the mandated 3.0 or higher GPA. You are both excellent students.

"But a Clarion scholarship also contains a morality clause. You are required to, quote, 'Maintain strong moral behavior and character,' unquote. That phrase is coded. It means, 'Don't be caught in activities related to crime or vice.' Cross that line, and the scholarship is cancelled; your free ride goes away.

"Mister Garson, Miss Reynolds, disturbing rumors and reports have come to me about your activities."

Wendy and I looked at each other silently, then looked back at Miss Tompkins. Had our parties been narked? Was Wendy's home's safe zone no longer safe? We waited.

"Don't give me those innocent expressions," she grimaced. "I have been told of certain... escapades... during a recent orgy at the beach. I have been told that you have each had multiple sexual partners in public, and partners of your own sex, as well as... copulating... with each other.

"You are both 18 years old now, both legally adults. You can have legal heterosexual relations with any other adults you want, without repercussions. But homosexual activities cross the line. If these serious allegations are substantiated, you two will be dropped by Clarion. You'll have to tell your families to make other college plans for you, more expensive plans."

Wendy and I remained deadpan and silent.

Miss Tompkins was in her early thirties, a curvy tall attractive blond who, in public, always dressed severely and kept a fairly stern expression on her face. She was a formidable woman who exuded authority.

She was also bisexual and promiscuous. She ate varied pussy and accepted multiple cocks of various colors and shapes into her orifices. She liked being restrained and dominated. Her bush was bikini-waxed. Her ample breasts sported wide aureoles and puffy nipples, and bruised easily. She screamed when she came.

We knew all this because she was sometimes a guest of Wendy's parents, a guest who joined in their games in the hot-tub, games that we filmed automatically.

I had updated the camera system. It was not fixed in one place, but rode silently on cords behind narrow one-way-mirror panels around the hot-tub enclosure. If the motion detectors sensed a certain level of activity, the camera was repositioned and the lens zoomed to the hot spot. A small shotgun mike sent clear sounds to a tape recorder. We recorded everything but the scents. No smell-o-vision yet.

I sure had fun building the control system electronics. I can do wonders with sensors and integrated circuits and program cards. I captured very nice shots, including close-ups.

"Do you have anything to say about this?" Miss Tompkins asked impatiently.

Wendy and I looked at each other again. I cleared my throat.

"I won't ask where you got your reports; I know you won't reveal that. I *will* ask just how it could happen that, as you said, 'these serious allegations are substantiated'. Who decides what 'proof' is, and who takes action then? Is it you?"

"Yes, I make those determinations. I judge the allegations, I consider evidence and corroboration, and I take the appropriate actions, including communicating with scholarship committees."

Certain things would happen at this point in many fantasies. I would whip out photos of Miss Tompkins using her mouth in immoral ways, photos that I should always keep stashed in my book bag, just in case. She would break down and admit she is a slut. We would force her to fuck us on her desk, me with my dick up her ass while Wendy sat on her face and wiggled. We would put her in a dog collar and lead her around on a leash. Et fucking cetera.

None of that happened. I looked a Wendy. She smiled.

"Miss Tompkins, we have nothing to worry about. We know that we'll be cleared of suspicion. You can count on that," Wendy assured her. And stopped.

Miss Tompkins blinked. "Is that your only response?" She regarded us. "Very well. Return to your classes."

We thanked her and left. We said nothing as we walked the hallways. I flashed Wendy a hand signal: after school, my place. Yes, we knew ASL dactylics. We're the smart kids here, remember?

___

The rest of the school day went slowly. Getting home was a relief.

Wendy and I went into my garage darkroom. I had built it for complete privacy. We locked the door, switched on the safelight (which lit a warning bulb outside), stripped naked, sat on the padded bench. She sucked my cock to hardness, then straddled my legs, slowly impaled herself, settled down with her arms around my neck, kissed me. We stayed still and breathed as one. Just another long slow lazy fuck, almost tantric. I smoothed her shoulders and back and hips.

"OK, so what probably happened is, somebody from Clarion or more likely Piedmont, who doesn't much like one or both of us, saw us at Balboa, and decided to nark us out," Wendy murmured. "But there's only one of them, and they didn't have a camera."

"Yeah, that's a given. So what do we do now? The straightforward way would be, I'd print a few photos that show the fun she's had but not where she was, and we'd mail them to her with a note asking if her school contract has a morality clause."

"That would be simple and clean. But would it be enough? Do we need a more devious strategy?" she asked, rocking back and forth slightly. Her cunt muscle motions synchronized with my cock's willed throbbing pattern. "Let me consider this. Don't do anything rash."

Wendy pondered a minute, and said, "I think the key here is in that folder she had on her desk. We need to know her source. If we can get into Tompkins' office and see that, we'll have a better idea of where to go." She moved around my cock a bit faster. "How good are you with lockpicks?"

I grinned. "I've gone through office doors here with no problems. They use cheap Yale locks. Those pin tumblers are a breeze."

"Then I think we should pay her office a little midnight visit. Enough of that. Suck my tits now."

We pleasantly whiled away the rest of the afternoon. It's good to have a best friend.

Oh-dark-hundred hours found Wendy and me at a school side door whose alarm contacts were shorted and useless. We both had red-bulb penlights. I had my picks and my flash Minox. We were inside the school, Miss Tompkins' inner office, and her locked file cabinet, in about ten minutes. Wendy leafed through file folders while I kept watch at the outer-office window.

"I have your file, Dex, and there's nothing guilty in it. Let's see, where's mine...? Ah, here it is. Aha! Our fink is that buttwipe Simmons, the fullback I kneed in the balls when he tried to cop a feel. Yeah, he thinks he's getting revenge on me, and on you because we're so close. He's just a jealous dickweed.

"OK, now I've got Simmons' file out too. Dex, I'll take your place on watch there now. You should shoot all these files, get everything that's important. Hmmm, I wonder if she has dirt on any of the other MGM kids? Maybe we'll have to come back another night and check all their files. But let's get this done now."

I used the Minox to snap photos of all the non-trivial pages. Wendy replaced the files in the cabinet. We locked up and left.

NEXT: A trap is set and sprung, and birds fly the coop.



Dexterous Dexter 02



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life. I have adapted and edited these notes and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. I highly recommend that you read the previous chapter before starting on this piece.

CONTINUING THE ACCOUNT of Dexter and his senior-class cohort of Mentally Gifted Minor program (MGM) kids at Piedmont High School and the environs of sluburbian Los Angeles, rolling through 1971 and 1972.

___

Alma-Li walked into my Grandpa's farm equipment shop just as I was finishing a stint there. Her Chinese grandmother's nearby farm supplied fresh produce for her family's restaurants. Almy put in her hours with the family enterprises.

"Hi Dex. My Gramma was going to take me home but she got an emergency call. Can you give me a ride to town?"

"Sure thing, Almy. Hang on a moment, I'm almost done here." 

I locked-down the transaction journals and grabbed my stuff. We walked over to my motorbike and hopped on. Remember, this is 1971, before safety devices and mandatory helmets and all that wimp shit. Our only concessions to safety were goggles, to avoid getting bugs in our eyes. 

Almy tapped my shoulder before I stomped the starter crank.

"If you're not in a hurry, Dex, why don't we take a spin up Diamond Canyon Road?"

Diamond Canyon cut into the rough hills leading down to the coast. An aerospace company had a site out there for ground-testing rocket engines. We could hear occasional roaring echoes in the wind.

Alma-Li was a half-foot shorter than my 6'3", with long black hair framing a long head, almond eyes, a brilliant smile. Her hard-working body was gorgeous, with round breasts and butt separated by a narrow waist, supported by delectable legs. She had transferred into Piedmont too recently for the Mentally Gifted Minor (MGM) program, but she was very smart. With her great looks and personality, being president and champion of the Chess Club was *not* social suicide. We shared a couple classes this year.

Her great tits pressed into my back as we rolled into the twisty Eucalyptus- and Valley Oak-lined canyon lane. No rush, just feeling vibrations, and a little breeze, and her hands rubbing my chest and belly. She nudged me as we approached a dirt road heading above the trees.

We stopped at a flat spot covered with soft field grasses, a vantage point looking down the canyon and across the valley beyond. I spread the blanket I always keep on my bike, just in case. We sat.

Almy pulled a thermos from her pack. "Thirsty?" 

We sipped the iced honey-jasmine tea. We looked across the big valley, with farmland nearby and suburbs on the far side below imposing mountains. The lowering sun threw everything into high relief. I pulled my bamboo sax from my bag and played BLUE SKIES. She leaned her head on my shoulder, arm around my waist.

"I grew up in L.A. and you grew up here and these places are close and tied together but so different, Dex. Do you ever have a fantasy of growing up somewhere totally other?"

"Yeah, I sometimes think about growing up at a beach, Rio de Janeiro or San Diego maybe, or some really rad place like San Francisco or Acapulco or Singapore. But then my life would be totally different and I wouldn't be who I am. I kinda like who I am, and where I am. How about you, Almy? Where's your fantasy?"

"Oh, I think about other places, maybe not even on this planet. What would it be like to grow up on a colony starship? But right here, right now, this very spot and instant, feels just about perfect to me."

"Hmmm, Almy, what do you think about incest?"

"What? Incest? Are you serious? I haven't really thought about it. I guess incest would be OK if they're all adults, and know what they're doing, and they really care about each other."

"So you're all right with incest then? OK Almy, will you be my sister?" 

I smiled innocently. She punched my shoulder.

"You pervert! Just for that, you have to use only your teeth to get my clothes off me!"

Getting her shoes off was the hard part. Everything else was easy. She had the same problem with me.

We held each other and sucked face for a while, then applied our mouths to other body parts, and then we were 69'ing. I love mutual oral-genital. Cock-in-cunt fucking is great, and necessary. But 69'ing to me is just the most intimate act of love between two people, each partner totally vulnerable to the other, all our senses totally engaged, and the sharing is complete. This sharing makes love complete.

My tongue discovered every square centimeter of her pussy, circling her inner and outer lips, probing and caressing her vagina, teasing and tweaking her clit. I thrust fingers into her and felt her groan on my cock. She inhaled my stiff rod further into the dark mystery of her throat and gargled my little head.

We each came more than once before the sky darkened. We dressed, got on my bike, and I took her home. She climbed off in the driveway and hugged and kissed me briefly.

"Des, if I'm your sister now, does that mean we can't get married?"

"Well, we could always move to Arkansas, up in the Ozarks. But if a couple in Arkansas divorces, are they still brother and sister?"

Alma-Li punched my shoulder again and said, "You really are a pervert. See ya tomorrow, perv-boy."

I would have to ask Wendy to invite Almy to a hot-tub party. She would be fun.

___

Meanwhile, Wendy and I had the Miss Tompkins problem at Piedmont High to work on. We had a plan. At lunch, I sidled up to my friend Stefan, the unicycle-riding basketball jock.

"Hey Stef, what do you knew about Simmons?"

"He's a total fucktard, why?"

"Is there a chance you could maybe get him loose and talk to him awhile, not necessarily by yourself, but when your teams get together or whatever?"

"Well shit, sometimes I can't avoid the moron. Again, why?"

"'Cause he's done serious wrong to Wendy and me. We have a plan to bring him down. But we need a little help. Your help."

"What kinda help? You don't want me to kiss him or anything, right?"

"Ha! Shit no, nothing like that. Just get him talking, while you have a little tape recorder in your pocket, and with a little directional mike aimed at him, very unobtrusive. Maybe if you're sitting around drinking beer, playing cards, that kind of stuff. We just need good samples of his recorded voice, especially anything he says about dick and fucking."

"Hmmm, sounds like you guys have something going there. How did he fuck with you?"

"He's trying to rat-out our sex parties so we'll lose our scholarships, that's what."

"Motherfucker! Sure, count me in. I'll do whatever it takes to burn his nasty ass."

"Great! Come by my place after school, OK? I'll get you set up."

That took care of step 1 of the plan. Step 2 was up to me. No problem. I just needed to photograph Simmons from various angles and distances in various lights.

A couple days later, I had all the tapes and shots I needed. Now on to steps 3 and 4 of the plan: mixing the pictures, and the sound. I carefully doctored images till I had great-looking pix of Simmons' head atop other but similar naked bodies, showing him taking various cocks in his mouth and ass, et cetera. I xeroxed the composites to eliminate telltale traces of photomanipulation, then made glossy prints, and voila! Visual proof of his deviance.

Sound was a bit trickier. I had to play a bit with reverb and equalization to get it right. I dubbed words and phonemes of his speech together, building a self-incriminating montage. The faux Simmons bragged that he had lied about his accusations, that he was jealous because I wouldn't fuck him, that he was gonna burn Wendy and me to the ground, and so on. I dubbed the montage to audiocassette through a tinny little speaker, again to remove telltale traces.

Now for step 5, the end. I wrote a note: "Simmons bragged about this jive game he was playing. Here is the truth." I mailed the note, photos, and tape to Miss Tompkins' office, in a big envelope marked TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY.

Wendy and I waited a couple days, then made a middle-of-the-night return to the Assistant Principal's office with lockpicks and red-bulb penlights. We checked our file folders -- we were clean! We checked Simmon's folder. It had grown fatter with the cassette inside. Cowabunga, motherfucker. We checked the other MGM kids' folders and found nothing defamatory. We left happy.

Wendy and I were summoned back to Miss Tompkins' office the next day.

"Mister Garson, Miss Reynolds, I owe you both an apology. The reports and rumors passed to me have proved false. I won't mention you to scholarship committees. But I must warn you: Make sure that these rumors *remain* false. Behave yourselves, and you'll do well. You may go now."

Yes, that worked out just right. And we still had our photos of Miss Tompkins' sexplay at Wendy's folks' hot-tub orgies, just in case. After graduation, Wendy and I managed to get Miss Diana Tompkins PhD into the hot-tub room with us and a few of our friends. I might tell that story later.

___

For her next hot-tub party, Wendy invited Alma-Li and Lindsay and me, and Doreen and her stepbrother Kirk. Blond beauty Doreen was medium everywhere except her magnificent breasts and legs and her glorious face and mind. She playfully edited the student newspaper. Kirk, no blood relation, was shorter, darker, intense, and headed for CalTech after graduation. Their fuckbuddy relationship was a loosely kept secret.

Juliana, the housekeeper-chaperone's hot daughter, uncharacteristically invited herself to join us, bringing our census to two guys and five girls. Yummy. Juliana attacked us with frightening ferocity. She demanded constant attention, with alternating cocks in her pussy and a sequence of cunts on her face, leaving the unoccupied to fend for themselves.

Juliana was noisily occupied with Kirk and Lindsay on the deck, the girls 69'ing and Kirk pistoning into Juliana's ass. Kirk had great endurance; I heard many female screams of ecstasy before he bellowed. He also appeared to have a fast recovery, because they all continued groaning and grunting for some time.

Almond-eyed Alma-Li and I sat side-by-side at the tub's edge, feet dangling in the warm water, with sexy brunette Wendy beside her, and gorgeous dirty-blond Doreen between my legs in the tub. Doreen gently blew me, no rush, just a long slow lick-suck-fest, repeatedly bringing me to the edge of orgasm, then backing off. So tantalizing and frustrating! 

Wendy and I alternated kissing and fingering Almy's face and neck and breasts, combing her long black hair away from our lips. Our fingers stroked and probed Almy's juicy labia and vagina and clit. We twiddled our forefingers inside Alma's wet and willing cunt. She writhed. I thumbed her clit. She squealed.

Almy lay back on the deck, legs still dangling. Wendy slipped into the water between Almy's knees and kissed her thighs, her mons, her pussy. Wendy and Doreen gripped hands as their tongues worked their targets. Almy came once, twice, and again, loudly, shaking like an epileptic, crying like a lost soul.

Wendy crawled up Almy's body, kissing her thighs and belly, slurping her navel, then up to her breasts, slow and wet. Wendy pulled herself out of the tub, sat on Almy's belly, held her breasts, bent over and kissed her mouth, then straddled Almy's face and lowered her pussy onto Almy's waiting lips and tongue. Almy reached up to Wendy's tits. Wendy moaned, wobbled, hummed.

Doreen was still slow-blowing me. She was maddening! So close, but never quite there! Still riding Almy's mouth, Wendy leaned in and kissed my face and tweaked my nipples. She pinched my nubs too hard when she came. This triggered my own massive climax. Finally! My balls seemed to pump out gallons of jiz, trying to drown or at least inflate Doreen. Doreen's mouth overflowed. Serves her right, the tease!

Juliana forced Kirk and Lindsay away from her body and grabbed Doreen and me. She straddled Doreen's head and bent forward to vacuum my cock down her throat. I hardened rather quickly. She spit me out, slid down Doreen's body, nestled between her legs and started eating, her butt poised invitingly, demandingly.

I took the hint. I got on my knees behind Juliana, slid my horny piston into her dark gaping pussy, and pounded. My recent semen depletion gave me great endurance also. I just kept going and going. The girls just kept cumming and cumming. My knees were wearing out, but there was no fucking way I would stop!

When I finally cried out and came, Juliana climaxed as well, her cunt muscles grasping my cock and nearly ripping it loose. Ouch.

I looked over to see happy Alma-Li riding cowgirl on Kirk as he kissed her delicious breasts, and lovely Lindsay atop Wendy in their familiar 69, noshing comfortably. They all emitted sounds of pure joy.

The sights, and Juliana's fiercely clenching cunt, stiffened me again. I pulled out of Juliana, rolled her onto her back, and re-inserted my cock without haste. Juliana pulled Doreen into position on her face. I angled forward and kissed Doreen, her arms around my neck. I alternated fondling Juliana's and Doreen's luscious boobs. We all vibrated in a twin-missionary triangle.

We had further excitement that evening. See the film for details.

I should mention that while in the darkroom processing and printing a night's film, I play the audio cassette and listen to the sounds of the action. If Wendy or someone else is in there with me, stripped down, then so much the better! Sound really enhances the process.

___

Black-haired Alma-Li and blondish Doreen were in our inner circle now, regulars with me and brunette Wendy. We four got on splendidly, although Wendy and I had to keep our secrets between us. We jogged together on hillside park trails. We started going on short excursions together. We piled sloppily into Wendy's mom's Mustang convertible and drove to beaches, mountains, downtowns, concerts, wherever.

We all talked our families into cutting us loose for a long Thanksgiving weekend. We would go camping on the desert!

School emptied at noon Wednesday. We loaded our gear into the open Mustang. Its little trunk was not capacious enough for everything, so we piled stuffed duffels between the front and back seats, eliminating rear legroom. Wendy drove. Almy took the passenger seat. I sat crossways in back, leaning against the driver-side door, with Doreen pressing against my chest, nestled between my legs.

That is how we started out, anyway. Once on the road, we in back quickly moved into sexual positions. Almy or Doreen might curl up and merrily blow me, or cowgirl-ride me, or force me down and sit on my happy face. Almy started with this last. Doreen said, "Wait a moment," reclined her seat and twisted around, and blew me while my tongue prodded Almy's tasty lips and depths. Wendy had to maneuver carefully to avoid giving thrilling shows to truck drivers and bus passengers. We should have sold tickets.

We took a spin on a deserted loop road while Doreen and I 69'd, our calves and feet hanging out over the car sides. Pretty funny, huh? We should have filmed that. (We did so later.)

The freeway took us into Whitewater Pass, the two-mile-deep cut in the Coast Ranges that separate the high and low interior deserts from the coastal urban flatlands. Winds are fierce in the pass. A car left overnight at the east end can have all its paint sandblasted off, its window glass frosted.

We stopped at Cabazon to play around the giant dinosaurs beside the freeway. Wendy got some relief -- the gift shop inside the brontosaurus was empty, so I bent her over the counter and pleasantly pounded her. Doreen photographed us while Alma-Li stood watch at the shop entrance. It was a good day for a dino-fuck.

We had to decide on a route from there, to choose between two favored destinations. High desert or low? The high road would take us past Twentynine Palms to Music Valley. The low road led to Culp Valley, west of the Salton Sea. Doreen flipped a quarter. Heads! On to Music Valley, then.

We stopped in Yucca Valley for tacos and sodas and groping. We drove by the geodesic-dome Orgasmatron in Joshua Tree. We stopped in Twentynine Palms for fuel, water, firewood and last-minute supplies. We drove up into the bleak Pinto Mountains on the unmarked gravel road to magical Music Valley in mid-afternoon.

When I was younger, Dad drove our family all over Southern California on weekends. We came this way every few weeks, to the Wonderland of Rocks and Joshua Mountain and some awesome ultra-flat dry lakes... and Music Valley. This is back-of-my-hand country -- I have rock-hopped over and through it many times.

Music Valley is a long steep narrow cut in the dry Pinto Mountains. Its washes are lined with royal desert almond and catalpa trees. A Pacific hurricane sweping up the coast a few weeks before had dumped a load of rain. Those trees, and the desert wildflowers, were in full bloom now, as if it were springtime. Floral carpets covered the hillsides with red, blue, yellow. The display was just absolutely fucking gorgeous.

We bumped slowly along the moderately rough road to my favorite site in the upper canyon, a secluded flat area with a great vantage over the hills and lower reaches. A seasonal spring-fed creek burbled under a dusty stand of cottonwood trees and ponded cooly behind a low fieldstone dam. It was a great place to get naked. We did not hesitate.

We pitched the eight-person tent and threw our gear inside. We spread blankets in the cottonwoods' shade. We lolled under the trees, in the pond, or atop boulders. We drank wine, smoked joints, munched peanut brittle. We fornicated. We fornicated some more. And again. What the hell did you expect?

Whilst we cavorted naked out in the open, we heard noise in the sky. A light plane flew overhead, circled, lost altitude, flew over us a few times. We saw flashes of reflected sunlight, as if bouncing off a camera lens. We gestured rudely. The plane waggled its wings and departed.

The sun dropped behind the hills. The air temperature started dropping too. At our 3000-foot elevation, we could expect a cool November night. We built a campfire and gathered near.

"I've done some camp cooking before so I'll handle the food tonight," Doreen volunteered.

"Yeah," Wendy teased, "like heating hot dogs and frozen stew over a campfire is difficult."

"Whine whine whine," Doreen shrugged. "Just for that, you can do the cleanup afterwards."

"Cleanup?" I said, "Cleanup is easy. Just lick everything spotless. Pretend it's pussy."

"If you've had pussy that tastes like that, you really ARE a pervert," Alma-Li giggled.

"What, you've never had hot dogs or potatoes or carrots up your snatch?" I deadpanned.

"Well, yeah, but not recently," Almy admitted. "At least not potatoes. Not many, anyway."

"Hey, are we going to eat this great dinner, or just fuck it, or what?" Wendy inquired.

"How about if I provide a special seasoning?" I asked, stroking my cock towards the cook pot.

"How about I load your hot dogs with my sweet pussy juice before you eat them?" Wendy asked.

"Well, that's sort of like sucking Kirk's cock after he's done one of us," Doreen suggested.

"We'd better save some hot dogs and carrots," Almy said, "Dex's dick won't last all night."

"In case those aren't big enough for you," Wendy offered, "we'll save you a wine bottle too."

Yes, we were all in a merry mood.




Dexterous Dexter 02



After dining, we reluctantly donned jeans and sweatshirts. We not-so-reluctantly snuggled together around the campfire until it burnt down to embers. Then we stripped and jumped into the tent. Well, first we had shaken off the blankets, spread them on the tent floor, and covered them with opened sleeping bags. We had a nice cozy playpen there, just perfect for multiple fucks. The scent of poon-tang filled the air.

Wendy and Almy had just unrolled from another 69. Doreen lay by my side, idly fondling my flagging cock.

"What's the program for tomorrow, Dex?"

"How about this? We'll get up early, real early, an hour before sunrise. We'll dress, and pee, and drink enough wine to buzz. We'll stagger over to that dry wash and sit right in the middle of it. We'll sit there silently. We'll listen to the night creature heading in and the morning creatures heading out. We'll watch the hill-colors change as the sun rises. Then we'll come back and eat and wake up.

"After breakfast, we'll walk upstream a little ways. There are a few wet patches where desert orchids grow, and maybe we'll see some little frogs, although it may be too late in the year for them. Then we'll take an easy trail up to that notch. From there, we can see across the whole Pinto Basin. Then we'll come back to camp, and read and play and fuck, I guess."

"That all sounds good to me." "Me too," the others chorused. So it was unanimous.

Thanksgiving Thursday went as planned. To celebrate the holiday, we munched turkey jerky.

Friday was similar. We were getting good all-over tans with no unsightly lines. Groovy.

We worked on our tans some more on Saturday, until midday. Then things changed.

___

We had been listening to music on a portable radio, picking up Wolfman Jack on a border blaster out of Baja. Good old XERB, "50,000 watts of SOUL power over Los AN-ge-les" was the breathy slogan. The Wolfman's show ended and wailing ranchero music started playing. Wendy switched to an L.A. news station just in time for a weather alert. She relayed the sad forecast to us.

"Oh shit guys, a cold front is moving in, fast. We're gonna be FROZEN out here tonight. Maybe we should pack it in and go back."

"No way," Alma-Li protested. "I don't want to waste the rest of the weekend. Can we build a bigger fire?"

"I've got an idea," I said. "I know a decent cheap quiet motel that's off the main road. We can hole up there tonight, cruise around some scenery tomorrow, and get back at the time we planned."

My suggestion was accepted. We broke down the tent, packed our gear, tidied-up the site, and bumped down to pavement. The air was noticeably colder by then, so the convertible's top went up.

"Hey guys, it's too early yet to get a room. Let's go see some sights. Wendy, take the next left," I said as not-too-shy Almy groped my royal rod and sucked my tipsy nipples. I returned to fondling her.

"Fuck the sights, I want food and sex," Wendy shouted.

"Since I'm the only one here who knows where we're going, you'd better follow my directions. Otherwise, we could end up in Yuma. Go on, turn left up here."

Wendy grumbled but complied. We did get some spiffy views. And soon enough, we reached the motel I had remembered. DESERT STAR MOTEL - CLEAN ROOMS - HEATED POOLS read the sign. We got a 'family' room in back with two king-size and one single bed, a big table with several chairs, and a tiny black-and-white TV.

"So what are the food options around here?" Doreen asked.

"Well, we passed a good pasta place about ten miles back. I know the owner. He's actually Neapolitan Italian, and his wife is American Indian. They say their kids are a-WOP-a-hoes."

The girls all moaned and punched me.

"If we don't want to drive more than a mile, we have two choices. Pizza, eat-in or delivered, or Chinese, eat-in or take-out."

"Let's do Chinese take-out. Wendy, take me along and I'll order the good stuff," Alma-Li offered.

"Do you need to show me where this place is, Dex?" Wendy asked.

"Naw, just go back to the highway, turn left, and it's a couple hundred yards along."

The girls left Doreen and me at the room. Doreen snuggled up to me, batted her eyes, and stroked my cock.

"Hey sailor, want to show a lady a good time?"

"When I find a lady, I'll be sure to ask her."

"You rat bastard." She punched me, once, twice. Why are they always punching me? Is it something I said?

"Well, food will be here soon, and I've always heard that pussy, not hunger, is the best sauce, right?"

That is why Doreen was sitting on my soaked face and screaming with her third dripping-wet heartstopping monster orgasm when Wendy and Almy came in the door lugging a couple big bags filled with goodies.

"Starting in early on the appetizers, aren't you?"

"Eating in or eating out, whatever," I gasped.

We turned up the thermostat. We all got naked. We gathered at the table. We tucked in.

Almy produced a bottle of Chinese whiskey. "It always helps to know what to ask for."

We finished the food, sipped the whiskey, and adjourned to one of the king-size beds.

"What the hell is there to do around here besides eat and screw and sleep and screw?"

"There isn't a teen club within fifty miles, just some nasty redneck or grunt bars. This place right here is the best in the area. Come on, I'll show you. Better cover yourselves a little."

We mostly pulled on long sweatshirts. I led the girls out the room's back door, away from the parking area, into a little courtyard containing what looked like a big greenhouse filled with fog under the cold star-bright sky.

"See, there are two swimming pools here in glass enclosures. The big one out front is pretty public. This little back here can only easily be reached from the four rooms on the courtyard. This pool is nicely heated, and the cold air makes it condense into fog. We can get lost in the mist inside there."

I opened the glass door and peeked inside.

"I didn't see any cars by these four rooms, and nobody's inside here. We could have this all to ourselves. Let's grab out towels and jump in!"

Our naked bodies were just dim silhouettes in the cloudy interior as we moved around the pool. A few minutes later, the glass door opened and a young couple in swimwear walked in.

"Hi there. Oh wait, is this the clothing-optional pool? Are we disturbing you guys?"

"No problem. Get naked and join us."

We introduced ourselves. The newcomers were blond Jon and redheaded Deanna, juniors at UCLA, astronomy majors and cyclists. They were impressed with our Clarion connection. They sat naked at the pool's edge, feet in the water. They both seemed rather aroused by what they saw of us moving around.

Wendy swam over to Jon. "Hey, nice cock. Mind if I suck it?"

Jon looked at Deanna. She shrugged. "Sure, that'd be nice."

Doreen swam in front of Deanna. "Nice pussy! OK if I eat it?"

Jon and Deanna both twitched a little. Deanna nodded slightly.

I looked at Alma-Li. "It's just you and me now, baby." She smiled.

Before long, we were all fucking and sucking and slurping and grunting and shouting, in various and shifting combinations, sort of like Wendy's hot-tub parties but without the camera. Good thing the motel night manager didn't walk in on us. Or too bad for him, maybe.

We invited Jon and Deanna into our room that night. Almy and Doreen joined Jon on one bed while I had the great pleasure of entertaining Wendy and Deanna. Deanna's pussy was so tasty that Wendy and I spent what seemed like hours tonguing her, licking around her lips, probing her vagina, while Deanna orgasmed continuously. We all fell asleep eventually, somehow.

In the cold morning light, the pool's fog looked even thicker and more mysterious. We felt like we were swimming inside a mystic marshmallow. We stayed as long as we could. Checkout time from cloud-cuckoo-land was noon. We departed regretfully, and made our way back over Whitewater Pass and down to sluburbia.

___

The Thanksgiving-to-Christmas 1971 season was eventful for the Piedmont HS community. 

We recorded Miss Tompkins and others in more hot-tub orgies. Stefan got a full basketball scholarship to USC, and Doreen got a full ride to Columbia for journalism. I won a couple photo competitions. Wendy's mom gave her the Mustang as a pre-Xmas gift. Identical twin brothers Fred and Ted hooked up with identical twin sisters Sandy and Mandy, all polymorphously perverse. Could they always tell just who was fucking whom?

Simmons was arrested and expelled for assaulting two sophomore girls and the boy who tried to protect them. The trial judge offered Simmons a choice: prison or the Army. He took the Army. After basic training, he deserted and tried to flee to Canada. He was caught. He did hard time in Leavenworth. Ha.

Then, the terrible news. Marissa's beloved big brother Mel, who was drafted after he graduated the year before, was killed in VietNam. Marissa and her folks were devastated. Marissa collapsed, nearly a full breakdown. She was ready to quit school, to quit life. The world no longer made any sense to her.

Wendy's next hot-tub party was for Marissa. Stefan and Kirk and Alma-Li and I nearly kidnapped her, forced her to come. All her closest friends were there. There was no sex. We all just held Marissa, talked to her, tried to comfort her. We told her how much we loved her, that she needed to go on with her life and make her family proud, make us all proud, to honor her brother's memory. We all cried through the night.

Juliana joined us. She told Marissa what she had gone through when she lost her father and two brothers to banditos. She told her that life is a terminal illness, and it has no place for quitters. She refused to cry. She kissed Marissa hard, repeatedly, telling her, "You WILL make it through this, chica."

Mel was given a military funeral at a local cemetery. The site overflowed. Loudspeakers were needed to project the service. Over 3000 people attended: the entire Piedmont HS faculty, almost the entire student body and their families, and everybody else who had ever known Mel and his family. Many of those 3000+ hugged Marissa and her folks and expressed their sorrow and love.

Marissa was overwhelmed by the compassion. She pulled herself together, felt herself a part of the world again, MADE herself a part of the world. She threw herself back into life, pouring a supernova of energy and passion into her cello work. And she got a full scholarship to Julliard. Later in life, she became a noted composer and conductor. Her SURVIVAL SYMPHONY won a Pulitzer Prize.

___

Marissa didn't join our year's-end excursion. Others had to miss it too.

School was out for the holidays. Slinky brunette Lindsay had an older kissin' cousin near Palm Springs with a swimming pool, fully stocked beer and soda cooler, extra bedrooms, and a closet full of sex toys. We were invited. Without needing camp gear, three people could be squeezed into the Mustang's back seat: Lindsay, Kirk and Doreen. Wendy and I sat up front and laughed at their antics and gyrations.

We left early on the day after Christmas. We stopped in Cabazon, but the brontosaurus gift shop was busy, so no dino-fucks happened there then. We drove up Palm Canyon to look at the springs. Well, actually to fuck around, right? Then we descended on the cousin.

It was a warm December. Mornings, we skinny-dipped; elevation, around 10 feet above sea level. Afternoons, we rode the aerial tram up Mt San Jacinto and played in the snow; elevation, about 10,000 feet. Evenings, we were back in the pool, sky-clad. This is probably the only place on Earth where this could happen.

It wasn't all sex, drugs, booze, and rock'n'roll. Mid-term exams loomed, so much of our naked poolside time was spent studying. Studying books, I mean, not just each other's bodies. The cousin and friends joined us in the pool a lot, and for some nightlife. A couple nights of dancing; a couple nights of chamber concerts; some hot nights of hardcore sex. On New Year's Eve, we all joined the crowds for the fireworks blast. By mid-afternoon of January First 1972, it was time to head back to the 'burbs.

We survived mid-terms. We survived the winter-spring flash floods, and the grunion run, and most of Wendy's parties.

I still had my family chores and my own activities. I still rode my motorbike for stints at Grampa's shop, sometimes with curvaceous Alma-Li as a passenger. I still worked with the Morris Dance group, re-enacting Old English rituals. I still wailed on my bamboo sax. But I never bought that Arabian bagpipe. And I still went hunting for fresh pussy.

Can you guess my most productive pickup line? Yeah, the one about incest, and "Will you be my sister?"

The Morris Dance group was playing a Spring Celtic Festival in a hilly oak parkland. I pitched my new Sierra tent with a vestibule for privacy and a pile of blankets inside for padding. Jenny the fife-player had moved on. I was looking for company. I found two lovely tall redheads dressed as Irish colleens, in long low-cut linen gowns -- with nothing underneath.

"Care for some ale, my fair ladies?" I asked, passing a jug of Lancers wine.

"Why, thank you, kind sir," said Caitlin. "Yummy -- gimmee," said Deidre.

"Perhaps you'd also like a puff from my briar," I said, lighting my hash pipe.

Eager lips pursed for me. I sat down between them on their park-table bench. We puffed, drank, chatted, touched hands occasionally, consumed more of the mood-altering substances, touched some more. Just some harmless flirting, right?

"Forgive me if I seem too bold, my ladies, but please to tell me: what think ye of incest?"

Deidre giggled. Caitlin answered, "'Tis a weighty question, but I consider it traditional."

Deidre giggled again and said, "Yeah, it's been going on for a long time, a million years."

"Ah then, fair ladies, please give me a true and comely response: Will you be my sisters?"

Deidre giggled yet again. Caitlin said, "You're pretty slick, guy. Do you fuck your sisters?"

"I will if thou will allow it, oh gentle maids." I held my hands lightly to their cheeks.

Deidre nipped at my hand, then started chewing my palm. Caitlin kissed my thumb.

"And just where might the joys of brotherhood and sisterhood be shared?" Caitlin asked.

I stood, put the bottle and pipe in my felt shoulder pouch, and took their hands in mine.

"Come, my dears, my manor house is not far," I said, leading them on to their happy doom.

We scrunched into my tent and quickly discarded our garments. I sat back, slipped off my boots, pulled my tunic off none too hastily, raised my butt, slid my drawers down my legs and off, and settled on my knees.

Caitlin was also on her knees, her gown pulled up to her thighs. I put my hands on her bottom hem and raised the gown higher, revealing her muff and navel. She raised her arms and I slipped the gown over her shoulders and head, and off. Her glorious breasts were round and firm and pale with dark aureoles and hard anxious nipples. 

Caitlin and I regarded each other. We both turned to Deidre, sitting cross-legged on the blankets with her gown pulled to her waist, her pussy flaring. We each took a side of her gown and raised it off her body and over her head. Deidre was a bit shorter, her breasts slightly smaller, more uplifted, perkier. She giggled again, longer, lower.

I reached for a water bottle and some washcloths.

"Shall we perform our ritual ablutions?" I poured water onto one cloth and wiped off my armpits and groin, taking care to clean my cock well, then tossed the cloth into the tent vestibule. I handed over the bottle and cloths. Deidre and Caitlin followed my lead, giving their pubes deep, sensuous rubdowns, Deidre giggling all the while. We costumed folk *had* worked up a bit of a sweat, after all.

Naked, we sat up together, our eyeballs devouring our anatomies. I bent to Caitlin, kissed her lips, her eyes, her lips again. I kissed Deidre, who giggled. I touched their necks, their shoulders, their throats, their breasts. They touched me back.

I moved closer to Caitlin. I put my knee between hers, forcing her thighs a bit wider. I held her head, kissed her mouth. Our tongues barely touched. I kissed around her face, and then to the spot at the junction of neck and shoulders that stimulates ovulation. My hands slipped down her shoulders to cup her firm ripe breasts as her nipples hardened in my palms. I held her there for a while as she squirmed.

I backed off from Caitlin and turned to cross-legged Deidre whose pussy was spread, her labial lips puffy and wet. Deidre grabbed my head, pulled my mouth to hers, swallowed my tongue, and forced my hands to her volcanic breasts. She reached down for my cock, stroked and jacked it to full hardness. 

As I kissed and fondled Deidre, Caitlin rubbed my shoulders and chest and thighs. She pulled me away from Deidre, forced us to lie down with me atop her, our mouths together. I moved my body between her legs, my head down to her breasts, working my tongue around her puffing aureoles and onto her juicy nipples.

Deidre was leaning close to us.

"Sisters and brothers should help each other, should they not?" I asked Deidre. 

She nodded, "Um, yeah, sure."

"Then I beg your assistance here," I said, pulling her mouth to Caitlin's other breast.

Deidre eagerly mouthed Caitlin's tantalizing tits. I suspected this wasn't her first time. Caitlin groaned, and louder, as my hand brushed across her vulva. I teased her nether lips, slowly slid up and down her slinky slit, then probed into her already-wet tunnel.

"Oh fuck yeah," Caitlin groaned, as my finger slid and out of her hole.

"Oh shit oh shit oh oh..." she whispered as my thumb brushed her clit.

"Ungh oh shit oh fuck oh OH..." she moaned, her clit between my fingers.

I slid down her body, pulled my hand away, and replaced it with my mouth. I looked up to see Deidre mouthing and fingering both of Caitlin's breasts, then moved to kiss her face deeply while tweaking her nipples. Caitlin thrashed as I wrote mystic alphabets on her pussy, punctuated by deep tongue-thrusts into her abyss. 

My fingers followed my tongue in, and then squeezed her clit. Caitlin came, and came, and came, her back arching like a bow, her screams disappearing down Deidre's throat. She fell limp.

Deidre spun to me. "Hot damn, you're good at that! Where's mine?"

Deidre crawled down my body, inhaled my cock, dropped her pussy onto my mouth, and wiggled. I shifted my jaw, pushed my nose into her dripping cunt, and tongued her clit while she vacuumed my turgid tool down her throat. I wasn't near the edge when she came, flooding my mouth, but I sure was happy with all her juicy lips, and her perfect breasts compressed against my belly.

Deidre rolled off me and regarded my still-hard cock's vertical rise.

"Hey Caitlin, this guy looks like he's up for more. You want some?"

Caitlin rolled atop me, sat up, held her cunt over my straining cock, lowered herself down quickly, smoothly, and whispered, "Holy mother of god, oh shit, oh shit..."

Caitlin moved herself up and down, and faster, harder. My pubes rose to meet her. She cursed soon, going motionless but for her cunt-spasms and seeping juices. She sat awhile with her eyes closed, my hands on her breasts as she slumped forward. Then she fell over beside me.

Deidre was quick to take her place riding me cowgirl-style. We galloped awhile; then she rolled with me still inside her and moved us as missionaries.

"Fuck me, you evil bastard! Fuck me hard!"

And we did fuck, hard. And she did cum, hard. And I did cum, flowing, pouring a Niagara of semen into her. Deidre wrapped me in her arms and legs, suffocated me with her kisses, dragged me deep into her body.

Caitlin watched us, then rubbed Deidre's shoulder.




Dexterous Dexter 02



"C'mon baby, we have to get back to our group. Kind sir, will you be here tonight, and the morrow?"

"Aye, 'tis true, my ladies, I am to be here for the duration. Please do not hesitate to call on me."

"Call on you, fuck yeah, more like CUM on you, all over you," Deidre gasped, still lying beneath me.

We tidied up with washcloths and water, and embraced and kissed, and dressed, and embraced and kissed some more, and then scrunched ourselves out of the tent. We pleasantly spent that night and parts of the next day together. They brought their friend Patricia with them. Ah, the ecstasy!

NEXT: Whatever happens, happens because it was MADE to happen.



Dexterous Dexter 03



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life. I have adapted and edited these notes and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. I highly recommend that you read the previous chapter before starting on this piece.

YET MORE OF THE ACCOUNT of Dexter and his senior-class cohort of Mentally Gifted Minor program (MGM) kids at Piedmont High School and the environs of sluburbian Los Angeles, rolling through the year 1972.

___

The Mustang was now available full-time. Wendy and I and various of our mostly-MGM circle went on day-trips or overnighters most weekends. We hit wild beach parties and mild art exhibitions. We watched rocket launches on the big screens at CalTech-JPL. We went to Tijuana and Death Valley and Santa Barbara and Las Vegas and goddam Disneyland, where we bunny-fucked in the phony cave on Tom Sawyer's Island.

Wendy and I, and Doreen and her loving stepbrother Kirk (no shared DNA), made a run to the Mount Wilson and Griffith Park observatories. Then we cruised what my old friend Ron calls Hollyweird. We saw Ron doing his bizarre mime act at Hollywood and Vine, with that big fucking snake wrapped around his neck. I almost failed to recognize him.

Ron had been one of us MGM kids. He was dragged away from Piedmont HS in his senior year and had some fucked life experiences that quite ruined him. He had aged greatly in the last three years. He took a few more years before getting his shit together. He never lived up to his early promise, poor bastard.

I asked Ron about his life there. He said he had a weird semi-estranged wife, some hot steady girlfriends including high school girls, but no real home. He was just drifting. I never want to be adrift like that. I was very happy when he finally stabilized. Our friendship resumed many years later.

From Hollyweird we rolled down Sunset Strip to Santa Monica. We saw the freak show on the boardwalk. We viewed local reality from the big Camera Obscura. We watched the spinning Earth roll its minor Sun past the Pacific's wet horizon. We munched tacos, drank beer, and took a room at an inn atop the palisades. We smoked hash on the balcony, watching the lights of Malibu strung out in the distance.

The room had two king beds but we mostly used just one, except for sleeping. We all kissed and fondled. We worked all possible combinations of 69's. Side by side, the girls rode the guys, and kissed. Side by side, the guys rode the girls, and kissed. We slithered through daisy chains. We drowned in cock and cunt.

In the morning, after more sex, we ate omelets in the inn's breakfast room, then drove to a West L.A. church, run by a 'hip' priest, for the folk-rock mass. This was a lightly-clad hugging congregation, so we had nice body contacts. We spent the afternoon at a drag strip, sucking fumes and noise, then went home.

___

Wendy's hot-tub party circle expanded a bit more. 

Three MGM kids from neighboring Palomar High joined Doreen and Wendy and I one interesting night. Susanna was a lanky chocolate girl from Jamaica, heading to Berkeley with a Political Science major; she later became a slick environmental lobbyist. Paul and Paula, originally from Quebec, were thin and swarthy, another brother-and-sister act whose affected androgyny and sexual ambiguity did not much mask their voracious appetites. They later founded a successful advertising agency.

Watching blond Doreen and dusky Susanna 69'ing was awe-inspiring, these contrasting beauties diving mouth-first into each others' vulvas, rolling and thrashing and moaning. Watching Paul and Paula 69'ing was dizzying, distracting, disturbing, because we could not always tell who was who.

Paul's cock was very long and very thin, and curved like an archery bow. He could not slide it all the way down any of the vaginas or throats there, but he seemed to fit well into Paula's and Doreen's rectums. Paula's clit was also long and fairly thick, like a little finger's last joint. She could twitch it around and point at people. Doreen said it looked like a baby boy's fat penis.

Susanna seemed to like long slow lazy fucks almost as much as Wendy and I did. Susanna and I spent about an hour lolling on the chaise, copulating quietly, whispering, and watching the others' frenzies. Paul and Paula never did ANYTHING slow or lazy or quiet; their non-stop nervous energy would drive a speed-freak gerbil insane.

"Dex, how the holy fuck can he keep doing that?" Susanna murmured in my ear.

Wendy and Doreen and Paula were bent over the tub edge, side by side, their butts and pussies fully exposed. Paul was behind them. He would fuck one for a dozen quick strokes, then hop to the next, then the next, and back, and again. This had gone on for a half-hour or so. Maybe the girls came a lot, but their pussies must be sore by now.

"Too much coffee, I guess," I whispered back.

___

Just before Easter break, Wendy popped me a proposition.

"Dex, let's go to San Francisco for the week, just you and me! My folks' consulting company keeps an apartment for them there, but they'll be in St Louis then. C'mon, we'll have fun!"

I could not refuse. After school Friday, we stuffed our duffels into her Mustang and sped north on the newly completed I-5 interstate freeway. 400 miles in five-odd hours, no problem. 

Arriving in The City, we dined on buffalo burgers and savory fries at Tommy's Joynt, then pulled into her folks' pied-a-terre on Telegraph Hill between North Beach and Coit Tower. We dumped our duffels, cleaned our bodies, and walked the North Beach streets. We stopped at a late-night coffee shop for pastries and picked up the waitress, to have our way with her.

Bella was maybe 25 or 27, an almost-tall classic Mediterranean beauty. She thought she could teach a couple of high-school kids some tricks. Ha!

Wendy lay on her back under hands-and-knees Bella in an almost 69, with mouths on breasts and hands on clits, while I methodically worked Bella's cunt to tatters, pistoning slowly but remorselessly. We flipped Bella on her back; I straddled her face, feeding my cock to her mouth and tongue, while Wendy ate her. 

We pulled her into a triad daisychain, me eating Bella eating Wendy eating me, and then switched, of course. We teased her pussy with our fingers while biting her nipples till she came in pain and ecstasy. I fucked her while Wendy sat on her face and we kissed and fondled. We double-tongued her. We applied some sex toys. We wore her out.

Yeah, those older gals just don't have the stamina. Ha.

___

We awoke late on Saturday. We French-dripped some coffee, munched our pastries, and sent Bella home. Wendy and I strolled through North Beach to Chinatown, looked and smelled and tasted and photographed there. We drove to Golden Gate Park, sat in with the dozens of conga drummers and many hundreds of dancers swarming on Hippie Hill. We walked through the Haight-Ashbury to check the scene -- pretty burnt-out and depressing.

Then we hit the evening's goal: the monthly meeting of the SF Folk Music Society, in a rambling old Victorian mansion on a slope between the Haight and Twin Peaks. The house was crowded with players and listeners and yammerers, drinking and smoking and carrying on. I whipped out my bamboo sax, Wendy blew her panpipes, and we jammed.

I sat on a couch next to an older black-haired woman, maybe mid-30s, with a tight thin black sweater over her large breasts and very short black skirt revealing comely calves and thighs and bush. Wendy sat on her other side. The woman had obviously been absorbing wine for a while. She put her hands on my leg, looked closely at my face, and boozily announced that she was Donna and that she REALLY needed somebody to fuck her ass.

"Sorry, I try to avoid anal," I said. 

"I can take care of it for you," Wendy said.

"How about a double penetration?" I asked.

"Oh shit, that's just what I need," she said.

We took Donna upstairs to a small empty bedroom. We all got naked. Wendy pulled a strap-on dildo from her big purse. I lay on the bed. Donna cowgirl-mounted me, then bent forward, whispering, "Nice, nice..." Wendy got behind her, lubed the strap-on, and slid it home. Donna gasped, "Oh fuck yeah, yeah, yeah..."

We moved together and settled into a rhythm, Donna doing most of the work. Most of the time, her mouth was on mine, our tongues dancing an intricate wet ballet. Every one of the dozen or so times she came, she started to moan loudly, and I pulled her tighter and filled her mouth with tongue to muffle her screams.

Eventually the motions of my cock in her cunt, and feeling Wendy's strap-on pounding through the thin peritoneum wall, provoked my massive orgasm, an unrelenting pulsing torrent of thick sticky teenage cum filling her vessel to overflowing. Wendy increased her pace. Donna screamed and screamed again into my mouth, and passed out, drooling on me. Jeez, yet another old gal without stamina.

We had not heard the door open, did not realize we'd had an audience, till we heard slow solitary applause, "clap, clap, clap." Wendy and I looked up and saw a couple standing in the doorway.

"That was very entertaining," the woman said, "but this happens to be *my* bedroom, and I would really like some privacy with my friend here."

Wendy and I pulled out of Donna's body; she rolled onto her side and snored. The woman in the doorway looked at our protrusions: Wendy's strap-on, my not-yet-limp dick. She licked her lips.

"Well, maybe I was a bit hasty. How good are you at using those things?"

Wendy blew me back to hardness while the couple undressed. Pretty soon, I had Mary bent over one side of the bed with my cock in her cunt, while Wendy had John on the other side with the strap-on dildo in his anus. We reamed them till they surrendered. And Donna slept through this fun. Too bad.

Wendy and I dressed and left Mary, John and Donna to their own devices. Good thing we did not have to clean up Donna; she was their problem now. We wandered back downstairs to the musical merriment.

The festivities were still going strong. We played along with various musicians, drank some wine, munched some munchies, felt-up some likely prospects. We enticed Saliha to come home with us. (We called the apartment home while we were here.)

Saliha was a fairly tall, fairly thin, fairly dark Turkish girl, a sophomore at USF. She wore tight jeans and a loose grey sweater. American blues and jazz music entranced her. She had two chromatic harmonicas and a kit of blues harps, and played them well. And she had zero desire to have a dildo or anything else stuck up her butt, said it reminded her too much of home.

We drove to the apartment. We laid Saliha on our bed. I tenderly but firmly ate her to her first two climaxes while Wendy kissed her face and smoothed her torso and arms. I sat up; Saliha lowered herself into my lap, her breasts against my chest, and we slowly fucked to our orgasms. That was about it for me for the night. I was wearing out. Was I getting old already?

Wendy and Saliha entertained each other the rest of the night, with fingers and tongues and noses and rubbed-together vulvas and even their toes. We spooned together to sleep, Saliha in the middle. As dawn seeped through the windows, Saliha awoke and squeaked that she HAD to get back to her room. We called her a cab. No, actually, we called her a sweetheart, and we called a cab FOR her. Heh heh.

___

We crawled out of bed late again on Palm Sunday. We dragged ourselves to a hot breakfast, then drove north across the Golden Gate Bridge, and up the coast highway to Muir Woods. These giant coast redwood groves are the best damn cathedrals on the planet, shit yeah. The groves are self-contained worlds of cool shade and near-eternal life. We wandered through the grove's quiet immensity for hours, lost in rapt wonder, worshipping the tree-filtered air and light, the calm ancient primeval strength.

Wendy drove the panoramic highway over Mt Tamalpais and down to the coast. We stopped to jog along a long sandbar. We drove north along the rugged coast, right atop the fearsome San Andreas Fault, along the edges of scenic bays and through tiny villages. We cut back inland at the mouth of the Russian River; any further north would mean a LONG drive back to San Francisco. The riverside road cut through the coast range, passing through more redwood groves and hamlets, and then across vineyards looking like Tuscany.

We reached the freeway. Less than an hour later, we were back in The City. We hit a market for foodstuffs, so we would not blow all our money on meals out. We got home, made a big chicken salad, found a college jazz radio station, and cuddled happily. We spent the night embedded in each other, dreaming together.

We stayed active through the week. 

Monday, long jogs from Cliff House down The City's coast and back, and the length of Golden Gate Park and back. We sure needed the run. We brought a Japanese girl home. She had an extraordinarily talented tongue.

Tuesday, we checked out the Telegraph Ave scene in Berkeley. Not as bad as the Haight-Ashbury, but still a bit bleak. We jogged up the Berkeley Hills. We fucked another jogging couple. Too far to take them home.

Ash Wednesday, we drove south down the coast. An old WW2 watchtower sits on a peak atop Devil's Slide. We climbed the tower and gazed across the Pacific. Two girls and a guy climbed up with us. We all fucked.

Thursday, we visited The City's great museums and some art galleries during the day, and the Fillmore Auditorium at night for a Santana and Jefferson Airplane show. We took two stoner chicks home. Groovy.

Good Friday, we drove down to Stanford to groove on the linear accelerator and visit friends, ex-MGM kids from Piedmont HS. They had like-minded classmates. I counted at least twenty fuckers at the orgy. Whew!

Saturday we stayed local, walking the bay front and hills. We rode cable cars, sniffed Fisherman's Wharf, gazed at Alcatraz, strolled the rest of Chinatown, bought some opium and Tiger Balm and jade carvings.

Saturday night, we checked out the scene on Broadway, the topless and drag-queen bars that we could not enter because we were not 21. Lots of hot sexual action was happening on the street and in the shadows. It looked like unclean, rancid, dangerous action. Not for us. We walked back through North Beach, stopped at the same coffee shop for pastries, and took Bella home again. She had missed us. We wore her out again.

Easter Sunday, we were in no rush, but Bella had to get with her family for the year's most important mass. We kissed her goodbye. Actually, many goodbye kisses, all over her body, and ours. We thoroughly kissed her sweet pussy a few dozen times, maybe. Who keeps count? She asked us to visit again, please, soon. She called us cruel shits for spoiling her for all the local action. We kissed again, and she left.

And then it was time to go. We skipped the super-speed interstate and drove south on old US-101, the El Camino Real, through San Jose and garlic Gilroy and San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara and merry Malibu.

We were back by midnight. We crawled into the hot-tub, seethed, relaxed, kissed, fucked -- until Juliana yelled at us to get our nasty asses out of there and go to our own beds, goddammit. Yes, home again.

___

Kirk had a Yamaha 125cc motorbike similar to my Honda 125. We sometimes took the girls out for weekend day spins. We rode southeast one weekend, Wendy behind Kirk and Doreen cushioning her lovely tits against my back, rolling to Lake Elsinore and beyond. We stopped at a private hot spring in the hills above Temecula. 

Swimsuits were required there; too bad. We four were in a warm pool set away from the rest of the resort, sharing it with a couple of jock-looking guys and a flashy blond in a small bikini.

Kirk wanted to submerge in the slightly sulfur-tainted water, but he had left his swim goggles in his bike panniers. He left to fetch them. I snuggled up between dirty-blond Doreen and the flashy blond. Wendy snuggled between the two guys. They pulled themselves out of the pool and started necking, Wendy trading kisses and embraces with them. I was similarly engaged with the girls, still in the pool. Good clean fun, right?

The guys decided they wanted more. They tried to rape Wendy. Bad move. 

Remember, I mentioned that Wendy and I practiced karate together? She broke their kneecaps. I jumped over to help. We flipped them into the cactus garden that surrounded the pool. They were quickly covered with jumping-cholla pads, whose vicious barbed spines can only be removed by ripping out bits of flesh too.

Kirk returned then, and when the guys crawled back to the concrete pool deck, he gave them each a kick to the head. "Don't fuck with us. Don't fuck with anyone. You got that?" And a couple more head-kicks.

Their flashy blond just watched them stumble away. She gestured Kirk to come to her. She pulled down his trunks and blew him spectacularly. Then she walked off. I don't know how she got home. Don't care, either.

___

I rode Alma-Li across the valley to our stints at my grandpa's shop and her grandma's farm one afternoon after school. Coming back, we stopped in Diamond Canyon again (as usual) and sucked and fucked, et cetera. We snuggled on the spread blanket and talked about our futures. 

Almy and Kirk were both headed to CalTech, not that far away. She said her relatives were excited about the prospect of having a rocket scientist in the family. She had heard rumors that NASA was going to build space shuttles, "pickup trucks in the sky". She wanted to be in that program. She would have preferred to build a colony starship, but that might not happen for another few decades yet.

(FAST-FORWARD to early 1990: Almy's friend Duane was an engineer at Lockheed Aerospace, building the Hubble Space Telescope. Duane took us into the clean room in Sunnyvale for a private showing just before it was shipped to Cape Canaveral for launch. It was the most beautiful gem I have ever seen. And he gave us shuttle-team souvenirs: cast bronze HST belt buckles, from a limited edition of 100. We prize those.)

My plans were more nebulous, i.e. I did not have a career dream. I had business skills, from working on Grandpa's shop management. I had electronics skills and a photographic eye. But I could not really see myself making a living as an engineer or photographer, or a desk jockey in somebody else's business.

I wanted to see the world. I figured summer breaks would give me time to travel until I finished college. Not this summer, maybe the next, I wanted to ride a motorbike or 'cycle all the way from the Arctic Ocean to Patagonia, the whole length of the Americas. I would practice for that this summer by riding from here to Panama and back. This plan assumed I would not be drafted. I did not worry; I had a student deferment.

"Dex, you need a plan, or you could end up drifting, like Ron." Alma-Li was atop me, slowly sliding up and down my revitalized rod.

I shook my head. "I have lots of time for plans. Plans and goals, they can change." I thrust upward into her, held, then relaxed. "You've had yours, like, forever. Hey, what put you there?"

Almy settled down on me. "It was a song. I was eight years old. On the radio, a DJ announced a new record about a satellite. He played TELSTAR. Dex, I had an ORGASM when I heard it! My body and mind just exploded and I saw stars and galaxies and I almost melted down. Eight fucking years old! I knew space was for me. I still get little orgasms when I hear that song."




Dexterous Dexter 03



"Better than with me?" I teased, leaning up and sucking her tits, then thrusting into her.

"You better not ask me that. It's different, that's all I'll say. Oooh, do that some more."

I rolled my hips around, brushing her clit, sending her skyward. "Oh fuck Dex..." she gasped.

"I'm learning all I can about everything I can, so I'll be ready for anything. Something will bite my ass sometime, somewhere. Maybe in Chichen Itza or Macchu Pichu, or Cairo or Kobenhavn or Calcutta. Maybe I'll be gob-smacked tomorrow, or in five years, I don't know. Or maybe I'll just be your kept man," I leered.

"Fat fucking chance. Even if I wanted a house slave, I'd never get you away from Wendy."

"What, you don't want her as your house slave too? We would take REAL good care of you."

"You guys would be pretty high-maintenance. I couldn't afford you. I'll just get a dog."

"Hey, I didn't know you were so kinky. I know a guy who trains German Shepherds for that."

Almy bent down and bit my nose. "One more word, and you'll be goddam Tycho Brahe, dude."

I shut up and rolled my hips again. I do not really need disfigurement. I am ugly enough anyway.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you are not familiar with Tycho Brahe, look him up. Read about his nose.

___

One of Juliana's underage girlfriends had been screwing a teacher at another school. She was not on The Pill or any other form of birth control. She got pregnant. She told the teacher; he dumped her, froze her out. She was frantic. Juliana talked Wendy into driving the girl to Tijuana for an abortion, at a clinic she knew of.

Remember, this was early 1972, before Roe v Wade, before California legalized any but 'therapeutic' abortions. Her options were 1) keep the upcoming kid, which she could not handle; 2) depend on an illegal local abortionist, but they were usually scummy and unsafe; or 3) go to an abortion mill in Mexico.

Wendy agreed to pull transport duty, but she had a price: her plan. She learned the teacher had a blond wife, and he had screwed more than a few underage girls. She outlined her simple plan to brunettes Lindsay and Teresa. They volunteered to help.

She told Juliana to bring back the aborted fetus from the clinic. She had me set up the hot-tub camera system for controlled shots. Wendy told the girls she would be behind a screen with a camera, and she was. We positioned the tub-side chaise carefully. And Teresa lured the slimy teacher into the honey-pot trap.

Nothing complicated, no photo manipulation, just straight documentation. Teresa and Lindsay got naked; the teacher quickly followed. They took turns blowing him. They laid him on his back on the chaise, his head in Lindsay's lap while Teresa cowgirl-rode his stringy cock. The Super-8 camera quietly rolled, two frames every second this time, while Wendy also fired away. A bongo-jazz tape masked their clicks.

Alas, before he could cum into Teresa, Juliana burst in, screaming at them, and clobbering the teacher with a badminton racket. The result: very rapid coitus interruptus and his quick departure, sans clothes.

Juliana chased his naked ass and feet through the backyard gate, across a lane of gravel (OUCH), down the driveway, and around the block to his parked car. His LOCKED parked car. His keys were still in the trousers he had left by the hot-tub. He kept running. I got some nice shots with a telephoto lens on my Pentax of Juliana chasing and whacking him as they passed under streetlights.

We got some great shots of the blowjobs, showing his face but not the girls'; and others of Teresa's back and side, with his cock visibly sliding into her, and with Lindsay hunching over and kissing his head. Neither girl's face could quite be seen, but their hair was obviously dark, not blond. The teacher's face was clearly recognizable.

Wendy mailed a package to the teacher's wife at her office. The package held prints of the best fuck photos; the precum-stiff boxers (embroidered with his initials) and keys the teacher had left behind; a bottle of formaldehyde containing the fetus; and a note: "This is a child your husband fathered by one of his students. These are items he left behind at another student's home. Ask him about his other girls."

(Before Wendy mailed the keys, we drove the teacher's car to another town, with gang-ruled streets, and left it there, unlocked. He had to pay when its stripped remains were towed and impounded. Ha ha.)

To the teacher's principal, and members of the school board, Wendy sent envelopes with the photo prints and another note: "Does Mr Z's contract contain a morality clause?" We did not send anyone the chase photos. Those were for our own amusement.

Would you like to guess what happened next? OK, I'll tell you. The teacher was fired. The divorce left him broke and homeless. A few friends of his victims roughed him up a bit. Last I heard, he had a job as a cockroach exterminator in Arizona. VERY BIG cockroaches live in Arizona. Maybe he could even fuck them.

___

The rest of Senior year was rather predictable. Prom, finals, graduation. More parties, more weekends, more work. Yada yada.

I have read of proms of the last couple decades, the big lavish conspicuous-consumption affairs with sex and drugs and limousines. It was not like that at Piedmont HS, not in 1972. Prom was just another dance in the auditorium, but a better band was hired, everyone dressed formally, and prom royalty were elected.

The normals may have agonized over prom dates. Our circle were not concerned; we were already very close. We attracted a little attention because we guys each took two girls as dates. I took Doreen and Alma-Li. Stefan took Lindsay and Megan. Kirk took Teresa and Marissa. Alex took Rosalita and Wendy. The identical twins took each other but also snuck-in Paul and Paula, both in slinky gowns and flattering makeup.

We made a point of dancing with everyone BUT our collective dates. We left many unsuspecting students very happy, if maybe a bit confused, especially those partnered with Paul or Paula. I chose to twirl the shy wallflower girls around the floor, then subtly pass them on to Stefan or Kirk or Ted or Alex. I saw Wendy and Doreen taking the same approach with shy boys. Not noblesse oblige, no; just having different fun.

Finals went as expected. We maintained our grades. We were not about to blow our scholarships.

Wendy's hot-tub parties included a few more MGM kids from other high schools in the city. With summer approaching, more of our excursions were to beach parties or mountain forest frolics. Balboa Beach and Lake Arrowhead were favorite destinations. Yeah, we were all committed water-rats.

We indulged in sports. Wendy, Doreen and Lindsay blew a visiting football team. Kirk, Stefan and I screwed a visiting women's water-polo team at Clarion. We all fucked visiting cheer squads. Damn, cheerleaders are easy! And they did not mind being photographed. Very few inhibitions there, I can assure you.

My relationship with Alma-Li became a bit more complicated. My honkie grandpa and her Chinese grandma became a hot item. They were to marry and merge their farming interests. That made Almy almost my cousin! I joked again about moving to Arkansas. She said that if our folks all swapped with each other, so we would be step-siblings, she would consider it. Then she punched me, called me perv-boy again. Ouch.

Lindsay finally discovered the hot-tub hidden camera secret. She was nosing through the file cabinet next to my darkroom and found a folder of prints. Oops.

She quickly analyzed the subjects and angles and depth-of-field and said, "Oooh, Dexter Dexter Dexter, you have been a *very* naughty boy. Is it a 16mm camera? No, it must be 8mm. Yeah, those are Super-8 carts that Wendy sneaks to you. Hey, this is really nice work. How did you get all these POVs? Oooh, you must have the camera on tracks or something, with a control system. Very clever."

"Look, Linds, this has to stay hush-hush."

She pulled me over for a kiss. "No, I won't tell anyone else about this. Do you only shoot our gang in the tub? No, probably not. Hey, have you blackmailed anyone yet? No, don't tell me, that would make me a felony conspirator. But let me think about it; I might have some ideas..."

Lindsay's ideas tended towards danger. Oh shit.

Graduation day was no cap-and-gown affair. Graduates mostly dressed in the same formal outfits they had worn to prom. Most the graduates and their families gathered, many for the first and last time. Some roared off for not-entirely-sober grad parties. Others just turned their backs on childhood and moved on.

___

Now, the story you have all been waiting for: the seduction of Miss Diana Tompkins PhD, Assistant Principal, Piedmont High School, and tall blond thirty-ish multi-orgasmic MILF bondage-freak slut.

She was easy. A few days after graduation, she got a call from Wendy's father, inviting her to a hot-tub party with unnamed guests. Yeah, Kirk did a great imitation of Mr Reynolds' voice. Wendy had been taping her folks' calls for some time, so Kirk knew the right script and tone.

"Yes, Diana, skip the house door, the backyard gate would be unlocked. We'll be waiting. See you then."

She came like a kitten to cream, unsuspecting. Imagine her surprise when she opened the enclosure door, slipped off her slippers and wrap, and found herself facing me and Wendy and Kirk and Doreen and Lindsay. And Juliana, wearing her customary (for adult parties) leather mask. Actually, we were all masked, so she was only moderately surprised. Her shock would come at our unmasking.

"Hola, bitch, I see you're back for more. Get down! Assume the position. You know what I want, slave!"

Juliana snapped her riding crop against Diana's shoulders and chest and belly and thighs. This was not their first time. Diana knelt, hands behind her back. I wrapped vinyl straps around her wrists.

"You've been a dirty girl this week, haven't you, slave?" Whack, whack, more whip-snaps.

"Yes mistress, I've been a lonely slut. I fucked myself with bananas, in my pussy and my asshole. I broke them off inside me and squeezed them out and ate them. And I did worse. I..."

Juliana interrupted her with more whip-snaps.

"Shut up, bitch, I don't want to hear it. I'm tired of listening to you. You need your mouth full of something to shut you up."

Juliana gestured to us guys. We took turns stuffing our cocks in Diana's mouth and down her throat, filling her with several loads of thick hot sperm. She swallowed what she could but still overflowed. Juliana kept whip-snapping her, at various speeds and intensities.

We forced her body onto an L-shaped cushion, head down, hands still tied behind her back, butt up, legs strapped apart so her nether region was wide open, fully accessible, a tempting target. 

Now it was the girls' turn. They each spent time shoving their vulvas into her face, while we guys stood above her, pumping our cocks into her vagina and anus, sometimes both at once, sometimes with fingers and thumbs added. Diana slurped pussies hungrily and groaned when her nipple were violently abused.

"So you like bananas, do you, slave? Well, we have some nice fat juicy bananas just for you." They were actually big electric dildos, but hey, that's close enough, right? We needed no lube, she was already soggy, so in they went, rather quickly.

Now for the big thrill, the unmasking.

"Open your eyes, bitch. Look up at me. Hey you vatos, get over here. Look at everybody, slave. LOOK!"

Diana's now-bleary eyes took us in, masked faces atop young bodies, younger than she was used to here. One by one, we took off our masks. With each unveiling, Diana gasped, "Oh shit, oh no, no not you, oh shit."

We were not her usual playtime crowd of somewhat-peers. We were the students she used to rule rather harshly. The sub-dom roles had been reversed. She was subject to our tender mercies. And we had not even needed to blackmail her.

We were in a paradoxical position. We all wanted to torture her, humiliate her, degrade her. Ah, but such actions were just what she required to attain orgasm. So we inflicted the worst torture: we ignored her, while we had a merry fuckfest right before her frustrated eyes. What the hell, she had already gotten off, multiple times. It was our turn. Maybe we were too easy on her.

Our only concession to Diana's pleasure was that we left the vibrators running. We added fresh batteries just before we all left a couple hours later. She was still strapped in, alone, when those batteries finally died. Juliana came back just before dawn to untie Diana.

Yes, school was out, but the administrators still had to deal with some paperwork. We kids just happened to be hanging around the admin building door when Diana arrived at eight AM that day. She was perfectly attired but her makeup was a bit heavy. She trembled a little as she walked past us. She did not respond to our greetings. But I saw her mouth twitch with a tiny smile.

___

We broke away for the summer. 

I did indeed ride off towards Panama on a motorbike. I didn't quite make it, but I didn't die, either.

Wendy drove Alma-Li and Kirk on a USA-Canada tour of observatories and physics labs, seducing numerous astronomers and physicists along the way. They called it "professional networking". Hey, it worked.

Doreen and Teresa pulled summer internships at the San Francisco Chronicle and bunked with horny Bella.

Lindsay wormed her way into the fashion mafia, shooting models, and modeling herself, as well as shooting some porn. When she visited Doreen and Teresa in SF, she found a second home at the Mitchell Bros' lair.

Stefan did not quite make the US Olympics team but he traveled for the Munich Games and saw the massacre. This led to his post-basketball career as a stadium security consultant. Nobody ever cracked his lines.

By fall, all of us were at our colleges, starting the next phase of life. Our high-school days were over, irrevocably.

Wendy and I stayed in our family homes during our four years in the Clarion Colleges. We lived together during our post-grad years at Stanford, me in finance, her in international affairs. We invested some money in small companies in nearby nascent Silicon Valley, doing especially well with Intel and Apple. We went our own ways after receiving our doctorates but made sure our paths crossed very often.

That Senior year of 1971-72 shaped us all forever.

___

FAST-FORWARD TWO DECADES - SEPTEMBER 2001:

Alma-Li and Doreen and Wendy and I were together in San Diego for a brief intensive conference on network security. Almy had driven down from Pasadena; she was still at JPL, heading a team that designed and ran deep-space probes. The rest of us had flown in from the East: Doreen from Chicago, where she was bureau chief of a European news agency; me from Boston, where I ran my technology investment firm; and master strategist Wendy from Washington DC, where she headed a military think-tank.

Wendy and I were still the best friends we each ever had, and Almy and Doreen were still our closest confidants. We fed each other information and ideas that enhanced our endeavors, our own private network. We still gathered regularly, and brought our spouses and partners. We still had the greatest fun together.

Just the four of us were at this confab; Almy's husband Kirk was busy that week at Goldstone, the NASA-JPL Deep Space Tracking Network big-dish station north of Barstow.

We four blearily crawled out of our joined beds at about eight AM. We could have risen sooner, but we mostly had our mouths in each other's faces and crotches. Wendy played a morning raga CD on the room's boom box. We called room service for breakfast. We talked of running a morning jog before returning to the conference floor.

Alma-Li checked her cell phone and found she'd had a call from her mother an hour before, anxiously saying not to worry, that her sister was OK. Her sister was a security chief with the New York City transit system, with her office in the World Trade Center. Alma-Li called back.

"Momma, what did you mean that Lily is OK? Did something happen?"

"Haven't you seen the news yet, girl? Turn on a TV. Right now!"

That is when we first saw the video loops of airliners driving into skyscrapers. Oh shit.

The conference was truncated. Regular sessions were cancelled, replaced by a morning roundtable discussing the attacks and their likely repercussions. Then all participants tried to figure how to get home.

All air traffic in the USA was grounded. All Amtrak and Greyhound seats were quickly filled. 

Alma-Li drove us to Pasadena and kissed us good-bye. I rented an RV with a queen bed. We drove northeast in three-hour shifts, through Barstow to Las Vegas to Denver to Omaha to Chicago, 2000 miles in 40 hours. Whoever was not sleeping or fucking or driving was brewing coffee and cocoa and working their cell phones. When we were all awake, we talked, and grew together yet more. We grokked fully.

We stopped for a pre-dawn rest break an hour outside Chicago. We knew life would be frantic ahead. It might be some time before Wendy and I were with Doreen again. We undressed and snuggled into the bed.

Doreen and I kissed Wendy's mouth, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Doreen worshipped Wendy's breasts. I slid down to mouth Doreen's tits and finger her vulva. We sucked softly, Wendy starting to groan, Doreen's moans muffled as she suckled.

"Holy shit guys, I need you both to eat me now," Wendy murmured.

I rolled Doreen on her side. I wrapped her legs around my hips, slid my cock down her soft wet tunnel, pulled us together. We put our mouths together between Wendy's legs. We licked up and down her lips, out of sync, then worked our tongues together into her vagina. Tongue-twiddling is so much fun. We took turns slurping Wendy's labia and teasing her clit.

"Oh fuck guys, don't you dare stop, don't ever stop, never, never..."

We worked her clit, Doreen going back and forth, me going up and down, sometimes delving back down her hole and beyond, almost to her rosebud. Then back up to her clit while Doreen delved further south. Then we dove in, both sucking hard around Wendy's clit, stealing the nub from one mouth to the other.

"Oh fuck oh fuck Oh Fuck OH FUCK FUCK FUCK..." Wendy almost screamed.

I held my tongue as deep as I could in Wendy's vagina while Doreen pressed her clit down gently, cooling her, soothing her from her climax. Wendy rolled away from our faces, gasping.

I kissed Doreen deeply. I licked her mouth, smeared with Wendy's juices, spreading the salty nectar over our cheeks and noses. Doreen tightened her legs around my waist as we lay on our sides, me thrusting a bit faster into her, my head bending to suck her nipples. 

Doreen rolled further till she was atop me, lying on me, our closest clinch, her full breasts pushed into my chest, her mouth near mine, her hips pushing, grinding, smashing her clit into me.

"Dex, you fucker, I don't ever want you to pull out of me, I want to stay like this forever."

"Today is an endless highway, tonight is a crooked trail, tomorrow is a long time," I whispered.

"Goddammit Dex, just hold me, you're my strength, my heart, ohhh, ohhh..." she sobbed as she came.

Wendy rolled to us, embraced us, glued our faces together, kissed us in a triad of desperate tongues.

Doreen sat up, still crying, straddling my hips, my cock still stiff inside her. Wendy bent over my head, feeding her breasts to my mouth and sucking on my nipples, wetting me with her tears. I thrust faster and harder into Doreen, came in her, shattered in her, shot my soul into her, while sucking Wendy's soul from her tits. I was the channel that emptied Wendy into Doreen, the bridge between them. I sobbed in agony and ecstasy.




Dexterous Dexter 03



We rested just a few minutes, crying and laughing together, kissing away our tears; then bestirred ourselves, cleaned up, dressed, drank more coffee, and drove on.

We dropped Doreen at her Chicago office and swapped the RV for a rental minivan. We drove to DC, taking three-hour turns over the 700-odd miles. I slept-over that night with Wendy and her partners Jan and Dov.

Wendy had told me that she'd had a difficult time at first, explaining our relationship to Jan and Dov, convincing them to accept me. She had told them this:

"Look guys, I love you, you're my partners in life, the people I always come home to. Dex isn't like that. He's something else. We're not soulmates; that implies two separate souls have come together. No, it's simpler than that: we're just one soul with two independent bodies and brains. No matter where our bodies are in time and space, there's a Dexter-Wendy soul that shines on its own. I've known that since we were nine years old. Dexter isn't IN me, he IS me, and I am him. We're a package deal, take it or leave it."

They took it, and me. 

I kissed them all good-bye the next morning, then threaded up the BosWash corridor to my Boston home with Lindsay and Megan. 

Remember Marissa's friend Megan, the red-haired pianist? Yeah, we were together, at least when she was not on international tours, and sometimes even then. Same with Lindsay, when she was not shooting magazine covers or centerfolds somewhere around the planet. Linds occasionally even allowed me to assist. She still worked both sides of the camera. 

Much had changed over those decades, and the decade since. Much has remained the same. Our circle of water brothers remains the greatest group of people I have ever known. I love you all.

___

NOT THE END?



Dexterous Dexter 04



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life, which I am adapting and editing. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. The DEXTER GOES SOUTH series is fairly independent of the earlier Dexter accounts, although some characters here are introduced in DEXTEROUS DEXTER 01. This current series chronicles Dexter's travels in Mexico and Central America. For readers' convenience, most Spanish language speech and signals are presented in loose English translation.

DEXTER GOES SOUTH #1 - SCHOOL'S OUT - I RIDE ACROSS MEXICO, June-July 1972

So I frenched and fucked my friends adios, and left Greater Los Angeles, riding south to Panama.

Well, there was more to it than that. The planning and logistics took some doing. The advice was free.

My high school graduation gift was a new motorbike of my choice. I weighed the trade-offs. A heavy cruiser would be comfy for long hauls on good roads, but not so good on gravel or dirt, and would suck gas. A light trail bike would be fuel-efficient, but not good for hauling gear, and would certainly be tiring and painful on long rides. I compromised on a Yamaha 350.

I had a fairly flexible schedule. My road time would be about July 1 to September 1, with maybe an extra week leeway at each end. I allocated that as three weeks across Mexico to Guatemala City a.k.a. Guate (WHAH-tay), three weeks to Panama and back to Guate, and a final three weeks to return by another Mexican route. If I had to fudge some days, I would likely add time to the middle Guate-Panama-Guate segment.

The time and vehicle dictated my gear choices. 

I got a travel pack with panniers to hang from a sissy bar. This arrangement allowed room for a passenger behind me. I had an ultra-light tent weighing just a kilo, a wool blanket as a ground pad, and a goosedown bag. I do not much like cotton for travel outerwear but I managed a sturdy and light clothes kit. Yes, I took a helmet, and a basic tool kit.

I had a light camping mess kit and an electric immersion heater. I took two half-frame 35mm cameras: a spring-wound Canon Dial-35, and an Olympus Pen-FT SLR with its ultra-light 24mm, 50mm and 100mm lenses, total weight just over a kilo. I took my little bamboo sax and a soprano ukulele. My needs were simple, yes.

I would not be collecting souvenirs, except to mail home. I would also mail home my film after developing it. Most big cities had photo labs where I could process film on my own. No sense risking exposed rolls. No sense lugging all those rolls around the continent either.

Then there was the well-meaning advice.

My Panama-raised brother Dan was a bit negative, but he had not traveled north of Costa Rica, so his info on Nicaragua, Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala was second-hand. I listened anyway.

"Dextro baby, you gotta lose the California license plates. They see those, they'll chew you up and spit you out. Get some C.A. (Central America) plates. Most of the army guys there are OK but every city cop is a crook, and so are the customs scum. Costa Rica is OK, but the rest of C.A. is just corrupt as hell."

My Mayan-born classmate and fuckbuddy Rosalita fixed the license plates problem. (She was my language coach; I was her cunning linguist.) Her family flew south during Easter break for the Americas' greatest Semana Santa (Holy Week) festival in Antigua Guatemala. She brought back five pungent greasy boxes of Pollo Campero takeout, and a 'legal' set of C.A. motorcycle plates and papers, lacking only the bike serial number for me to fill in, heh heh.

My bisexual buddy Alex's family had driven to Costa Rica and back the previous summer. He had a warning.

"Be real careful whose dick you offer to suck, Dex. Queers and bi's can survive in the big cities, and are accepted by Zapotec Indians around Tehuantepec, but everywhere else, you're risking your life. Machismo kills. You'd better stick to girls on this trip. There are lots of them, and they're cheap and friendly."

I was all packed up and provisioned, loaded with maps, and hot to trot, by June 25. That looked like a good starting date. So I frenched and fucked my friends adios, and headed south.

---

My first day was an easy ride past the Salton Sea to Yuma. I planned to get a cheap dinner, then pitch my tent alongside what was left of the Colorado River. Early evening, I stopped at a pizza parlor, ordered a small special and an Anchor Steam beer, and spread maps over my table. The cute young woman in a cheesy corporate skirt-and-shirt uniform who brought my order looked down with interest.

"Going somewhere, cowboy?" she asked in a lilting accent.

"Yes, to Panama. Want to come along?" I invited teasingly.

"Merci, you don't know how much I am tempted now," she said.

"Temptation is only ignored at your own risk, or so I've heard."

Twenty-four-year-old Marie was a tall curvy well-tanned redhead from Quebec. She said she had moved here because she did not like the cold and prices up north. She was saving money for her own next travel south. We chatted about past and future adventures and ambitions and whatever.

Business was slow. Marie sat next to me as I finished eating.

"Have you come far already? Where are you staying tonight?"

"This is my first day on the road. And I thought I would camp out."

"Non non, that won't do. You will stay at my place. We close here at nine, cheri, and I get off a half-hour later. You will wait here until then, oui?"

"Merci beaucoup, I will do just that. But I must buy some gas first. I'll be right back."

I did, and I did, and I was.

Marie's apartment was only a half-block from her workplace. But the night was young, so she climbed behind me and held on. I took us for a spin along the river and canals. I pulled over on a levee spur, extracted the blanket from my pack, and spread it on the ground. We sat, looking to the northwest, the barren desert mountains lit by the full moon. Marie nestled against my shoulder.

I pointed straight ahead. "Go far enough that way, you're in San Francisco, The City by The Bay. Can you hear the foghorns?"

I pointed off to the far right. "Travel far enough that way, you're back in Quebec." I felt Marie grimace.

I twisted around and pointed right behind us. "Fly to that compass point and we're in the Yucatan."

I gestured to our left. "Swim in that direction and we're in Fiji, dancing naked under the palms."

I pulled Marie close to me. "But right now, we're just right here." I kissed her. She kissed back. Her mouth held mine for wonderful minutes.

Marie huddled against me. "Dexter, you're really just out of high school? You don't seem so young."

"The simple things I do are all complicated; I look pretty old but I'm just back-dated, yeah," I sang, quoting Pete Townsend.

Marie giggled, "And a cynical romantic, too! Dexter, are you always like this?"

"When I'm enthralled by surpassing beauty under a full moon, yes indeed, I am."

"This place is lovely but it's not the most comfortable, is it? Let's go home."

I rolled up the blanket. We rolled down the road. We rolled into her apartment's garage space. We rolled around in her bed. My tongue rolled around her face, her mouth, her chin, her breasts, her navel, her mons, her labia, her clit. She rolled around and moaned. Round, round, roll around, we roll around, oh yeah, doo wah, doo wah.

Somewhere around her dozenth scream, the apartment door opened. Marie's bedroom door was already open; we had not bothered to close it. A shaggy blond head peered around the doorpost as Marie screamed again: Lucky Thirteen!

"There's a cycle in our garage. That belong to you?" Yes, I grunted.

"Everything OK in there?" the blond head asked. Marie screamed again.

"Yeah, I guess so. Sorry to bother you guys. Don't mind me. G'night."

Marie gasped, "Oh Doris, this is great, I just keep cumming and cumming, and we haven't even fucked yet!"

"Well that's pretty interesting. You guys mind if I watch?" She sat on the bed, not waiting for an answer.

"I am worn out. My pussy is about to dissolve. I must rest now. Doris, you must try Dexter. Is that OK?"

"What, this guy has a magic tongue and you want to share him? Sweet! Dexter, is it? Is that OK with you?"

"Nice to meet you, Doris. Actually, I was hoping for some penetration now. Marie, come sit on my cock."

I rolled onto my back. My flagpole was at full-mast. Marie somehow forced herself to straddle my hips. She aimed my cooperative cock into her soggy pussy and then just sort of fell onto me, zip-zap-zup, ramming her vulva into my pubic bone.

"Oh."

Marie sighed loudly. She leaned forward with her hands on my chest.

"Ohhh..."

Marie bit her lip and whimpered. She moved up, down, sideways, filling herself from varying angles.

"Oh mon dieu, I am so fucked. Oh merde merde..."

Doris had by now removed her own skirt-and-shirt uniform (emblazoned with a fast-food corporate logo) and ducked into the bathroom. She emerged and sat down on the bed again. She reached over and stroked our hot sweaty conjoined bodies.

"Yes, pretty interesting. You guys are a real turn-on, y'know? You need any help, honey?" Doris leaned into us and kissed Marie's near breast. "Hey Dexter, or whoever you are, does your tongue still work?"

"Your pleasure is my desire, Doris. But don't wait too long."

"Not a chance, fella." Doris straddled my head, lowered her pussy to my face, then bent forward to kiss Marie's mouth, fondle her breasts, and finger her vulva. My tongue and cock were happy. Both cunts were getting much happier.

Marie was gasping again as she slid up and down and around my stiff shaft.

"Oh oh Dexter oh oh sacre bleu oh fuck oh..."

Doris responded nicely to my tongue. She kissed Marie harder, and groaned, and wiggled, and groaned again, and again. Marie stiffened. Her cunt clenched my cock, spasmed, throbbed. She yelled into Doris' mouth. Doris yelled back. Then Marie slowly fell sideways, off my still-hard hardon, ker-plop. 

Doris straightened her lithe legs. She fell forward and swallowed my very juicy steel rod. We jerkily ate each other for several minutes. Doris apparently came a few more times. I was not quite at the brink.

Doris pulled off me. "I need you inside me in the worst way, NOW!" She took Marie's former position atop me, sliding onto my cock, moaning. I rolled her over without withdrawing and started a good old missionary fuck, wham bam cram thank-you ma'am damn! I pounded. Doris vocalized. Marie reached in to squeeze my bouncing balls. And I came. Loud. Long. Wet. Cowabunga!

We all lay disheveled on the messy sheets for a few minutes, gasping, leaking, moaning. 

"If that was the worst way, then the best way must be pretty OK," I told Doris. She groaned.

We rose and cleaned ourselves but did not bother changing the sheets -- too much work right now. We changed rooms instead, crawling into Doris' bed. We slept spooned together. I'll let you guess where I was positioned.

A false dawn barely brightened the window shades. A musty mouth explored mine. Our two tremulous bodies embraced and fucked quietly. A hand on my shoulder pulled me, rolled me over, pulled me close. I kissed its owner's mouth. Our other two bodies fucked almost as quietly. We all dozed off again.

I awoke mid-morning in an empty bed, to the scents of coffee brewing and ham frying and bread toasting. I walked sky-clad through the door and into a visionary kitchen. Two contrasting but very good-looking young women, both naked except for waist-tied aprons, were bumping bodacious butts as they collaborated on breakfast.

Bounteous blond Doris tended the range. Sweet red-haired Marie saw me; she hastily emptied her hands of plates and silverware. She ran to me and hugged me fiercely.

"Oh Dexter Dexter, you marvelous man! Oh Dexter, I am in love! My heart sings! My body sings! Oh Dexter!"

I kissed her, to shut her up. I can only take just so much adulation at once, y'know?

Doris turned off the range-top flames and seductively scooted over to me. "It's my turn now." Her mouth joined with ours in holy communion. Our tongues danced and diddled and dawdled. We grouped.

"Marie darling, you sure brought home a good one! D'ya think he's a keeper?" Doris eyed me hungrily.

"I don't know, Doris. What do you think it would take to convince him to stay?" Marie appraised me.

They both untied their aprons. Four hands reached for my cock. Two tongues licked my nipples. I groaned.

"Umm, do you think we could maybe talk about this after breakfast?"

I was escorted to a chair at the table. Food and juice and coffee were served. Stories were exchanged.

Doris was a girl-next-door Scandinavian from North Dakota -- round in all the right places, muscular in the right places too. Like Marie, she was sick of northern winters and prices. How did she end up in Yuma?

"Well, my cousin told me that his dream was to tie his snowblower to the top of his car and drive south. When people pointed at it and asked what it was, he'd know that he'd come far enough south. That's what I did, but without the snowblower. Yuma is a place where people only see snow on TV Christmas specials. It's about far enough, y'know?" And now she managed a sandwich franchise.

I told Doris and Marie of my travel plans. Yes, my schedule was a bit flexible, but I would need to call my sister in Tucson to say I would arrive a little late.

What could persuade me to delay my departure? Two tongues slurping my revived cock from opposite sides were mighty persuasive, I tell ya. Their associated pussies helped seal the deal. Then there were the tasty tatas. Hot damn!

We all sucked and fucked and slurped for the rest of the marvelous morning. Marie had to leave a bit after noon for her shift at the pizza palace. Doris could stay for another couple hours. Yes, she stayed. And she came. And stayed. And came. Et fucking cetera. She finally and reluctantly left for work.

I had six-odd hours to kill, and no reason to see the sights of Yuma Arizona. I read, and dozed. I knew I would need to conserve my strength for the upcoming night.

And it was a LONG night. Doris stuck her assistant manager with the closing and cleanup duties, and left work at the same time as Marie. They arrived together. They fed me. They attacked me. They fucked me for six straight hours. SIX HOURS! We finally hibernated at four AM.

I crawled out just before noon, just in time to energetically kiss Marie goodbye. I insisted that I really had to get to Tucson that day. Doris only let me escape after I promised to visit again on my way home, and any chance I had after that.

---

The Yuma-to-Tucson ride would have been easier if I had not been totally fucked out. I arrived in time for a blessedly non-sexual dinner. My oldest sister Melanie was fairly glad to see me and feed me and listen to my censored stories. Her husband Dan had more advice after I told him of my route plans.

"So you're heading for Veracruz and beyond? Then don't cross the border here at Nogales or over at El Paso, they both suck. No, you should ride through Tombstone and Bisbee and cross at either Naco or Douglas. Naco is about the quietest crossing anywhere. And you can taste some fine Bisbee Electric Beer."

The border crossing was easy. Crossing Mexico was harder.

I had days of long hard rides through Chihuahua and Torreon and Saltillo, to get past the northern desert.

I camped out rough one night near a mostly-deserted mining hamlet on a rugged dry ridge. A young Indian woman speaking poor Spanish came to my campfire, fed me some peyote, drank of my hot cocoa, and crawled into my sleeping bag with me. We saw mystic visions as we fucked. She faded back into the desert at sunrise, almost a dream.

Then came easier shorter days, past San Luis Potosi to my first major destination, Xilitla (hee-LEET-lah). Xilitla is a small village set atop a steep forested mountain. The village is OK, especially the oblong bird-infested town plaza, but the reason to be there is something totally else: Las Pozas.

Las Pozas is a strange concrete construction in a tropical jungle. It was built by a British royal bastard who hung out with surrealists. It looks like the love child of HP Lovecraft, MC Escher, and Salvador Dali -- and Dali had been a live-in guest there. Throw in a little HR Giger and you'll get the vibe. Totally bizarre. Totally unique. And you can rent a room, if you dare. Go sober. Hallucinogens would be redundant.

I rode down out of the mountains, to the coastal lowlands, to another world.

The descent from Xilitla to the Gulf coast was tricky, mostly due to prehistoric giant iguanas running across the road. Those fuckers were over a yard long! I did not dare to ride too fast there in lizard-land -- they are hard to dodge. And they are really messy when squashed.

When I saw girls walking through villages with long-beak macaws sitting on their shoulders, I knew I was not in Kansas anymore, so to speak.

Isola was one such macaw girl. Her loose white blouse and tight denims nicely showed her tasty physique. She flagged me down for a ride to her nearby village. Her family's whitewashed cottage was empty when we arrived. Her bed was soon filled with our steaming straining bodies.

Isola's macaw sat on a window ledge and critiqued our performance. Loudly. Isola also vocalized. Loudly. The bird did not seem impressed with me. Isola seemed quite impressed.

"Have you ever thought of leaving here, Isola?" I asked absently as I kissed her breasts gently during our third post-coital cooldown.

"Oh no, never," she said, slowly handling my now-deflated cock. "This is my home. I'm in college now. When I graduate, I'll teach here. I'll marry some local guy. I'll be happy here."

I did not know if I could ever find happiness in any one place.

In Papantla I saw my first ancient structures, the stupendous Ruinas El Tajin pyramids, and the volvadores (VOHL-vah-DOOR-ace), guys swinging by their feet tied to ropes spinning from a 100-foot-high pole. 

I rode up to Xalapa a.k.a. Jalapa (ha-LA-pa), home of Jalapeno peppers and one of the world's great anthropological museums, filled literally with tons of pre-Columbian artifacts. And then down to Veracruz, home of vanilla. Vanilla liquor. Vanilla candies. Vanilla cigars. Vanilla condoms. No vanilla sex, hey?

Veracruz was the major Mexico-to-Spain port in colonial days. It was built in a malarial swamp. Posting there was often a death sentence. "I do not fear Hell; I have been to Veracruz," was the saying. Everyone who could, moved up the hill to Xalapa, the state capitol, almost a mile above sea level, well out of the disease zone. The swamps have since been drained but Xalapa is still the much more comfortable place.

---

I should mention my usual lodgings.

I only camped out when no towns were nearby. Rooms in towns were cheap. In larger cities, hostels are the budget choice for overnighting, if one does not mind unquiet companions. Just twenty-five or fifty cents a night, and hope the guy or gal in the bunk above you is not a bed-wetter. Posadas are much better. A posada may be something like a rooming house or a cheap hotel.

Girls were often included. Typical rates: three bucks for a one-medium-bed room, fifty cents for a girl, another fifty cents for another girl. One buck each if they stayed overnight. Having more than two girls at a time typically required a four- or five-buck room with a bigger bed. So, to stay on budget, I usually stuck with just one or two girls at a time.




Dexterous Dexter 04



I had my standards. Not too young, not too old, and not too plain, although that last parameter could be waived if I was horny enough. I made sure that a shower (with actual hot water) was available, and that the girls and I used it. Clean sex is fun sex. And kissing makes the sex even more fun.

These girls are not very inhibited -- meaning, they took it anywhere with anyone. I had much fun. I made sure they did too. A happy fuck is a long juicy repeated fuck. Oh yes, half of the girls were named Maria.

You may be shocked at the prices. Remember, this was 1972, and those are 1972 dollars. A cheap pack of cigarettes in California cost a quarter then, half as much as a girl here. The OPEC embargo would soon drive USA gas prices to over a buck a gallon, more than an overnight girl. And the Mexican economy was such that even thirty years later, a tire repair might cost as much as three bucks. Living on the local economy was and remains pretty damn cheap.

I also did not pay the Gringo surcharge. Walk into any Mexican marketplace speaking Anglish or with a strong accent, and prices triple or more. I had swapped my California license plates for C.A. (Central America) tags back at Saltillo. With my well-tutored Guatemalan accent, thanks to years of love-talking with Rosalita, and my dark hair and eyes, I could fairly well pass as a big dumb hidalgo kid from Antigua Guatemala, a panza verde.

('Panza verde' means 'green belly' and refers to the vast quantity of avocados devoured by the residents of La Antigua, the world's guacamole center and the old cultural capitol of Central America.)

---

Besides being a power center, Xalapa is also a university town. That means students. Horny students.

I had just rolled into central Xalapa. I stopped at the little zocalo, the town plaza on a hilltop overlooking the city, and stabilized my loaded bike behind a concrete park bench. I got a big cup of lechero (creamy coffee) from a nearby vendor's stand and sat back on the bench to enjoy the view.

A couple of cute college girls walked past. They noticed my bike's C.A. plates. They sat flanking me on the bench and started chatting with me.

My impersonation of a panza verde did not last too long. Tall curvy Theresa was a local, and bought my act. Shorter thinner Inez had come all the way from Mexicali, Baja California Norte, to attend school here. She recognized my underlying accent. She spoke good San Diego-type Anglish.

"Hey dude, are you really from Guatemala? You sound pretty Californio to me," Inez said teasingly.

"Busted!" I admitted. "Yeah, I'm from around L.A. One of my girlfriends there is Guatemalan and she's been tutoring me for years." I ain't really a cowboy, I just bought the hat -- as the song goes.

"ONE of your girls? What, you got muchas tortas, many chicks up there?" Inez shook her lovely head.

"Well, I have a few really close friends, sure. But a gentleman doesn't discuss such private matters."

"Oh, so now you're a gentleman?" Theresa giggled.

"Yes, I am usually a very gentle person. See?"

I started massaging Theresa's shoulders through her thin blue tee. She was wearing an equally thin white barely-there bra. She tensed at first, then relaxed. Her nipples stiffened visibly. She started humming. I dug my fingers in deeper. She started swaying. I worked gently on the neck-and-shoulder junctures, those spots that greatly stimulate women when kissed or bitten or thumbed properly. She started moaning.

Theresa shook, and murmured, "Oh, oh, oh, ohhh..." and slumped into me, puddling.

Inez was stunned. "Holy fuck Theresa, did you just cum?" Theresa nodded slightly.

"What the fuck did you do to her, guy? Are you a fucking sorcerer or something?"

I shrugged. "I practice." Yeah, that's the secret of life: Practicar, practicar, practicar.

"Well, how about you practicar on me a little?" Inez turned toward me with an evil grin.

I repeated my sorcery on Inez. She took a little more effort and time to cum, but she did.

I sat back on the bench with girls nestled into me on both sides, arms around each other's waists, copping a few butt-feels. Passersby glared at us jealously. I smiled a small smile of calm satisfaction.

Life was good. And it would get better. Inez and Theresa shared a studio casita (garden apartment) with auburn-haired Loreta from Guadalajara. Loreta liked being massaged, and much more. I had little difficulty persuading these girls to slurp each other as well as me. We went through all the usual two- and three- and four-way contortions, and then some. I had a fun couple of days in Xalapa. Good food and coffee, too.

---

I stayed overnight in the funky beach resort village of Chachalacas (CHA-cha-LAW-kas) downhill from Xalapa on the Veracruz coast. I had just one girl at the posada that night. One girl was enough. THIS one girl. I met her in the nearly empty bar downstairs. A drink, a dance, then upstairs together.

She looked like an Aztec goddess, one of the most spectacularly beautiful women I have ever seen, a few years older than me, a few inches shorter with long clear black hair. She tasted incredibly good. I licked and kissed every round inch of her. She reciprocated. Her mouth was marvelous; feet and legs and pussy and belly and breasts were glorious. Her toes were tingly. I wanted to worship her supernatural presence.

Her name was Marina. That is a very significant name in Mexican history. Look it up. I asked why she was there. She said that this was how she had fun on vacation. Yes, a sex tourist!

I kissed her forehead, nose, her mouth lightly, her chin, neck, the valley between her superb breasts, her navel, her mons -- and then I slid down. She trembled. I worked my way up from her right side: toes, feet, splendid tight calves, sexy knees, magnificent thighs, her mons again -- and then down her left side, to her wriggling tingly toes. Then her left hand, sucking each finger carefully, and her strong lower and upper arms, her shoulder, scapula, neck again -- and down the right side, finishing at fingers. She was rubbing my head and body whenever I was within reach.

I kissed her mouth, not so lightly this time, deeper, passionate, my hands feeling her breasts, her hands around my back, digging in. I took my mouth to her breasts. She held my head and moaned. I think she came.

I teased down her belly, to her navel, her mons, her inner thighs. Then I stopped teasing. I dove into her luscious cunt. Slit licked. Labia slurped. Vagina violated. Clit sucked. And again.

I was brutal. I was determined to get as much juice and ecstasy as I could, as soon as possible. Marina screamed, and again, shaking like an epileptic, compressing my skull between her strong thighs. My tongue kept working until Marina finally pushed my head away.

"No more, no more, nada mas, wait a minute, yes..." she gasped, then caught her second wind.

Marina shoved me onto my back, straddled my hips, descended onto my stiff cock, impaled herself. We both groaned with palpable pleasure. Oh shit, her pussy was hot, fiery, a blazing tube of molten lava! She moved slowly at first, tits just waving slightly, thighs flexing. Then faster. My right hand clipped her nipples, the other brushed her clitoris. She yelled again, slowed down, then increased her pace until her next monstrous wet orgasm, when she collapsed on my chest. I was near, very near.

I rolled her over for a missionary lesson. I pounded her like a preacher. My sermon was short and sweet and sacred. My closing prayer was loud, HOT FUCKING DAMN!! She bit my nipples as I delivered my offering unto her holy of holies. The choir sang, our voices chanting hallelujah. The gods of sex smiled upon us.

We chatted when we were not fucking. She lived in Taxco, a silver-working town south of Mexico City. Her family's shop sold silver jewelry. Taxco is a very vertical place. She walked up and down hundreds of steep steps every day, liaising between her shop and banks and artisan's ateliers and other merchants. This exercise accounted for her superb body tone, but did not explain why she was such a divine person.

I told her my story, my real story, some of it anyway. My Los Angeles to Panama and back bike ride. My Guatemalan girlfriend and language coach. Some of my sexual incidents. My experience in a family business. My pals' and my own adventures and aspirations, if any. My and Wendy's escapades. Marina laughed a lot.

She gave me her address and phone info and told me to stop in Taxco on my ride back north. We kissed good-bye. Then we slurped good-bye. Then we fucked good-bye. I eventually rode off, dreaming.

---

I rode south from Veracruz into Los Tuxtlas, a small mountain cluster containing the world's northernmost tropical rainforest, and (reputedly) much magic, along with Mexico's oldest civilized culture.

Maria-Talia was another macaw girl, a two-macaw girl really, one on each nicely sculpted walnut shoulder of her tall, dark, beautiful body. I gave her and them a ride along a cliff-edge road overlooking the Gulf far below. She directed me to stop at a secluded scenic lookout. The macaws perched calmly on the bike's handlebars and stayed discreetly quiet while Maria-Talia and I got noisy and sweaty and happy.

"Hey Dextro, you fuck pretty good for a Guatemalan guy. You going back home now?" Maria-Talia lay back on the blanket we had spread out. Waves crashed on the rocks far below.

"Yeah, I'll stay in the old neighborhood for awhile," I prevaricated, "then go on to Panama before I head back to California for school." My head nestled between her generous breasts. Her long smooth toned legs wrapped around my back.

"What's in Panama for you?" She rubbed my shoulders as I nibbled her tasty tits.

"Family. Friends. And I've never been there." My tongue resumed circling her aureoles.

"Mmmm, that feel good. You got anything more to drink?" I reached for a bottle of cheap rum.

"So what do you do around here, beautiful lady? Besides improve the scenery."

She giggled. "This land we're on? This is my family's ranch. I help keep the books."

"Well, I hope your brothers don't ride up on horseback and find us like this."

She giggled again. "They're all in Veracruz this weekend, getting laid. They love big-city putas, whores."

She pushed my head down. "Go on, lick me again, I want to cum some more."

I resumed slurping her snatch. We fucked some more, then dressed, and I rode her and her macaws to the gate of her family hacienda. We agreed it would not be safe for me to come any closer.

I rode easterly along the southern edge of the Gulf of Mexico and into the Yucatan. I was in Maya country now. I was here for the ruins. I saw and climbed many pyramids, big and little, restored and decrepit. The national antiquities board owns these. Big restored pyramids attracted tourists like flies to pan dulces (sweet pastries). The little ruined sites were often more fun. The lone government caretaker was usually anxious to talk to the rare visitors. I enjoyed some of my best conversations in these remote places.

I stayed at Palenque and was absorbed by the pyramids there. This is an incredible place, the crown jewel of Mexican archeology, surrounded by dense jungle teeming with loud birds and bellowing howler monkeys.

On my second day at Maya Palenque, I climbed up the steep Temple of the Sun. I edged around to the backside of its peak, and found two girls, a blond and a redhead, sitting in the shade, gazing out into the boisterous jungle. They were maybe in their late twenties. They wore khaki cargo shorts and white expedition blouses that nicely displayed their toned legs and sumptuous curves. I was in my bike jeans and a tight Universidad de Xalapa tee that showed my runner's physique.

"Buenos dias, senoritas," I said politely, "com'sta?" How are you? (informal mode)

The blond looked a little panicked. "Er, my Spanish is very little," she stammered.

"Do you speak English then, nice ladies?" I asked with an exaggerated Mexican accent.

"Oh yes, thanks, it's good to talk to someone who can understand me. Are you local?"

"I'm from around Los Angeles, actually," I said, dropping back to my accustomed speech patterns. "I was just trying to blend in. I succeed sometimes. And from where have you beautiful girls descended?"

Blond ponytailed Daphne and cropped auburn Kate were vacationing from Toronto. They would have preferred a winter trip but their office schedules dictated otherwise. They had a rental car, and a few days left to see exotic sights and experience exotic sensations. They would stay in Palenque town tonight, then go on to Chichen Itza, then back to Cancun for some strapless tan-building sessions on the balmy beach.

"Would you like to see something really nifty?" They nodded. "Then follow me."

They took my offered hands as we climbed back down the vertiginous pyramid. I led them to a trail into the jungle that I had found the day before. The trail led up the neighboring hill, to a spot where we could look down onto most of the fabulous Maya Palenque complex and the landscape beyond, shading off to the Gulf coast many miles away.

I improvised cushions from a pile of very large leaves. We sat and beheld the stunning scene. I pulled my little bamboo sax from my waist pouch and played STRANGER ON THE SHORE.

Daphne leaned against me. "Thanks for bringing us up here. This is wonderful." She kissed my cheek.

Kate moved in on my other side. "Yes, thanks, and it's really good talking to you." Her lips nipped and tasted my face.

"The company couldn't be better," I said, pulling them both close and alternately kissing their mouths while I rubbed their backs, not abstractly.

I felt a hand stroke my growing hardon. "Yes, you do seem to like our company just fine," Kate teased.

I brushed my hand against Kate's ample breast. I felt her nervous nipple stiffen and grow. "And are we feeling rather friendly?"

Daphne placed my other hand on her smaller breast. "I'm so friendly, I'll have to change my panties soon."

Daphne pulled of her shirt. Ah, nothing underneath but nice soft female flesh. Kate stripped off her shirt too, and the pale pink halter-top she wore under it, with nothing else between her skin and the limpid jungle air. Kate pulled us both to her. Daphne and I each took one of Kate's juicy nipples in our mouths.

"Oh yeah, that feels nice. Jeez, keep going, keep going..."

I unsnapped Kate's cargo shorts and reached inside. I stroked her flat belly and inset navel and bushy pubes. She was commando, no panties, maybe the best option in this humid tropical climate. I felt Daphne's hand join mine between Kate's taut thighs.

Kate picked her butt off the ground. Daphne worked Kate's shorts down while I ran a finger along Kate's excited slit. Daphne's hand joined mine again. Together, we teased Kate's lips and red bush. Our mouths were still glued to Kate's tits. Kate gasped almost continuously.

I felt Daphne's finger slide into Kate's tunnel. Kate groaned loudly. I brushed Kate's clit and she moaned and twitched. I pressed down and twiddled her clit with my forefinger. Then Daphne twisted her hand around and apparently hit a sensitive spot. Kate exploded like an early Atlas booster rocket.

"Oh shit oh shit, fuck me fuck me, oh oh oh... AHHH!! OHHH!" she shouted and wailed. Luckily, a host of howler monkeys chose that moment to roar, drowning Kate's screams. Or maybe they roared in response to her cries. Cause, or effect? Whatever.

"You deserve more," I told Kate. I eased her backward and settled my face between her smooth firm thighs. My tongue devastated her eager pussy. She came again, and again, without too much effort. My face was wet with fluids that would seemingly never evaporate.

"You deserve even more thanks," Daphne said. "Now lose your pants." She tugged at my belt, then slid her own shorts and steaming wet panties off her legs, over her sports shoes. I pulled off my bike boots and stripped off my jeans, leaving me totally naked in the jungle. I pushed my legs out straight, my cock pointing to the sky. Daphne engulfed my cock with her mouth, slurped me very nicely, loading me with her natural lubricant. She straddled my hips and lowered her dripping cunt straight onto me. We groaned.

"Oh fuck Dexter, this is great, oohhh..." Daphne moaned. I bent forward to kiss one breast. Kate took Daphne's other tit into her mouth. What goes around, comes around, right?

"Spread the shirts on the ground behind Daphne," I told Kate. I pushed Daphne back into the missionary pose. I fucked Daphne. I fucked her good. She shoved against me. I kissed her mouth, hard. She bit my tongue, softly. I felt one of Kate's hands tweaking Daphne's nipples and the other strumming her clit. Daphne howled. The monkeys howled too. Ah, jungle sounds...

I kept fucking Daphne until she came again, and again. I finally squirted great gooey gobs of creamy life deep into her. We both convulsed, almost petit mal seizures, almost. Then, quiet.

We dressed, and walked around and up the rest of the ruins for the rest of the day. I rode my bike behind their rental car to their posada in Palenque town and parked next to them in the secure area. We strolled around town together, hand in hand, the girls frequently changing sides. We ate pollo asado and chiles rellenos on a restaurant balcony overlooking the town plaza, and drank Cuba Libres (cola and cheap rum).

We went to their posada room. We shoved their single beds together. We fucked most of the night. We slept late. We fucked again. We finally left after sweet goodbyes. I have an invitation, if I'm ever in Toronto.

*

NEXT: To Guatemala and Panama(?) and back.



Dexterous Dexter 05



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life, which I am adapting and editing. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. The DEXTER GOES SOUTH series is fairly independent of the earlier Dexter accounts. This series chronicles Dexter's travels in Mexico and Central America. For readers' convenience, most Spanish language speech and signals are presented in loose English translation.

If you haven't read the previous episode, you won't get this one, other than the sex, of course.

DEXTER GOES SOUTH #2 - TO THE PANAMA CANAL AND BACK? July-August 1972

(Spoiler: Dex only gets as far as Honduras this time.)

I rode south into steep mountains from Palenque, into the heart of Chiapas state, Mexico's deep south.

I found myself behind a not-so-old Coca Cola delivery truck. The back of the truck was riddled with bullet holes. I took this as a naked warning about the (un)friendliness of the area.

An hour later, I rounded a curve as the road dropped into a valley, and I saw a makeshift roadblock ahead. No military vehicles were in sight. This was NOT an ordinary army checkpoint. I spun around and sped out of sight, back the way I came.

I checked my maps and found a rough parallel road to route me around the roadblock. I took a couple hours to make about three miles. Yes, that track was rough, but it was also fairly close to the main road. I just pushed the bike, all 350+ pounds of the load, leaving the engine off, to avoid making noise that might announce my existence and position to the roadblockers. Discretion is the better part of survival.

I heard gunshots a few times during my push. When I saw that I was nearing the paved road again, I kicked the bike into action and sped off as best I could. Gunfire faded in the distance. I was relieved.

I rode up the highway a few miles, then stopped. I rested for maybe a half-hour, letting my nerves settle and my breath get back to normal. No traffic rolled up the road from the roadblock. I suspect that things got nasty down there.

A Mayan woman stood by the roadside with her hand raised to flag-down a ride. She climbed on behind me and got off near a small steep farm a few miles further on. She gave me a thank-you blowjob and walked home.

I reached my next destination in the brief twilight. San Cristobal de Las Casas is an old colonial city at a nice elevation, over 7000 feet above sea level. My last ten days were mostly in the blisteringly hot and humid coastal lowlands. I decided that I liked cool mountains much better. Yes, Los Angeles gets hot too, but as the joke goes, that's a dry heat, even if it is smoggy. This wet heat was just murder.

I found a posada at the outskirts of town and took a room with a larger-than-usual bed, a room heater, and its own shower -- luxury accommodations! I asked for two girls. I opened my room door at their knock and saw two girls and a guy, none too tall, all attractive, looking to be in their very late teens or early twenties. The guy said the girls were his sisters and he was there to keep an eye on them.

I got definite signals from the guy. I put my hand on his shoulder and asked if he was part of the package deal too. He nodded.

I turned on the room heat. We all undressed and headed for the shower, which was large enough to hold three. We rotated in shifts, three at a time out of four, playfully washing and fondling and teasing. The sisters seemed as affectionate with each other and their brother as they were with me. We all kissed and groped in our various multiples.

Jorge and Rosita and Carmen dried me and then themselves. The girls sat me on the bed between them. Jorge knelt between my legs and took me into his mouth, sucking gently, then more fervently. I groaned.

I was sandwiched between Rosita and Carmen. I kissed Rosita and fondled her cushy breasts. Carmen licked my nipples and ran her fingernails lightly across my back, down my sides, along my thighs. Rosita pulled to rotate me to her inviting chest, her arms wrapped around me.

My cock popped out of Jorge's mouth. He moved between Carmen's legs and started eating her.

I moved Rosita next to Carmen, and slurped one of her breasts, and carefully fingered her slippery slit. Carmen kissed Rosita's other round breast while her brother expertly tongued her. My finger slipped into Rosita's sweet vagina. I reached my free hand over to Carmen's breasts and brushed her nipples. Rosita and Carmen both groaned loudly, in perfect genetic harmony.

Jorge moved back to my cock, tonguing, kissing, mouthing me fully, stimulating the sensitive patch below my little head. Rosita pushed me back and straddled my head. My tongue snaked around and into her pussy, drawing circles around her labia, sliding in waves along her slit, then thrusting into her tunnel, a good tongue-fucking.

Carmen knelt in front of her sister and kissed her mouth and breasts. My left hand clawed at Jorge's head as I fucked his face. My right hand was fingering Carmen's wet cunt.

Rosita shuddered and came, crying softly. Carmen pushed Rosita to the side, off my face, and settled her own pussy onto my mouth. Carmen bent forward; her mouth joined Jorge's at my groin. She pushed Jorge away from my cock and swallowed it herself. Carmen reminded me of Juliana back home -- rather pushy, for hired help.

Carmen was on top of me, her mouth surrounding my cock, my tongue probing and prodding her pussy. Rosita pulled Jorge atop her for their own sweet mutual oral-genital satisfaction. We throbbed, side by side.

Carmen came loudly, and then Rosita, their cries a chorus of pleasure and plunder and promise. I pushed Carmen off me and pulled Jorge onto me. His uncircumcised cock filled my mouth and challenged my tongue. My cock intruded down his throat.

Carmen pulled Rosita atop her for their own 69, their bodies tangling and untangling. Our oral adorations were frenzied and extended. I heard the girls cum multiple times. And Jorge and I came together, jerking and twitching. His ejaculation was surprisingly sweet. Did he drink pineapple juice?

Jorge slowly pulled his cock out of my mouth but kept his clamped down around my softening dick. He swung around, kneeling between my legs again, and continued slurping me gently. Carmen moved next to him. Their tongues shared the duty of re-stiffening me. Rosita levered herself onto me and dropped her vulva onto my face; her mouth joined Jorge's and Carmen's in licking me back into action.

Rosita's juices and her siblings' slobbers drooled onto my face. I happily drowned, and resurfaced. I slurped Rosita to another loud wet climax. She cried, and fell on me, and rolled off me, and panted.

Carmen straddled my hips and lowered her hot cunt onto my straining cock. I saw and felt and heard her engulf me inside her: saw my cock sliding into her labial lips; felt her heat scorch my stiff shaft and roast my little head; heard the soggy sounds of our junction, and her muttered sigh. She slid up and down my ramrod, faster and harder, her stomach rippling, bouncing on me until she cried.

Carmen slipped off me; her place was taken by Rosita, who worked me until she came but I had not, not quite yet. But I was close. I rolled her into doggy position and pounded her energetically. Carmen snuck in and squeezed my balls. I came. Carumba!

We continued similarly for another hour or so. Then Jorge announced that they could not stay the night. They were needed at their home. So I got the bargain rate -- all this sex cost me only one dollar.

---

San Cristobal was popular with European and Canadian tourists, not so much with USA gringos. Merchants were adept at talking people out of their money in English, French, German, and Italian. A few included Japanese in their language repertoire. Nobody bothered speaking Chinese or Russian.

I moved to a more central location the next day, to a hostel that also rented minimally-furnished private rooms and small suites. The hostel was set at the edge of a large walled compound enclosing informal gardens, lawns and hedges. Some areas formed nice secluded nooks for private partying.

My quarters consisted of a large room with three beds and a locker, a smaller alcove with a desk and chair, a bath with large shower, and a small private yard. Sweet. I could accommodate good-sized parties. All this cost just five bucks a night. What the hell, it was time for a little splurge.

International contingents filled the hostel, and thus my party space. I hosted five Israelis one night, four Spaniards the next, five French Canadians the next, and six Brits and Yanks of various colors the next. I provided the shower and beds and some semblance of privacy; they provided the wine and rum and munchies and hash and sex. Sort of a potluck orgy, right? And nobody stole my ukulele.

Ruth was one of the Israeli kids, a sleek sinewy sabra with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and sharp flashing teeth. We jogged and walked the town together for a couple days till her group left for Qaxaca. We spent siesta time snuggled together on a pad in my little garden. We did not nap much.

"You're a strange guy, Dexter. You remind me of Dov back on the kibbutz, always into everything and into nothing, very amorphous and tenuous. Never can be pinned down into any one identity. And much too mature for your age." Ruth idly fondled my stiffening circumcised cock as she lay beside me.

"I'm just me, that's all, Ruth. Big fucking deal. I do stuff, I learn stuff, I adapt. And when I travel, I reinvent myself, but I'm still me." I rolled over onto her and slid my long cock into her depths again.

"Oooh, that's good, just like that. Yeah, so who are you this week? And last week? And next week? Oooh, fuck me faster now, yeah." 

"Right now, I'm just the guy who's gonna make us both cum some more." I stepped up my pace. We did not talk much the next few minutes, just groaned and grunted and sighed and eventually yelled, more than once.

We rolled over so Ruth sat atop me. She ground her vulva onto my softening cock. I kissed her swinging breasts.

"You make me sound like a spy or something, Ruth. Hey, don't we all take up roles when we're in certain situations? The me that's poking your cervix doesn't have to be the same me that's crossing a border or climbing pyramids or photographing nudes or whatever." My cock stiffened; I thrust upward, poking her cervix again. She rode me like Annie Fucking Oakley, shouting and cursing in Anglish and Hebrew.

"Shut up over there!" yelled the accented voice of Ari, one of Ruth's current travel companions. Ari was short, dark, stocky, muscular, and did not like me much. He seemed to think that I was stealing a girl that should be his. Ruth did not agree, which just pissed-off Ari even more.

Ari was waiting on the patio outside my door when Ruth and I emerged from my rooms. He was burning with anger.

"You fucking turd! You keep your hands off my girl!" Ari leaned towards me.

"I'm not YOUR girl, dipshit! Leave me the fuck alone!" Ruth pushed hard against his broad chest.

Ari slapped at her hand. "What are you doing with this goy creep? Go back to our dorm!"

"I'll do whatever I want with anybody I want, anytime. And I want YOU to never touch me again!"

I stepped forward. "You heard her, Ari. Don't touch her."

Ari pushed Ruth aside and swung at me. Bad move. I had not forgotten my martial arts lessons, nope. I blocked his swing, then spun and swept his legs from under him. I stood back as he wallowed on the ground. I felt no need for any more action, just readiness. A couple of his friends ran over, helped him up, and held him while he ranted and struggled.

"Enough already, Ari, come on, just cool off, she's not worth it, let's go," they said as they led him away.

"Not worth it? Fuck yeah, I'm worth it! Get that asswipe out of here," Ruth stormed. She turned to me. "Thanks for putting that creep in his place. He's been like this since we were little kids on the kibbutz, but he's gotten worse lately. I don't know why. But I just can't take his shit any more."

Ruth took my hand and led me back into my room. We entertained ourselves further. Yummy.

Life in San Cristobal de Las Casas is never boring.

---

A vast native marketplace filled the grounds surrounding a huge old church a few blocks from the zocalo. (The foodstuffs marketplace is a bit further out.) Mostly Mayan vendors in adjacent little pavilions and tents sell weavings, carvings, pottery, jewelry, ornaments, snacks, and sex. I noticed chunky German guys lined up outside a couple tents, waiting to get their ashes hauled. I guess they never heard of posadas.

San Cristobal's zocalo is a heavily-treed town square with a bandstand in the middle, the square criss-crossed with paved pathways lined with cast-iron benches. The zocalo is surrounded by buildings of church and state and finance and hospitality. Taxis circle endlessly.

The zocalo is infested with aggressive peddlars of candy, cigarettes, whatever. As Ruth and I found, the only deterrant of peddlers is... necking. Clench on a bench and start frenching, and the sales vermin go elsewhere, looking for more likely prospects.

Ruth and I spent most of two days wandering San Cristobal. Her group of Israelis left the hostel and a group of Spaniards arrived. I spent the next couple days with Silvia and Dorotea and sometimes Muriel, poking into various parts of San Cristobal (and their bodies) and visiting nearby Mayan villages. Back in my rooms, we just fucked a lot.

San Cristobal was an important waypoint for me -- the last significant Mexican city; a good place to have my Yamaha bike serviced by pros; a place to recover from long weeks of travel, and reload for the next portion. Tend to the details. Process film and mail the negatives home, along with postcards and the few small souvenirs I had accumulated. Patch up frayed clothes. Stock up on medicines and maps. Get ready.

---

I rolled south on the highland segment of the Pan-American Highway from San Cristobal to the Guatemalan border. I only had to pay a small bribe to clear customs. My C.A. (Central America) license plates and well-rehearsed local accent helped keep the currency exchange rate down when I swapped my pesos for quetzales. It was almost like being home.

I rode the good highway up the long linear valley of the Rio Grijalva, Central America's major river, to Huehuetenango (WAY-WAY-ten-AHN-go). My posada courtyard was filled with parrots. Friday night beckoned.

Maria and Eva, local girls, led me to the oblong Parque Central after sunset. This zocalo was lit by strands of christmas-tree lights strung between trees and poles around its edges and along major pathways. It had an ephemeral mystic feel, just crystal pinpoints of light hanging in the deep darkness of mountain night. Colorful birds added to the exotic vibe. Townsfolk paraded in their best garb.

Tables lit by bare-bulb lamps were scattered around the periphery. Some held vendors' wares: decorative items and cheap jewelry, sweet delicacies, pornographic cartoon books. Many were the domains of scribes. Unlettered workers dictated letters to be sent to family and friends in other parts of the country.

There were marimba grupos playing, and promenading couples, and wild kids running around, and a few staggering drunks -- a small city's nightlife on display.

We wandered back to the posada. Maria and Eva and I showered and toweled off and kissed. I appreciated their young firm tits with my hands and mouth. I rubbed their shoulders and necks, which they greatly appreciated. Handling their cunts and my cock and balls were activities appreciated by all.

I laid Maria on her back on the bed, with smaller Eva atop her, also supine; their legs spread wide, their vulvas stacked. Maria fondled Eva's breasts. I tasted one cunt, then the other, then back, a double-dip of flavor and scent and entertainment, great fun for my tongue and fingers and their targets. I felt several orgasms. For the hell of it, I continued, and felt several more climaxes, with great appreciation.

Maria and Eva both attacked my cock. I forget whose mouth I first spewed into. They shared. They brought me back to rigidity. They lay side by side on their backs. I fucked one for some strokes, then the other, relentlessly, endlessly, until they came again and I was near. I lay back between them, pulled Maria to my hips and impaled her on my cock, pulled Eva to my head and impaled her on my tongue. I did not last long.

"Ay yi yi Dextro, where did you learn this stuff? You sound sort of like a Chichicastenango guy, but mother of god, you sure don't fuck like one," Maria breathed.

"Practicar, practicar, practicar." My new mantra.

"So you went to some school for this?" asked Eva.

"Well, I *did* practice a lot when I was in school."

"Your las professoras must have been very happy with you, the way you studied your lessons," Maria said.

"Yes, there was one la professora, and she was happy, but only because we beat her up and tied her up."

"She sounds like my uncle Alejandro. He is a dog."

"Every dog has their day, or so I have been told."

"Oh, but dogs fucking in the street, that's just too much,"

"What, your Tio Alejandro fucked in the street like a wild mutt?"

"Just once. That was enough. Now Tia Maria keeps him tied up."

"Yes, and if he's been good, she lets us whip him till he cums."

"Wow, your family sure knows how to have fun!" I said admiringly.

Maria and Eva were sweet. I asked them to stay the night. We drifted off into dreamland, spooned together, listening to birds cooing.

---

After my desayuna typico (country breakfast) of eggs, cheese, beans, avocado, little handmade tortillas thrown by little hands, and the world's best coffee, total cost twenty cents, I rode over the mountains to Quetzaltenango a.k.a. Xela (SHAY-lah), the Chicago of Guatemala, though its air is more like Los Angeles.

I am not much impressed by Xela for culture and entertainment. But a few miles south of that city is the village of Zunil. Zunil is famous for its church, a psychedelic yellow miracle. You have probably seen its picture on posters and guidebooks.

I got back on the Pan-American Highway and rode over Alaska. That is what the highest point on the Pan-Am is called, the highway passing through maize cornfields at 11,000 feet. Beyond this Alaska, I crested the great caldera containing Lake Atitlan (AHT-itt-lawn), which looks much like Lake Tahoe except for the volcanoes and chicken busses and Mayans in colorful traditional garb.

Before dipping into Lake Atitlan, I rode north the few but time-consuming miles to Chichicastenango, site of the greatest indigenous market in the Americas. Chichi sits atop a peninsular mesa overlooking a great valley that sweeps up to Central America's highest mountain chain. The scenery is spectacular. Just ignore all the dead drunks scattered around the streets. Christians driving by manage to ignore them too.

The Chichi marketplace spreads across most of the city center, with vendor after vendor selling pretty much the same items of eye-dazzling beauty, the weavings and carvings and castings and pottery blurring into sameness after awhile. These folks need to learn marketing. Some sell antiquities, some real, most not. You will get the idea after being offered fifty-seven copies of something you have seen in a museum.

Chichi is two cities in one, with two city halls behind adjacent doorways, one each for Ladinos and Mayans. Two sets of cops, two court systems, divided ethnically.




Dexterous Dexter 05



The Chichi cathedral is a Mayan temple. A mound of incense burns perpetually at the bottom of its front steps. Only tribal elders may enter the main doors; lesser folks must use a side door. The cathedral floor was strewn with flower petals. The walls were lined with greater-than-life-size figures of santos and angels, to be carried through town in regular processions. A group of guys squatted in the nave, chanting.

I took a posada room with a view overlooking the valley and mountains. I was warned not to sit in the tree-cast shade in the courtyard; falling five-pound avocados can smash a skull.

Pedro, the innkeeper, was a local Quiche (KEE-chay) Mayan guy who had worked for thirty years in Chicago and Cleveland. He was trilingual in English, Spanish, and Quiche, but the neighboring Ixil (EEE-sheel) Maya dialect was Chinese to him. The thirty-odd Maya dialects are mostly mutually incomprehensible.

Rosalita, my language coach and fuckbuddy back in California, had lived in Chichi till she was eight years old, and had since visited regularly. The accent I learned from her was pretty good. Pedro was surprised I was not a local boy.

Pedro did not supply or arrange for girls but he did not mind that I brought company home.

Avia and Lola had come to town for the next day's market. They were sisters, tall for Maya girls, very chic in their mixed Western and traditional garb, and pretty damn hot when stark naked too, cute and curvy and taut. Their huipiles (whee-PEE-lays, rough blouses) pattern indicated their home village. (That tradition began with the Spanish so the conquerors could keep track of their peons.)

After our shower and foreplay, we lay lightly on the bed. We kissed faces and chests and thighs and pubes. We circled into a daisychain, me eating Avia eating Lola eating me. Sisters really are the best, yes!

When we were adequately lubricated, we adjourned to the scenic balcony. They both leaned over the balcony railing with legs spread and butts beckoning. From behind them, I plunged happily into one, then into the other, alternating regularly, a dozen strokes each time. Lola came first. Avia pulled Lola's head to her own and swallowed Lola's screams with her mouth. A few minutes later, Lola returned the favor.

I had not yet cum. I laid Avia on her back on the bed and Lola just above her, back against the headboard. I slid my cock into Avia, pulled her legs up onto my back, and slid her butt up so I thrust fully into her depths, with her head under my chest. I pulled Lola's pussy to my mouth. Avia sucked my nipples while I frantically fucked her, and my hands fondled and abused Lola's tits while I hungrily ate her.

We all came rather nicely, wetly, loudly. Don't you love when a plan (and all involved) cums together?

I pulled Avia atop me into a tasty 69. Her wide mouth felt like an infinite abyss on my cock. My tongue delved into her spicy pussy, tasting my own cum, and abused her clit. Lola lay beside her and sucked my balls and twisted Avia's nipples. Avia and I grunted, moaned, and came together, our shouts well-muffled.

I rolled Avia off me, and Lola mounted her for slow mutual oral-genital sex. After a few minutes watching, I lifted Lola's face from her sister's pussy and put my stiffening cock in her mouth. She sucked me back to hardness. I moved around and pushed my cock into Lola's cunt while her sister sucked her clit. Lola came again, then Avia, then me again. Avia slurped and swallowed the rich mixture of my and Lola's juices.

We lay back in bed, exhausted. We cuddled and slept, and awoke in the dark for yet more. Sure was fun.

I stayed for Chichi's Sunday market day. Avia and Lola were with me again that night, worn out from their day's activities. That night's activities wore them out even more. No complaints, though. Not from them. 

---

I have mentioned that the Chichi marketplace was immense. Buyers came from around the planet, because any craftwork from anywhere in the Mayan world could be found at Chichi. In that regard, Chichi resembles Nogales, south of Tucson and Phoenix. Just about any Mexican craftwork can be bought in the Nogales market complex. It is much more convenient to shop there than to try to find all the source villages.

I encountered several 'internationals' sifting through the Chichi Sunday market. Yvgenia and Pierre from Marseilles were looking for ancient artifacts, real or otherwise -- they had customers back home for both good stuff and fakes. Georges from Thessaloniki, Carlos from Buenos Aires, and Sylvia from Mendocino, all bought piles of handmade fabrics for shops in their home areas.

Then there was Elspeth, a wiry straw-blond almost-30 Danish woman with big dreams. She was traveling Latin America until her money ran out. She came to Chichi and other market towns for jewelry, artifacts, and other small stuff, to send to her sister's shop in Kobenhavn to sell, to raise more money, to extend her travels. She had already been from Patagonia to Texas and back a few times over the past couple years.

Elspeth had been an elementary schoolteacher. She went on vacation to Peru, to see Cuzco and Machu Picchu. She had an immense awakening. She realized that her soul felt far more at home in Hispanic cultures than in Europe. She did not return to Denmark.

The far future did not matter to Elspeth; her foreseeable future was right here, alive and vibrant.

I breakfasted on and with Avia and Lola, then kissed them good-bye. I wandered through the market's day-after debris. I hit a vendor for my last coffee before leaving town. And I ran into Elspeth again.

Elspeth had loaded her packed merchandise and light luggage onto a shuttle van headed for Panajachel on nearby Lake Atitlan. Her stuff would be delivered to the posada where she had booked a large room. But she wanted to see more of Chichi, and planned to catch a later shuttle. We wandered through Chichi together, chatting, maybe flirting a little. I invited her on a motorbike-ride to Pana. She accepted.

I enjoy riding with a woman behind me on the bike, her arms wrapped around me, her breasts pushed into my back, her thighs pressing mine. Elspeth was quite MILF-ish enough for a very pleasant ride.

We spun around Chichi's periphery to take in the views. We slowly rode the twisty scenic road back to the ridgetop Pan-American highway, then down the steep caldera cliff-hanging roadway to Pana. We stopped at villages and overlooks. We both exercised our cameras. We stripped and laughed and held hands under a high light cascada (waterfall). We felt good.

She invited me to stay with her in Pana. How was I to refuse? And she did not laugh at my ukulele.

Panajachel (PAW-naw-haw-SHELL) had already gained the name Gringotenango. 'Tenango' is a Nahuatl (Aztec) suffix meaning "the place of" or " where x is found". The quetzal is a colorful bird, the national symbol of Guatemala, and Quetzaltenango is "where the quetzals are," supposedly. The huehue and chichicas are other birds, I think, and I guess Huehuetenango and Chichicastenango were loaded with them, I dunno.

Gringotenango is where the gringos are. Especially stoners looking for dirt-cheap room and food and weed and dirty sex. The cheaper and dirtier, the better.

Pana had resort areas catering to various social strata. Rich folks from Guatemala City would come to the fancy resorts for weekends. Middle-class folks from around Central America came to the more modest places for vacation. And cheap hostels catered to the very budget-minded: room and board for one buck a day.

Elspeth had booked into a middle-class posada just above the beach. The large second-floor room was airy, with huge windows giving spectacular views of the town on one side and the lake on the other. Her stuff was already in the room.

We unloaded my bike, undressed and showered, then sucked and fucked. She may have been a decade older than me, but her body was firm and luscious. And she showed me some new tricks. Yummy!

Elspeth had not experienced anything like my neck-gasm trick, though. I won her approval, and some more delightful oral gymnastics. Elspeth had the most talented tongue I have ever encountered. She had obviously practiced. She appreciated that I had also practiced with my own tongue.

"You are a very surprising young man, Dexter. You are not like any other Yankees I have met."

"For an 'older woman', you're pretty great yourself. Did you learn all those moves in Denmark?"

"Oh, the Swedish boys and girls are much more adventurous than Danes, much sexier, more sensual."

"You make me want to visit Sweden next, at least during the summer. Winter must be miserable."

"Winter in Scandinavia, there is nothing to do but write and sleep and drink and screw. So we do."

"Why didn't I see more Swedes and Norwegians around Los Angeles? Why do they move to Minnesota?"

"They are masochists. They migrate so they can live somewhere just as fucking miserable as home."

We slipped into another 69 and slurped each other into ecstacy, then showered and dressed. We strolled the lakeshore and on into town. A kid standing on the cobbled path to the the shore had a brazier full of hot peanuts. I bought a handful. Elspeth declined.

We walked past the knife vendors, parrot vendors, hashish vendors, street artists, etc. We stopped at a storefront eatery for a nice roast-chicken dinner. We walked into the upper town's maze, stopped at a couple bars, danced a little, chatted with locals and internationals.

We walked back to the posada. We sucked and fucked some more. We slept. And I got sick.

Yes, I made it to the toilet in time. But my body emptied its contents and raised its temperature, high. I was purged, shaking and shivering, feverish, pupils dilated, et fucking cetera.

Elspeth woke the innkeeper to ask for a doctor. The innkeeper woke her mozo (servant boy) and sent him to run for help. The male half of a man-and-wife team of doctors appeared within a half-hour, diagnosed me, and wrote prescriptions. The mozo hopped his bicycle and rode to awaken pharmacists for the needed drugs. In under an hour, I was dosed up. By noon, I was almost back to normal. My total cost for doctor and medication: ten bucks.

I learned not to eat street-vendors' toasted peanuts. They are NOT clean. I've never had any problems with other street food. I was advised to avoid ceviche, marinated raw fish. Raw fish and peanuts are killers.

I handed the mozo a dollar tip (two or three days' wages) to thank him for his speedy efforts, which possibly saved my life. He tried to refuse, saying he was just doing his job. His boss hissed at him, "Don't be shy! Take the money!" He finally did.

I later found that the prescribed drugs are mostly used to treat cholera. Holy shit! I had a close call.

I stayed with Elspeth the next night. No more sex, I was still a bit off, but we nicely massaged each other. We kissed good-bye the next morning. She was heading north while I was going south. I rode on.

---

Two roads lead from Lake Atitlan to Antigua Guatemala a.k.a. La Antigua, the old one. The short route was reportedly infested with bandits. I rode back to the Pan-American Highway instead, busier and safer. I took the right cut-off, rolled through quaint villages, and reached the hilltop overlooking La Antigua. The view was breathtaking, a small treed city in a lovely valley bowl surrounded by smoking volcanoes.

La Antigua is built mostly in a grid. Most of the buildings are low, no more than two stories, with thick walls. The architecture grows from local reality -- La Antigua has been stomped by earthquakes, eruptions and mudslides for centuries. A quake in the near future would collapse most of the remaining cathedral.

Some buildings remained in ruins. Some were turned into prisons. Inmates labored to restore the building. When finished, that building would reopen, the prisoners moved to the next ruined project for yet more hard labor.

La Antigua is quite a lovely place, much visited by international travelers, with an amazing array of services. Wide varieties of good cheap food, lodging, entertainment, markets, drugs, sex, the works. This small city of under 40,000 was almost as cosmopolitan as San Francisco. I could spend a year or more here.

Alas, I did not have a year, not yet. August approached. It was time to continue south. 

I stayed in La Antigua a couple days, at a clean cheap-hotel-like posada between the Parque Central zocalo and the hulking fortress-like blood red Spanish Embassy. The posada was run by frizzy-dirty-blond kiwi Shayla.

Shayla first came from New Zealand to vacation in Guatemala a dozen years before. Her heart kept her here. She worked for a decade as a tour guide for Anglish-speaking internationals, then settled down to manage a couple hostelries owned by three brothers. One brother fathered her children. Shayla had gone native. But she did not fuck the guests.

I walked around town shooting photos with my half-frame 35mm cameras. Each could get almost 75 frames on a standard 135-36 film roll. The little Olympus Pen-FT wore its 50mm 'portrait' lens; its other lenses were in my waist pouch. The small wind-up Canon Dial-35 was in my pocket. The Dial-35, with a 28mm 'normal' lens ringed by CdS cells, looks more like a fancy exposure meter than a camera, and was good for firing off a dozen or more silent stealthy shots at a time.

I walked to the zocalo, stopped at Cafe La Contessa for coffee and incomparable tres leches cake, and crossed the street to the large well-treed plaza. Traffic circled slowly. La Antigua felt much like San Cristobal, back in Chiapas, but in slow-motion.

I saw a traveling rig similar to my own off the plaza sidewalk: a Honda 350cc with a travel pack tied to a sissy bar. Beyond, I saw a tall Japanese girl with long hair dyed white, standing before a tripodded camera, setting its timer to take pictures of her. In her background was the squirty-titted-nymph plaza fountain, with the fairly-ruined cathedral beyond that.

I walked over and noticed that her camera was also an Olympus Pen-FT, with its 28mm lens. I attracted her attention and waved my own Pen-FT at her. She smiled. We chatted, first in her rough Spanish, then in her much better English.

24-year-old Midori was motorbiking a two-year world tour, sponsored by the Osaka newspaper for which she reported. She had ridden across Asia, through China and Afghanistan and Jordan, and up and down East Africa, then criss-crossed Europe to Britain. She and her bike sailed to Canada on a tramp freighter. She had ridden down the Atlantic and Gulf seaboards from Halifax to Belize, spending a month and a half in Mexico, and was working her way south now.

Her next destination was the same as mine, Ruinas Copan in Honduras. I asked if she would like a riding partner that far, and she agreed. I asked if she had lodging here yet, and she said no. She took her own room at Shayla's posada. Shayla pointed us to a photo lab for developing our film. Then we explored.

We dined at a BBQ joint across from the imposing Iglesia La Merced holy site. We heard music coming from around the corner. We peered into a tiny window and saw a small room filled with six guys playing a double marimba. Band practice! A rider danced his stallion down the cobbled street under the town arch, prancing sideways, clip-clopping syncopated patterns. Celebrants launched exploding skyrockets from the La Merced church grounds.

Shayla did not provide girls (or boys) at her posada. We found our own, Juanita and yet another Maria, sisters from Santiago de Atitlan, across the lake from Gringotenango. I took Juanita to my room, and Midori took Maria to hers. Ah, so *that's* how it is...

The next morning, after the best-yet desayuna typico, Midori and I rolled east to Guatemala City. I was not impressed by Guate. We were pulled over by a motorcycle cop who was intrigued by Midori's Japanese license plates. When he saw my passport and California driver's license, he got excited.

"Oh, you are from California? I have a brother in California. Do you need anyone to work for you in California? I will take any job you have. Please, hire me! I want to live in California!"

I did not want to disappoint him, and maybe get arrested, so I took his name and numbers and promised to call or write in a couple months. Note to self: Do not return to Guate after two months have passed.

Midori and I decided to see the German colony in the coffee town of Coban before heading for the Copan ruins in Honduras. Our maps, and local informants, said that Highway 5 was a good road. Turns out it was good for goats, maybe. Steep and twisty, monstrous potholes, mile-deep sheer drop-offs into slashed canyons, careening chicken buses, and huge mud bogs. We survived. I like survivable adventures. I had read accounts of the earliest days of motorized travel. I figured that we had gotten off easy.

Midori and I shared a room and two girls in Coban. Our relationship was advancing, right? Well, almost.

We cut across the grain of the landscape to Copan. Only a small bribe again to clear Honduran customs, and my accent again kept the exchange rate low when we swapped quetzales for lempiras. Many Central Americans stereotype Hondurans as wimps because they do not have enough revolutions. Still, we passed resorts with signs telling guests to leave their firearms with the gatekeeper.

We again shared a room and two girls in Copan. It was a fun night. And then I got *really* sick.

I barely awoke the next morning. I was exhausted, feverish, bad color, really yuck. The local doctor said that I was in bad shape, probably tubercular pneumonia, and he could not help besides some prescriptions, that the nearest competent medical care was in Tegucigalpa or Guatemala City. Midori hired a van to haul us and our bikes back to Guate. I said that Shayla had mentioned a first-rate medic in La Antigua, so that is where we ended up, at the medic's girlfriend's hotel south of the zocalo.

Allen and Evita had a fairytale story. She was a local upper-class girl. Her family sent her to school in New York a decade earlier, where she met and fell in love with Allan, a biomedical chemistry student. Her family disapproved of their pairing and married her off to an old grandee. Her hubby had died after seven mediocre years. After the funeral, Evita visited friends in Guadalajara -- and found Allen again, there for a biomedical conference. Their romance rekindled. They cohabited. They were living Happily Ever After.

Allen's research specialty was of classes of drugs to treat... tubercular pneumonia! He was the local expert. He knew exactly how to treat me, with dosages quite different from those prescribed by the Copan doctor. Without his care, I could have died, or at least have required airlifting back to the States.

Midori had to roll on. I sang her a ukulele farewell. She did not kiss me goodbye. I did not blame her.

I spent almost two weeks as Allen and Evita's patient and guest in La Antigua. I got a bargain room rate, and no charge for the medic work except to pay for drugs. But I also had no roommates. I was lonely. And one week into August, I had totally blown my time window for going further south. Rats. Maybe next time.

NEXT: Homeward Bound



Dexterous Dexter 06



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life, which I am adapting and editing. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. The DEXTER GOES SOUTH series is fairly independent of the earlier Dexter accounts, although some characters here are introduced and developed in DEXTEROUS DEXTER 01, 02 and 03. This current series chronicles Dexter's travels in Mexico and Central America. For readers' convenience, most Spanish language speech and signals are presented in loose English translation.

If you haven't read the previous episodes, you won't get this one, other than the sex, of course.

DEXTER GOES SOUTH #3 - SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR, August-September 1972

I rode the low coastal segment of the Pan-American Highway northwest from Guatemala to Tehuantepec. The tropical Pacific coast was just as humid and miserable as the tropical Atlantic and Gulf coasts had been.

Clearing Mexican customs required a slightly larger bribe than had my other border crossings. My Central America (C.A.) license plates and nurtured Guatemalan accent helped keep the mordita low, I am sure.

I stayed overnight in a Zapotec village near Tehuantepec city. Zapotec Indian culture is matriarchal; women rule, sex is loose, gentle men are considered normal -- the exact opposite of Latino machismo. Yes, cocksucking occurred. No, I will not describe it. There are some cultural secrets I just will not reveal.

I crawled up steep cactus-filled desert mountains to the high valley of Oaxaca (wah-HAH-kah). I passed through Mitla, the self-proclaimed MEZCAL CAPITOL OF THE WORLD. In wine country, wine-tasting rooms are everywhere. In Mitla, mezcal-tasting rooms abound. Every distilled batch has its own distinct flavor. I love it.

The Tres Mujares (Three Women) distillery was a hole-in-the-wall backyard operation run by an old woman, her daughter, and granddaughter. Their mezcal had the greatest flavor! But these women were rather aloof.

I sat at a table on the sidewalk outside my posada, with a single candle, a bottle of Tres Mujares mezcal, and a small glass, just sipping the delightful brew, and watching the stars in the moonless sky. Marimba music echoed softly down a side lane. Dogs slunk in the shadows.

An Indian woman in a long white dress and brightly patterned shawl walked along the sidewalk and stopped near me. She carried a woven carpetbag. She looked to be maybe twenty-four years old, maybe Zapotec, maybe not. "May I please sit with you? I am Salma."

I stood, grabbed a chair from the other table, and gestured. "Mucho gusto, Salma. Please call me Dextro."

"May I have a taste of your drink?" I slid my glass to her. She took a sip, placed the glass between us.

"I saw you ride your motorcycle into town earlier. Are you staying here, Dextro? Are you going anywhere?"

"I am riding north from Guatemala. I am only in Mitla for tonight. Maybe I will see the ruins tomorrow."

I sipped. She sipped. She looked up at the stars, then into the candle, then into my face.

"I live in Oaxaca. I came here to visit my sister for a few days. Her filthy husband, the drunken bastard son of a rabid whore and a syphilitic armadillo, threw me out. I want to go back home. I will stay with you just for tonight if you will ride me to Oaxaca tomorrow. I will not get too drunk." She sipped again.

"I would be happy to share my roof with you tonight, Salma. Do you have any luggage or other clothes?"

Salma lifted her carpetbag. "This is all I need to travel. I admit that I probably need to bathe."

"We will both shower and get clean, Salma. But a little later, please. I want to enjoy the stars."

We sat and sipped and chatted in the small circle of candlelight under the immense night sky. I told her my basic story. She told me hers: Small-town girl, went to the big city, worked in a chocolate warehouse, lived with two female cousins, had a boyfriend she was going to dump, had a vain desire to see the world.

The space-cold Orion constellation glared down on us. We went inside the posada to my room, showered, fell into bed. I kissed Salma's face, her firm body, her lovely breasts, her feet, her strong calves and thighs, her smoky vulva. She cried out.

Salma pulled me into a sensuous 69. Her torso raised on her knees to give my hands access. She entertained my cock. My tongue and fingers intruded and inhabited her cunt. She cried again, then sucked me more forcefully. I came like a draft horse, my hands cupping her breasts, feeling her nipples hard in my palms while I filled her mouth with my semen.

Salma stayed atop me. My tongue filled her vagina. Her gentle sucking revived my cock. She rolled off me and kissed my mouth. We shared our mixed flavors. I sat up, pulled her into my lap, her thighs atop mine. She slid onto my cock, wrapped her arms and legs around me, frenched me again, our tongues dancing the mouth mambo. We moved gently against each other. Her breasts sashayed delightfully across my chest.

Salma laid on her back and pulled me atop her. "Fuck me now," she whispered, "fuck me hard. Make me live."

The preliminaries were over. I pounded her mercilessly. She cried several times. I roared for a long time. My orgasm exploded from my cock and rippled through her body like a sensuous shockwave.

We slept, still entangled, like exhausted missionaries. I eventually fell off her. She snored. I snored also.

I awoke at dawn with her kissing my face. My sleepy mouth kissed her in return. We fucked, long and slow.

We toileted, and showered again, then fell back into bed. We just held each other close, and talked.

"Oh Dextro, you are a good man. I wish I could take you home with me. I can't, my cousins would not allow it. I wish I could ride away north with you. I can't, I must remain here, for my family. I wish you could remain here, but you can't, you have places to go, things to do. Why is everything so difficult? Why is the world so crazy? Why can't we have the simple things we love and want?" Salma did not cry, not quite.

I had no answer but my own body, molded into hers.

We rode north to Oaxaca City and I dropped Salma near her home. She touched my face and walked away.

---

Oaxaca is another old colonial city built on a grid. Pleasant place, friendly people, beautiful arts and crafts, cheap sex, yada yada. Women were easy to find. Esme and Clarita were Mixtec women, dark and hourglass-shaped and forward, not quite as domineering as neighboring Zapotecas, but still demanding.

"OK young man, we have all showered. Now you WILL eat Clarita until she screams. Then you WILL eat me until I scream. Then we will see about taking care of you. Do you have a problem with this?"

"Not at all, not at all. But do you mind if I continue with your breasts for a while? I like breasts."

"Oh, so you're really just a little boy, and you didn't get enough of your mama's teats, no? Poor baby!"

I huddled with Esme and Clarita, pulling their chests together, worshipping their fine firm mammary mounds, with skin like slightly milky tea and aureoles like chocolate wafers tipped with dark cherries. I licked circles around each crinkled nipple, slowly and carefully, then sucked them the same way, and then with more oral force, my fingers massaging whatever my mouth was not occupied with.

My fingers wandered gently south while I suckled, down to their already-damp downy slits.

"Ooh, that is nice. If you are a mama's boy, then she taught you well. Did your mama train you?"

"No, not my mama, but her youngest sister was a very educational woman, this I can tell you."

"So you made fuck-fuck with your mama's sister? Did you make fuck-fuck with your own sisters too?"

"Not with the ones I was born with, no, but I have honorary sisters who taught me what they like."

"You are an excellent scholar, young man. Now shut up and put your mouth back to work. Ooohhh..."

I moved my kissing down to Clarita's vulva. I traversed her slit, opened her lips, circled the margins, played tic-tac-toe with my tongue, thrust and parried, then concentrated on her clitoris. I looked up to see Esme leaning over Clarita, each with the other's breast in her mouth, Clarita twitching and groaning.

I infiltrated two fingers into Clarita's vagina and twiddled-about inside. Clarita yelled. I continued. So did she. Clarita was shaking violently, rolling back and forth, and only my and Esme's combined efforts kept Clarita from falling off the bed. Her hands finally pushed my head away. She twitched, gasping.

"Hey young man, you did very well with Clarita there. Now I think you owe me something. Get busy."

"You will get what you deserve. But I don't want to make a solitary effort. Come over here, now."

I pulled her on top of me, her cunt in face and my cock in hers. I started tonguing her pussy.

"Hey boy, you got a nice cock here, a regular chorizo grande. Clarita, come here and help me now."

Two tongues licked my shaft and head as I lingually wrote multiplication tables on Esme's livid labia. I started wet thrusting, tongue-fucking Esme's holy hole. Esme swallowed my cock. Clarita swallowed my balls. I suckled Esme's clit, then bit it, while my hands pushed her tight butt down onto me, shoving her pussy closer.

Esme released my cock as she gasped and groaned. Clarita took her place, slurping me towards ecstasy. Esme came, and came, and yelled, and came again. Then Esme reclaimed my cock and sucked faster, harder. I felt Clarita's mouth on my balls and her hand fisting my cock, following Esme's up-and-down suctioning. I dove deeper into Esme's cunt with my tongue and nose, drowning in pussy. Then I came, and drowned Esme.

"Oooh, young man, you do me almost as good as my sister Anna. Are you in a hurry to go anywhere?"

"I might stay here another night, but only if you and Clarita will show me around the city, OK?"

"Sure, we'll be your tour guides. And then you'll have more guided tours of our pussies, what you say?"

"Hey, is your sister Anna around? If she is anything like you, I wouldn't mind touring her, also."

"You have indeed studied well, young man. You know that sisters are best. Clarita is only my cousin."

I spent that night with this hospitable family, two sisters and their cousin, doing many family things, like singing together, and sucking them dry and fucking their inventive brains to perdition, and being milked dry myself. What fun! They told me where to find them the next time I was in Oaxaca.

I took two side trips from Oaxaca, one to each coast. I rode a loop over the cloud-shrouded Sierra Nevada Occidentale mist-forest mountains, over two-mile-high passes, to the surfing beaches of Puerto Angel and Puerto Escondido on the Pacific. This was just a one-day ride; I returned that night for more Mixtec delights.

The other ride was a longer there-and-back excursion to the Gulf coast over an 11,000-foot pass through the Sierra Nevada Orientale's jagged peaks. The upper portion was alpine and cool; the lowest portion was parrot-orchid-monkey-steamboat tropical, very picturesque, intensely muggy. The morbid humidity was thick enough to cut with a very dull machete, like an after-game locker-room full of wet farts.

I slept in a ratty thatched-hut palapa on a sandy strand between the Gulf and the large Laguna Alvarado. I feared (rightly) that centipedes, millipedes, scorpions, fire ants, and other toxic arthropods might fall fom the thatching onto me during the night. I should probably have just pitched my tent and camped out. I slept alone, and badly, and headed uphill as early as I could.

Oaxaca was a relief. I spent another athletic night with those demanding Mixtec gals, then headed north.

---

I got off the Pan-Am (Pan-American Highway) and rode a side route to Puebla. I tasted various varieties of mole (MOE-lay, spicy chocolate-pumpkinseed sauce) and some spicy mole makers. Puebla is also renowned for its fine Talavera pottery. I bought a few nice pieces to ship home.

I rode back to the Pan-Am and veered towards Cuernavaca. I tasted various fiery fried fishes at locales on the river below the city, and other delights, too. Some of the serving girls were very tasty, not fishy at all.

I rolled up to an open-air eatery over the river near Temixco (tay-MEESH-koh) and ordered spicy fish-fry and beer. I was served and teased by Mayari, a Ladino girl with long black hair and pale skin: thin of body, wide of breast, long of leg, glowing with energy. Her sharp features were mostly laughing. She laughed even more when I played hula songs on my ukulele.

Mayari playfully danced some hula moves that she had probably seen in old cartoons.

"Oh, so you like that hip action, do you, Dextro? How about this now?"

Mayari waggled her hips and butt enticingly, if not too Polynesian-ly.

"You're both sweet and spicy, Mayari, just like the sauce. But are you tender and juicy like a halibut, or squishy and salty like a sardine? Or do you just shimmy?"

I pulled my little bamboo sax from my carry-bag and blew a couple choruses of stripper music.

Mayari looked around for prying eyes, laughed, and mimed a few strip-tease moves. "I'll be a skinned halibut for YOU, big guy!" she moaned sensuously. Then she collapsed laughing in the chair next to mine. She grabbed my thigh and squeezed.

"You got any more slick moves, Dextro?" She brushed both hands up my thighs,

"None that I can show you out in the open, oh beautiful one." I held her wrists. She looked around again, then leaned over and kissed me, hard and tongue-full.

"Well then, let's get out of the open." Mayari took my hand and led me across the deck to an adjacent palapa, on piers over the palm-lined river. "This is my guest room and you are my guest," she said, as she pushed me to sit on the bed. "Play more of that last music, yeah?"

I blew the stripper riffs again, wailing. She danced a slow bump-and-grind, teasing and leering, removing her sandals and blouse and skirt, all that covered her firm flesh, and tossing them to the corners of the room. Mayari pirouetted to me, straddled my knees, moved her dark curly bush close to my nose. I grabbed her bouncy butt to pull her close and nuzzle. She pushed away.

"Your turn now, Dextro," she said, slapping her body to the same beat.

I smiled and stood, and performed my own disrobing ritual as she sat at the edge of the bed. I mimicked her terminal pirouette, swinging my stiffening cock in front of her face. She grabbed my tight ass, pulled me close, nuzzled my equally black and curly pubes, then licked my fully-erect cock.

"Oh, a long one!" Mayari murmured. She swallowed me. I groaned. She slurped faster. I groaned louder.

I did not want a too-fast quickie, alone. I pulled away from Mayari's mouth, picked her up, flopped onto the bed on my back, and slid her into a comfy 69. My tongue probed and pampered her pulsing pussy. She groaned, wriggled, and slurped me with energy and expertise. I was no less assiduous -- she came three times before I filled her mouth with my steaming jiz.

We stayed in position. I gently teased her clit and labia. She sucked my cock back to firm life, then rolled off me.

"I think I would like to fuck now. Wouldn't you, Destro?" She smiled and spread her legs wide.

I need not be asked twice. I rolled atop her and slid smoothly and smartly into her sleek saliva-slickened slot. I moved in slow long strokes, fully into her depths. She wrapped her strong arms around my neck and pulled my mouth to hers while her long lithe legs locked behind my back and her heels dug tight into my butt and pulled me close.

We fucked, slow and serious at first, then fast and furious. She muffled her screams in my mouth several times before I grunted and sprayed semen into her womb, and more semen, and more. She remained wrapped around me. Our mouths were still locked together. I finally softened and slipped from her.

"Oooh, that was really really hot hot hot, Dextro. Your cum is my salsa picante. But I think I'd better get back to work now. Someone might actually want to eat some fish." Mayari kissed me again, then slid off the bed.

We dressed and walked out to my bike, past empty tables. "Come back soon, hey Dextro? I'll have a nice dessert waiting for you." Her farewell kiss held promises of treats to come. Oh yeah, I'll be back. Next time...

---

I rode the short rugged route to the mountainside silver mecca of Taxco (TOSS-koh).

Hold your hand out flat, palm down. Imagine a typical Hispanic village set on your hand: white stucco walls, red tile roofs, cobbled streets, bright flowers and trees, etc. Now spread your fingers, forming canyons and ridges in the townscape. Now tilt your hand at a 50 degree angle, fingertips down. That is a 3D map of Taxco. Mexico City lies beyond distant mountains.

Taxco was once the silver capitol of the world. A magnate of a past century funded a baroque parrochia, bigger than a church, smaller than a cathedral, one of the planet's great religious sites, no shit. The silver mines were flooded and filled during one of the revolutions, killing the industry.

A gringo art professor visited in the 1920's and was inspired to initiate a silver-crafting industry. Some of the world's great silverwork now comes from Taxco. Every shop in town sells silver. Grocers sell food, beer and silver. Hardware stores sell hammers, pipes and silver. Barbers give haircuts and shaves, and sell silver. I do not know if the hookers sell silver too.

And Marina's family sold high-end silver jewelry and ornaments. Remember Marina, my Aztec goddess from Chachalacas, near Veracruz? This was her shop, her world. And she invited me into this world.

But only part-way in. This unmarried woman lived at home. Male overnighters were NOT welcome there.

Marina set me up in the classic Hotel Victoria (before it decayed) overlooking the city. There was a steep climb up to its hilltop aerie, nothing my runner's body could not handle once I had recovered from my illness. Marina drove her VW Karmann Ghia up every evening, and back to her home sometime after midnight each morning. (Almost every vehicle in Taxco was rear-engined, necessary for the steep grades.)

Marina drove to the Hotel Victoria on my next-to-last evening with her friend Celia. Officially, Marina was sleeping over at Celia's home, and Celia was overnighting at Marina's. Neither was expected back until late morning. Neither were into oral-genital contact with each other, nor anal, but everything else was acceptable and welcome. We had an enjoyable and energetic evening.

I slowly regained consciousness sometime after dawn. I was lying on my back between two mostly-prone bodies. I glanced to my left: a beautiful butt. I turned right: another gorgeous ass. I looked down: two incredibly beautiful sleeping heads, turned towards my groin. Both breathed softly, regularly, their exhalations warming my rapidly-rising cock.

What could I do? I licked and nibbled one ass till it twitched, then turned to the other with my lips and tongue and teeth for a similar reaction. I stroked down their cheeky cracks to their moistening slits. I felt movement, then one tongue edging my cock, then another.

The tongue on my left was more insistent. I rolled to my left, pushed the body on its side, raised its leg, and stuck my face in its vulva. Hmmm, it smelled like Celia, a bit less tangy than Marina. I gave her slit a nice long deep lick. Yes indeed, Celia! I separated from Celia, rolled to my right, pushed Marina's body over, and licked her pussy as well. Marina slurped my cock nicely in return. Contact!




Dexterous Dexter 06



I raised my body on my knees, my cock dangling. I rolled Marina on her back and blatantly stuck my head between her thighs, my chest diagonal across her belly. Marina raised and spread her legs. Celia scooted under my crotch and slurped my cock. I was happy with these preliminaries. Follow-ups were even better.

We had a great few days. But I could not stay, and she could not leave. It was fun while it lasted.

Marina and Celia were not my only Taxco acquaintances. Daniel was a lanky guy, born in Taxco, raised in Texas. He said that learning Spanish was easy because he grew up with Spanglish. He had worked as a phone company tech for twenty years and retired early when he inherited his family's vertical Taxco house, at the arch next to the parrochia.

Daniel married cute Rosita, a local cook. She ran the house's downstairs café. His sister Anna ran a gift shop in front of the café. Olive-skinned Daniel mostly sat around drinking mucho cervesa (lots of beer) and supervising the busy womenfolk's work, his black eyes peering down his aquiline nose.

Rosita's Café attracted the gringo expat community. The tables were usually filled with wanderers and fugitives sucking coffee or beer and swapping tips on avoiding trouble and responsibility.

"There's no problem in Mexico that a good bribe won't cure," said effeminate George from Atlanta, sipping his good Chiapas coffee laced with Mitla mescal.

Burly bear Greg from Montana saluted with his Corona bottle, "Fuckin'-A, bro. Play and pay. Down here, an honest cop or judge is one who stays bought."

Big blond Surfer Joe from Malibu chimed in, "And fresh I.D. is cheap." He slugged down some red wine, then toked deeply on a spliff and crossed his eyes.

Expats or exiles? You decide.

---

Taxco was beautiful and fun, but it was time to move on.

I doubted I had time to do Mexico City justice so I skipped around it. I headed west to Lake Chapala and Guadalajara and the distillery town of Tequila, of course. Alas, Tequila was rather a grubby place. Ah, but it is true -- tequila DOES make the drinker horny. Until they pass out, of course.

I rode east again through Mexico's central highlands and landed in incredible Guanajuato (WHA-nah-WHA-toe).

Imagine a one-tenth-scale model of Yosemite Valley. Fill the valley with a Spanish colonial city. Put a road along the valley's rim, strung with villages and overlooks. Dig a maze of tubes under the city for traffic. (These were old mine tunnels and underground waterways.) Tie together the underground, surface, and valley-top roads with a seemingly random set of ramps. That is Guanajuato. There is more. Look it up.

This small state capitol and university town hosts the Cervantes Festival, claimed to be the greatest literary-cultural gathering in the Spanish-speaking world. It also houses caverns filled with mummies. And it is home to the usual assortment of horny students.

HOW TO PICK UP SEX PARTNERS:

1: Go to a public place

2: Look and/or act exotic

3: Answer and ask questions

4: Make sure they laugh

I stopped my loaded motorbike at Jardin de la Union, the zocalo near the university. I sat on a low pillar next to the bike. I played wailing bluesy jazz on my bamboo sax. I waited for passersby to notice the C.A. license plates and my devilish good looks and musical genius, ha. I did not have to wait long.

A girl in a yellow sundress and university book-bag stopped, listening to me finish an intense riff of HARLEM NOCTURNE. Her looks: medium height, curvy figure, strong legs, black hair in a long ponytail, round glasses, a half-smile on her cute face, her head cocked to one side.

"Nice playing. Where is your hat? I should throw a few pesos into your hat."

"What, I need a hat? No, I just play for pleasure, not for money, not now."

"You're from Guatemala? What brings you here? By the way, I am Natalia."

"Call me Dextro. And I'm just traveling. I'm heading to California now."

"Wow, California! What's in California for you?"

"School, music, art, love. What else is there?"

I leaned back and honked out a couple verses of SUMMERTIME BLUES. Natalia laughed. That's almost first base, right there. A happy laugh is the first step to a kiss, the first step to a fuck. Go for laughs.

"So what are you studying here, Natalia?"

"I'm starting off with philosophy and law. I don't really want to be a philosopher or a lawyer, but those seem like good subjects to start with."

Damn, she just opened the door for my perfect setup, my most effective line. This will not take long.

"Ah, philosophy and law! Do you explore deep human problems, foibles of existence, that sort of stuff?"

"Oh yes! These are all about what it means to be human, and how relationships are built and regulated."

"I'm always curious about this, because everyone sees it differently. What do you think about incest?"

"Hmmm, incest, that's a tough one. Law and philosophy say it's wrong, but not always for well-grounded reasons. I guess if I think about it, I'd say that it's wrong if it's forced, but not if it's voluntary."

Her mouth was almost upon the bait. Would she swallow it? Would she bite down on the hook?

"So you would be OK with voluntary incest then? Well, Natalia, will you be my sister?"

I gave her my most earnest and innocent expression. She started, then hummed, then roared with laughter.

"Ha! Aren't you the sly bastard! Well, except for the sex, why the hell should I be your sister?"

Now it was my turn to start, and look surprised. They usually just say yes or no. Nobody had ever asked me that! I told her so.

"Why? Because we deserve each other! You are a genius! Never before has anyone asked me why! You must stay with me and teach me how to think. Marry me, and we can rule the world! As brother and sister! Marry me!"

"What, it's not enough to be your incestuous sister? Now you want to marry your sister too? What kind of weird pervert are you? And what the hell could you offer me? What's in it for me? And how many other girls have you asked this? How many sisters do you have?" Natalia's words were harsh but her face was smiling.

"Oh, very good, Natalia! Give him hell!" said a voice from the side.

I had not noticed another university girl walk up. She was a little taller and thinner than Natalia, with a light blue blouse and skirt, black hair falling to her shoulders, an animated face, a book-bag.

"This avocado-eater sure has the nerve, Zenia! But at least he knows how to make music. And how to weave webs. Sure, Dextro, I could be your sister, but you'd better be pretty rich if you want to marry me."

"Well, maybe not get married, but at least we could practice, right, oh my sister?"

"Oh sure, practice, why not? But how could you take me with you to California? Not on this thing!" Natalia gestured at my motorbike.

"I could stay here. With you! Forever!"

Both girls were laughing now.

"Watch out, girl. You've already agreed to screw him. Now he's about to move in with us," Zenia warned.

"Oh, you live together? How wonderful! Zenia, will you be my sister too? And do you believe in incest?"

"Well fuck me, so *that's* how you got to this! OK, let's get real. What's in it for me?" Zenia demanded.

I raised my bamboo sax and ripped out a fast riff of FLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE.

"As you can see and hear, I am very good with my mouth and fingers. They play other instruments too, of flesh and bone, instruments that sing when they are played right. Will you ladies be my orchestra?"

"So you think you play well, do you? I think I need an audition."

Zenia came up to me, grabbed my head, placed her full lips against mine, and gave me a deep toe-curdling kiss, her tongue trying to reach my tonsils, her hands digging into my hair. I responded well, and long, my hands stroking her sides. Several minutes passed before we came up for air.

"Whew, Natalia, I can tell you that this guy is no second fiddle. You should try him out."

"I guess I must," Natalia said. She wrapped her arms around me and dove for my epiglottis. I was still sitting on the low pillar. She pressed in between my legs, pressed her body into mine, pressed her high firm breasts against my chest, pressed our mouths together, and counted my teeth from the inside. Wow.

Natalia pushed away some time later.

"Oh my, the oral exam certainly went well. But now we must try him on the casting couch," Natalia gasped. "Zenia, take my book bag. We'll meet you at the room. Come on, caballero, let's ride, in that direction," she said, climbing onto the back of my bike and pointing out a side road.

I stashed my bamboo sax and we putted off. It was a short ride. Natalia unlocked a courtyard gate, then her casita door. She dragged me to a long sofa.

"Now where were we?" Natalia asked, shoving me onto the sofa and climbing atop me. Her tongue went down my throat again. Such a *friendly* tongue!

The door opened again a few minutes later. "Hey, save some for me," Zenia said. 

Zenia came over and pulled my boots off. "I just want to make sure you don't get away, mister incest."

Zenia reached between my and Natalia's bellies and unbuckled my pants belt. "That should keep him here."

Zenia pulled Natalia off me. "We are all very overdressed. The casting couch requires skin."

Natalia tugged my pants off me. "Yes, way overdressed. Fix that." She pulled her dress over her head.

I slipped my tee off. Zenia dropped her blouse and skirt. We were all down to our skivvies, me in black briefs, the girls in tight bras and thin panties that matched their yellow and baby blue outerwear.

"Still overdressed," Natalia said, unsnapping Zenia's bra from behind and loosing her savage breasts. "Do me," she told Zenia, turning around. Zenia freed Natalia's tits to sway freely.

I stood. "OK, it's my turn to give stage directions. From here on, we only use our mouths."

I knelt before Natalia, facing her navel, and caught the top of her yellow panties in my teeth. I pulled downward. I reached out to her hips, turned her sideways, caught another bit of the top elastic, and pulled. Another turn, and my nose was in her ass crack, her panties pulled below her chewy cheeks. Another turn, another pull, and her panties were on the floor. Another turn, and my nose was in her muff. I inhaled. "Aaaahhh..."

I stood and asked, "Who's next?"

Zenia knelt behind my ass and mouth-yanked my briefs down as far as they would go. She turned me right, and yanked again, then left for another yank-down. She spun me so my barely-covered cock pointed to her face. She bit the elastic band and slowly pulled it down, past the last obstruction. My briefs fell to the floor. My cock sprang up and whomped her chin and nose. She licked my dickhead, swallowed it, spit it out, sucked it again, then some more licking. She stood and smiled at me.

Natalia smiled and knelt by Zenia's right cheek. "You are so inefficient," she told me. Her teeth pulled Zenia's blue panties down to her cheek's limit. She turned Zenia and pulled the left side down just as far. She turned Zenia to face her belly, grabbed the elastic with her teeth, and pulled the panties down, to puddle on the floor. Natalia's tongue trailed from Zenia's navel down into her bush. "Mmmmm, nice. See, much less work."

Natalia's tongue brushed Zenia's upper thighs. Zenia shivered and spread her legs. Natalia licked the length of Zenia's slit. "Hmm, not quite moist enough yet." She slurped. "Much better."

Natalia pushed Zenia onto the couch and knelt between her knees. She slurped Zenia's pussy again.

"Hey mister performer, let's see how you improvise this scene," Natalia said, spreading her own legs.

I took the hint. I lay on the floor on my back and scooted myself up, my head straddled by Natalia's tight thighs. Her pussy lowered onto my tongue. I reached up for her breasts. My tongue mapped Natalia's sexual geography, opened her slit, traced her labia, probed her depths, ambushed her clit. My hands massaged and possessed Natalia's firm breasts and protruding nipples.

Judging by the sounds I managed to hear despite Natalia's thighs mashing my ears, she was giving Zenia a similar experience, but more practiced. I soon heard Zenia shouting, "Oh yes! Oh fuck! Right there! Oh! Oh!" Then she went silent.

I felt Natalia's weight shift; she leaned forward some more, bracing her elbows on the couch seat. Zenia's warm mouth engulfed my redwood-tall cock. I moaned, and kept munching on Natalia's tender twat. Then my dancing dick was devoured by Zenia's bearded clam, her voluptuous vulva pressed tight against my pubic bone. Oh, bliss!

Natalia sat more upright, forcing her pussy down even further on my tongue. I felt Zenia's hands rest upon mine as I abused Natalia's tits. I shifted my hands to Zenia's boobs. Natalia reached down and twisted my nipples. This was like kicking in an afterburner! I thrust into Zenia faster, harder, further, and sucked Natalia's crazed clit in a frenzy.

Natalia's body quaked as she yelled. My tongue invaded her undefended vagina. Her cunt muscles clamped down on my oral probe. Her juices nearly drowned me. This triggered my own orgasm. I spewed fiery torrents into Zenia, coating her waiting womb with heat and love. And that eruption drove Zenia to her own climax. Her cunt convulsed on my cock, milking me, draining me, leaving me half-hard and doubly alive.

Natalia climbed off me, then turned around to straddle my head again. I felt her lean forward. I could not see, because my eyes were buried under Natalia's thighs, but I could tell that the girls were kissing and holding each other while their pussies were penetrated by my tongue and my quickly-recovering cock. I kept pushing. They kept moaning. My head and crotch were soaking wet. I like the wet season.

They rose, released me, plopped onto the leather couch, dripping. I dropped between them and added my lotion to that surface. Sex juices, salivas, sweats, tears; we thoroughly marinated the leather.

"I think we can offer Dextro here a short-term contract," Zenia told Natalia, "but you can NOT keep him! Remember what I told you about pets. They are so hard to housebreak. And they only crush your heart when they go." Zenia looked into my eyes. "We'll do this day-to-day, OK? No promises, OK? OK."

"I promise to be good to you both, and not to void on the floor or furniture. Is that good enough?"

"Deal," said Natalia, and kissed me. A minute later, Zenia said, "Yeah, deal," and kissed me longer.

The girls were good to me. They did not throw me out when I played rude ukulele songs.

I did not tell the girls my true story, not all of it. They seemed to believe that I was a big guy from Guatemala with useful talents and a foreign scholarship. The girls were middle-class but sometimes echoed the upper-class negative attitude towards Yanks. Mexican elites generally send their kids to school in Europe, not the USA. Something about the USA invasions of Mexico and theft of half its land, I think.

I stayed with Natalia and Zenia for a few days. I explored Guanajuato and the region during their class times. I took day rides to Dolores Hidalgo, seat of one of the many revolutions, and San Miguel de Allende, home of a famous international school. Ah, more horny students! But only time for quickies, no longer than a half-hour each.

Tearful and lustful goodbyes. Then it was time to slap the California license plates back on, and roll.

---

I rode north to splendid Zacatecas. This state capitol is built in a high mountain bowl. The downtown, which looks like an Italian city except for the traditionally-clad Indians, is at 8500 feet. The suburbs rise a couple thousand feet higher. I could not jog very fast or far here.

Zacatecas is traversed by a funicular and filled with museums, classy establishments, and more horny students. The best places for trysts seem to be secluded corners and garden nooks of the old monasteries and convents that have been converted to museums. But fornication can be tiring when oxygen-deprived.

We were behind a planter in back of a huge church-cum-museum. Tina's serape was the groundcloth. Her firm tan legs were wrapped around me, her sandaled heels digging into my straining back. Her high round breasts were more than merely decorative. I pounded her like a well-oiled machine, but with a leaky valve. I did not let my wheezing deter my determination. Wham! Blam! Whew, I just about blew a piston there...

I stayed one night a half-hour from Zacatecas at 7000 feet, in Jerez, named for the Iberian sherry-exporting town. This village housed the offices of three different Gnostic societies. A Gnostic girl decided that I was worth knowing, gaining gnosis. I traced a kabalistic alphabet on her pussy with my trained tongue. My endurance at that elevation was much greater than when I was in thinner air. No mystery there.

I rode on through Durango. The capitol and state seem more connected to Texas than to Mexico City. This is a land of dry ranches, elaborate cowboy boots, and disco volante (flying saucer) barbeque. The latter is easy to make. Remove a yard-wide metal disc from the farm equipment. Weld legs to it. Build a fire under it. Roast food atop it, preferably beef and pork and lots of it. Enjoy.

I took the side road to the Copper Canyon region. I camped one night on a ridgetop. Awesome country, bad roads, maybe next time. Towns here in Chihuahua state are even more wild-west than Durango. Local women love to ride cowgirl style and they usually remove their boots and spurs before mounting a man. Usually.

I stayed at a mountain girl's log cabin. We showered naked under an icy cascada and screwed in a saddle mounted on a log: she in my lap, impaled on my cock, her arms around my neck, wriggling and clawing like a spastic wildcat. When I leaned her over the saddle and took her from behind, she howled like a coyote.

Rather than retrace my southbound route through Ciudad Chihuahua to the border, I cut west across the Sierra Madre Occidentale on Highway 16. This is a high lonesome mountain road running through unpeopled wilderness, one of the most remote regions of North America. Do not break down here. Do not run out of gas. The next vehicle may not pass for a day or more. Hungry cougars may find you first.

I stayed in a small town near the mountains' crest, 200 miles till the next gas station. Seemingly every posada and motel in town had fiestas going on in their courtyards. I snuck behind a brick oven with yet another Maria, a dark Ladina with gravity-defying breasts, iridescent butterfly-wing eyes, and a slightly screechy voice. She did not do oral but she sure could fuck like a bunny. I staggered back to my room.

I rode on to miserable broiling-hot Hermasillo, then north to Nogales. I was suddenly stateside again. My first stop after crossing the border was for a lousy but familiar Big Mac, to re-Americanize my gut.

I rolled into my sister's place in Tucson. I debriefed Melinda and Dan on my journey, censored of course. We agreed that, other than illness, I had done pretty well. I had not been shot, jailed, robbed, raped (well, only a little), drafted, deported, nor eaten by tarantulas. All was well.

I stopped in Yuma to see Marie and Doris again. They kidnapped and fed me for two nights. We fucked and sucked like insatiable insects. I promised to return on as many weekends as I could. Yuma was about a four hour ride from home, quicker if I sped. That was quite do-able. So were Marie and Doris. Do-able, I mean.

And then I was home. End of the journey. Not the end of the story, though.

---

Wendy had just returned from her full-circle USA+Canada observatory tour with Alma-Li and Kirk. Her next hot-tub party was in my honor. I was royally fucked by all our remaining local circle of friends. Whew!




Dexterous Dexter 06



Wendy started inviting Miss Tompkins to her parties. We all enjoyed tying her up and humiliating her.

A biology teacher at Piedmont HS quit and moved to Nevada to manage a brothel outside the state capitol. He advertised for recent local graduates to apply for jobs there. Paul and Paula were rejected as too odd.

I retrieved all my mailed-home parcels of trinkets, souvenirs, and especially my zillions of negatives. Printing everything kept me busy off-and-on for weeks. I eventually had some published in various venues.

Doctors at home checked my physical condition and gave me a clean bill of health. The treatments worked.

My honky grandpa and Alma-Li's Chinese grandma did indeed marry. They delayed the wedding until my return. I felt honored. This made Almy my cousin, but she still would not marry me, not even in Arkansas.

And I went on to college, and more travels, and strange experiences. Stay tuned for more tales.

NEXT: Dexter grows up.