Friday, December 8, 2006
"Toys in Babeland" or "No Thanks To Jesus"

Kelsey and I like to rent a suite in downtown Cleveland from time to time. There are still luxury hotels downtown where businessmen stay who have business in one of the several giant skyscrapers that loom over the core downtown area. And wherever there are wealthy people, there is entertainment, so there is always something to do.

And of course, there is always The Cleveland Indians who play in what may be the best ballpark in the world, Jacobs field. Too bad having a good ballpark doesn't get you into the World Series. Not that I follow sports much. Even so, an evening at the ballpark is fun from time to time (and hot dogs always taste best in a ballpark, don't they?). In the winter, of course, entertainment downtown is movies, plays, and nightclubs.

While Cleveland had a reputation when I was growing up as a renewal city that was getting back on its feet after the death of the steel industry and the gradual decline of the railroads (for Cleveland was at one time the central rail hub connecting the northeastern states with everything to the west, earning it the slogan it still uses, "The Best Location In The Nation").

Powered by high tech and by being the home of a number of large companies and conglomerates, it seemed to be on the rise, but in the last decade or so gone all the way to rock bottom, having been declared recently the poorest of the major cities.

Even so, going downtown for a weekend in a luxury hotel is a nice little mini-vacation that my boss and fuck buddy Kelsey and I do from time to time. I always call her my "boss," because where we work that's what she is, but in reality she's my best friend and there is no superior-subordinate aspect to our friendship. She likes the taste of my pussy as much as I like the taste of hers. At the same time, at work I play the role of subordinate completely, so as not to tip off anyone that we are anything other than coworkers at work and casual friends outside of work.

At about 30, she's still at her physical peak, much of it owing to the fact that as an ex-model she knows how to take care of herself and present herself. Add on to that the fact that she actually does take care of herself and of how she presents herself, and she's my inspiration.

I love her.

Six feet tall, she once modeled clothing in Milan, Paris, and London, but as she grew out of her teens and become more interested in her health, her breasts became too big for fashion work and she refused to even consider reduction surgery. I think she might have switched to adult modeling because she's totally blasé about nudity and just as sexually uninhibited as I am. She might, that is, had she not gotten a job with our company first.

A couple weeks ago, late November, we had checked into one of the top hotels. The nights were already very cold and crisp, and the hotel restaurant had a good Michelin rating, so staying out of the cold and just cocooning ourselves sounded like a very pleasant option.

Since we fuck each other, when we're out like this we cater to each other's tastes. I love her boobs so she often treats me to a plunging neckline. She loves my legs and ass, so I often wear a skirt or dress that shows these features off to best advantage. She was wearing a gray herringbone pattern suit cut just above the knee. The only departure from normal business decorum was a blouse that she left open enough that at a certain angle she showed quite a bit of bazoom. Even though her boobs are a large C, bordering on D, they are very firm and perky and she has almost no fold under them. They are crowned with nice puffy nipples that all but scream "Play with me!." I haven't seen a better pair anywhere.

Now as for her, she goes nuts over the schoolgirl look, and while I would have looked silly going to a movie or restaurant in a totally fetishistic Catholic or Japanese schoolgirl getup, I did dress up in an outfit a coed might wear on the campus of an eastern Ivy League college or university. The pleated skirt was the standard schoolgirl green plaid, reaching not even halfway down my thigh so that if I did a "touch my toes," my ass would pop into view. On top, I was wearing a thin and snug black wool sweater that buttoned up the front. A bulky sweater would have hidden the curvature of my back. This curvature is essential to showing off one's ass and you can't have a great ass without one. You may have butt cheeks that look like a pair of soccer balls pressed together, but without that curvature, your ass doesn't stick out and you've got no game, as a guy might say. Here's a photo showing the skirt (different top) and making the point about back curvature and ass shape:

I think you can see, a flat back isn't my problem. I've even seen girls with small butts but lots of curvature who look terrific! Below I was wearing opaque black wool stockings that came up only to just above the knee, leaving about half my thigh exposed. My shoes were Mary Janes which further fed Kelsey's schoolgirl fetish.

After our check-in in the late afternoon, we went to see Casino Royale in one of the Terminal Tower theaters. It was 8:30 by the time we walked into the restaurant. You could just about hear the "schwing" of stiffening peckers as we walked up to the hostess. She (the hostess) addressed Kelsey, probably because of her business attire and the fact that she looked a bit older. Kelsey explained that we had no reservation but hoped they could find a table for us. This young woman was pretty but businesslike. She made no attempt at all to be charming and simply told us if we'd wait in the bar, she could probably fix us up in 10 or 15 minutes. And so we walked over to the bar and had two Spanish Coffees. (Now, for a lot of women, Spanish Coffee might as well be named Spanish Fly, since warmed alcohol is absorbed even quicker than cold alcohol. Oh, and by the way, odd fact: Did you know that Spanish Coffee wasn't invented in Spain? It was invented by a barman at Huber's Restaurant in Portland, Oregon.)

It took more like a half hour to be seated, and by then we had had two drinks each, which because they were warm drinks was more like three. In other words, we were, as a friend of mine often says "just flying low." The drinks had tempered our hunger somewhat as well, so we just had a couple large salads, no entree, though we surprised our waitress by giving her a tip as though we'd ordered full meals (I can't stand people who get cheap with service people.)

On the elevator back to our room which was on the 12th floor, Kelsey molested me in the elevator, slipping her hand under my skirt and right into my white cotton schoolgirl briefs, where one of her long fingers slid quite easily into my very well lubricated snatch. From about the 6th floor to the 12th she finger-fucked me hard. When the elevator door opened, I pulled away and sprinted toward the room. Stopping with my back against the door, I watched her as she approached at a pace somewhat slower than normal so as to taunt me.

But when she got to me, she changed back into the sex-crazed tigress from the elevator, dropping to her knees, yanking my panties halfway to my knees, and put her mouth to work on my pussy. Not the best position, granted, so I thrust my pelvis forward to provide better access. Everything about Kelsey is long, including her tongue, so soon I was enjoying the feelings she was giving me with the alternating lunges and caresses of her tongue.

Suddenly, we heard activity through the door across the hall. Knowing that that door might open at any moment, Kelsey shot back up to her feet and provided cover for me as I pulled my panties back up and made myself look decent again. As the door opened and an elderly couple emerged, we tried to look normal, though I'm sure both our faces were flushed. They had to know that something had been going on!

Kelsey had the card key and let us into the room, where she continued to molest me. "Goddamn you, you're so hot," she said as she pushed me onto the couch. She got down next to me and kissed me deeply as she caressed the skin of my upper thighs and rubbed my pussy through my panties.

Long experience with me told her what I wanted, so she stood up and took everything off the top so I could have fun with her tits. And while she was disrobing, I removed my panties and my sweater. Soon I was having my G-spot pretty nicely massaged while I was sucking on her tits. She brought me near orgasm several times, but held back as much to save me for better things as to tease me. By then, I had started massaging her crotch as well, which she keeps unshaved (but bikini trimmed). She knows a hairy pussy is one of my own fetishes, despite the fact that I myself shave. And she likes them shaved, so we're a good match for each other in this and so many other ways.

After a while, there was a pause while we both collected ourselves for what we knew would be much more, and she said, "Remember I said I had to go to the store before picking you up?" "Yes." "Want to see what I bought?" I really wanted to fuck, but sometimes with a lover you have to play along or you'll really kill the mood, so I said, "Sure," hoping to get this over with quickly.

She sprang up and walked into the bedroom area getting rid of her skirt and panties as she did so. I followed suit until I was attired in nothing but stockings and Mary Janes to match her thigh-highs and heels.

She returned with a sack and I was preparing to see the latest blouse or skirt or bra/panty set when she dumped the most outrageous collection of sex toys I've ever seen on the couch next to me. "Wanna have some fun?" she asked. I'm sure I looked like a kid who's just wandered into a candy store as I just said "Wow...yeah!"

She slammed the toys back into the sack they came from and took my hand, leading me to the huge California kingsize bed. She had been preparing for this, because all of the toys had been taken out of their packaging and loaded with batteries if batteries were required.

She started off small with one of those lipstick-size vibrators, also called a "pocket rocket." Instead of applying it directly to my clit, she just cupped it in her palm and let the vibrations travel down her fingers to my vulva. Only after she got me going that way did she apply it directly. Despite their size, those little vibrators are powerful. I had no idea...

While she used the pocket rocket, she kissed me passionately. I've already mentioned her long tongue, so I was having my pussy massaged at one end and my tonsils massaged at the other.

I pushed her off when I was about to orgasm, and from the smug little smile on her face it seems she understood why I'd done it. We cuddled a bit.

Next up was a long clear-plastic dong with some sort of spiral reinforcement inside. Instead of kissing me, Kelsey kept all of her energy for the toy, at first sliding it in slowly and then working it like a piston while I gripped the bedspread with iron-like claws because it felt so good.

Once again, I was on the verge of cumming, and pushed her away at the last second.

She kept me in ready mode by kissing and licking my upper thighs just up to but not quite at my pussy. She knows this drives me nuts.

When I was ready to go again she let me pick out the next toy, and since I'd never used the kind of vibrator called a "rabbit," I wanted to try one out. I wasn't prepared for the sensation which almost had me jumping out of my skin. The rabbit is shaped like a vibrator and this part is inserted into the vagina. But it also has a little (what to call it?) finger or flange or nib that touches the clit. Now, I guess there are different designs. This one didn't just vibrate. It had a knobby core that rotated under the skin of the part that goes into the vagina. In addition to this, the finger part vibrated and rotated in a circular motion, and Kelsey concentrated to keep this finger on the clit.

I'll tell you right now, I went right out afterward and got myself a rabbit, and it can make me cum almost too quickly. As it was, I had to stop her after about two or three minutes, once again because I would have cum so hard I would have been totally wasted afterward, a smoking heap of sweaty and quivering flesh.

After a little breather, I turned the tables and used the rabbit on her for a while, and she could take it a bit longer than me, but finally had to push me away as well. After that, I just slowly licked her pussy for a while, enjoying the feel of her pubes on my tongue.

Then we kissed a bit more and just ran our hands all over each other's bodies until Kelsey looked at the toys again. I didn't have to ask which one she was looking at. It had to be the same one I was looking at, and the next logical choice for upping the orgasmic ante. It was a very large double-ended dong made of a soft red gel. It was a bit girthier than the ones I'd seen so many times before.

My smile told her everything. She smiled back and asked, "How about we both use it at the same time?" I told her that was a great idea, and so she grabbed a bottle of lube that was nearby and got both ends ready.

Now, one of the best ways to use a double-ender is for both girls to get into a doggy position because this give both of them full use of their hips. Normally, what's done next is to insert each end into a vagina and off you go. However I guided my end into my asshole since I hadn't had a good assfuck in a little while (and you know how much I like to pleasure my ass). Kelsey, who's not into anal quite as much as I am, opted for the more normal insertion and off we went, finding a rhythm that worked for both of us, although it was more important for her since when I assfuck, it's the masturbation I do along with it that really makes it happen.

And so I just got into a doggy position, working with Kelsey who didn't want to cum early, so we must have fucked each other like that for a good 20 minutes before an increase in the rhythm and a familiar change in Kelsey's breathing and quiet vocalizations told me she would be cumming soon.

I kept myself on the brink until I was sure she'd be cumming any second and I let myself go. We came just about simultaneously, I would guess. I'm not absolutely sure because it was a mind-blowing orgasm that took me on a little trip into my own head for a while. When I became aware of my surroundings again, the toy was no longer in my ass and I was laying on my side as Kelsey was laughing at me. Why was she laughing? Because I'd squirted, soaking her and half the bedspread. I think I've soaked more bedspreads and sheets than just about anybody.

We yanked the bedspread off and luckily it hadn't soaked through to the sheets underneath. By then, it was still only about evening news time. This suite had an in-room hot tub and Jacuzzi which we filled up with water and bubble bath soap. Have you ever tried to do a bubble bath in a Jacuzzi? We discovered that if you turn on the jets, the water foams up so much it starts flooding out of the tub, so we had to stop the jets and just soak ourselves.

Okay, so now it's about midnight, we're squeaky clean, and the fact that we had had a sparse dinner has caught up with us. We're hungry, but we agree that we don't want to get dressed to go out on a potentially futile search for food, given the hour. So, we turn to the room service menu. Now, room service food is grossly overpriced, probably because the hotels know it's a tax deduction for business travelers. If you travel and go to dinner in a restaurant, you get a 50% deduction. Order room service, though, and you get a 100% deduction.

I wanted a burger and fries and Kelsey wanted a BLT and potato salad, so we placed our order and, dressed in the robes the hotel supplied, waited for the food to come. In about 30 minutes, there was a knock on the door, which Kelsey answered. A cart rolled into the room propelled by a cute guy in a silly hotel service uniform, jauntily tipped pillbox hat and all.

I could tell he was making Kelsey hot, because she engaged him in conversation and let her bathrobe open up enough to give him a glimpse of Heaven. Turns out his name was Jesus (pron. "haysooss"). He was Puerto-Rican. Chatting him up, we found out his shift ended at 1 a.m., in about a half hour. She invited him to return and he said he would. There was an outside chance he was just working for his tip, but we gave him a good tip, he wrote on our food bill, and we crossed our fingers.

We waited as we ate and...no Jesus!

Eventually, I picked up the dishes and put them back on the the tray Jesus had left us. That was when I saw the bill. I handed it to a puzzled Kelsey who read it and let out a huge guffaw.

On the note he had scribbled, "Thanks for the great tip, but I'm gay."

I'm sorry if I'm boring anyone with these memories. I know in some ways they aren't as blazing hot as some of my more recent escapades, but especially for the other girls out there, I'm sure they have memories of their own they can relate to mine. It's been great getting some of these early memories out of my head. It's a way to relive them and for me the rediscovery of events and facts that had been lost has been wonderful. Soon, I'll be on to more recent adventures, and then later on perhaps I'll get into some of my experiences while in college...

The next summer, I also worked on Seth's horse ranch, which he ran with his virtual wife, my Aunt Maggie. She was much like her sister, my mom: very close in age and very similar physically. Both of them curvy women out of a Marilyn Monroe/Bettie Page mold.

I had been hoping that Larry would be back, since I'd turned him into a pretty comfortable fuck, and I'd become ever so much sluttier in my behavior and attitudes during the intervening months. This was the year leading up to my high school graduation where, if you'll remember from a previous story, I'd let a nerdy guy I liked redeem his masculinity by letting him fuck my ass in front of a number of our classmates on Prom Night. That made him famous and respected by our peers, which was just as I had intended.

Anyway, when I arrived I was told that Larry, who had started at an Ivy League college, would be interning in a Washington, D.C., law office over the summer. To my disappointment, it was going to be another girl my age who was the niece of another rancher. An L.A. girl, I was told.

Leslie turned out to be a short little gal, a bit on the chubby side. Like a lot of girls in that age group, she had decided that she wasn't terribly pretty, so she would be interesting. (And I'm using the word "interesting" in a special way to mean fascinating in the sense that a piece of roadkill or a giant purple turd might be, not fascinating like super string theory or an elaborate and gorgeous Navajo rug.)

She had the obligatory dyed-black hair of the goth chick and really outdid herself in the makeup department, looking for all the world like Rocky Raccoon. She wore the tightest, shortest denim skirt I've ever seen. While punk and goth are style cousins (goth being an outgrowth from punk), she was poised in between somewhere as though she couldn't decide to hate The Man or worship Beautiful Death.

Her attitude was worse than Larry's had been when he started the prior summer. Worse because instead of simply holding back from helping, she acted like everything you asked her to do bothered her. I overheard Seth and Maggie talking and he, usually quite emotionless and nonplused, said something I could barely hear about taking her out back and putting her out of her misery. Maggie laughed, knowing, no doubt, that he wasn't really serious and that what was really funny was that he had displayed his attitude toward Leslie with such intensity. For her part, Maggie was pissed at Leslie enough to even complain to me about her, but all I could do was shrug. I had no defense for Leslie and was just about as frustrated, because most of the work Leslie managed to leave for others to do fell to me.

One morning while Leslie was watching me clean out the stalls, I heard Maggie yelling. Well, actually, it was more like screaming. Seth had been thrown by a horse (which, believe me, would have to have been one vigorous horse: Seth had been a good rodeo rider a decade or so earlier). Anyway, as luck would have it, he wasn't thrown to the ground, which might have made him sore or at worst might've knocked the wind out of him. Rather, he was propelled toward a water trough and had landed on his side, breaking at least one rib, as I could tell when we got him back to the ranch house and helped him get his shirt off. I could tell he had broken a rib because a rib bone was protruding from his side. And his side was a very distressing color as well.

Maggie is not someone who panics easily, and so it was a shock when she got nearly hysterical and yelled at me to get on the phone and get a helicopter out here, so I called the State Police and they said a chopper would be out as soon as they could get one there, which took the longest half hour of my life, because Seth was showing every sign of getting worse. Nobody said it, but I am sure that Maggie was worried that she was about to lose her lovely and gentle non-smoking Marlboro Man.

When the helicopter landed, sending the horses into a tizzy, a pair of paramedics and two troopers came into the house. By then, Seth was no longer speaking. "He's gone into shock," said one of the parameds. "Let's get him out of here NOW!!!" said the other one. In a flash, he was on a stretcher and headed for the helicopter where, they said, they could better treat him, and that it was best not to waste any time getting him to the hospital.

Maggie asked if she could come along, and they said she could. She quickly grabbed her purse and a jacket and really didn't have time to grab anything else. As she left, she quickly turned and, bless her, she apologized for yelling at me. I told her never to mind: I completely understood why she had. Looking at both Leslie and me, she said, "You girls are running the ranch for a while. Maybe a day, maybe longer." Then she left. I looked at Leslie, who was white as a sheet and, covering her mouth, went to the kitchen sink where there was an explosion of multicolored vomit.

Now, if I had had to run the ranch on my own it would have been bad enough, but to have to run it and babysit Leslie, too, made it unspeakably worse.

I thought what still had to be done in a typical day on the ranch and made a list. I then put it on the table and underlined some of the simpler tasks and told Leslie, "I'm sorry, but farting around time is over. This is a ranch and there are things we need to do to keep the horses healthy and alive, and I can't do them all myself."

She nodded which I guess meant she knew things had changed.

"I'll make dinner for us when the chores are done," I told her, just to punctuate that she had to do them. I tried to sound cordial, since I realized things were unpleasant enough without any more personal antagonism.

While she hadn't done much work in prior days, she must have been observing, because everything I'd asked her to do, she did fairly well. I did have to tell her how to do this or that a bit better, but she got most everything basically right to my total and utter surprise. She even turned out to be a strong little thing, and some of the tasks I thought she might need some additional muscle to accomplish, she did entirely on her own.

Because of being short-handed, the chores weren't done until 7:30 p.m. instead of 6 p.m. and so I got a late start on dinner. I was pretty bushed myself, so I slapped together a meal of canned corned beef hash with fried eggs on top, canned lima beans, and garlic toast. Totally impromptu and totally unhealthy for anyone who hadn't done a hard day's work, which we had. We followed it with with some warmed-up apple pie a la mode.

"You've been a big help, today," I told Leslie as she scarfed down her food. I added, "Thanks."

"I guess I've been an asshole," she said.

"Not to put too fine a point on it," I replied with no small hint of sarcasm, followed by a sympathetic laugh, for I was coming to like this girl.

She looked at me and laughed back. I took the opportunity to ask, "So what's your problem, anyway?"

"Where to begin: My mom and I hate each other. My dad left years ago, probably chased away by my mother's sour attitude. He has had a series of girlfriends, each worse than the one before. I'm ugly and everyone laughs at me. I don't like the music most of the kids like or the things they do to entertain themselves. I just never feel I belong."

I stopped her and said, "You're not really ugly, but you're not doing much to make yourself attractive. How many guys sit around wishing they could meet a girl who looks like a raccoon?"

"Now, I've seen some fabulously beautiful goth chicks, but they are the ones who really know how to use cosmetics. How about after dinner let's go and play with makeup?" "Sure," she replied gamely. I suddenly realized what her problem was: nobody was taking an interest in her, so she had adopted an approach to life that explained that situation while getting her attention. Even if it was negative attention.

She helped with the dishes and with generally tidying the place up and then we went back toward the bathroom. "Get that stuff off your face and meet me back at the kitchen table," I said.

I got my own cosmetics out and a mirror from Maggie's room.

The first thing I realized when I got a good look at her face was how naturally pretty she was. In fact, I was stunned that she was hiding this gorgeous face behind some of the silliest makeup I'd ever seen.

"You're beautiful!" I declared, and I'm sure my sincerity came through, because when she said "Really?" it was with more than a hint of surprise.

Then she went (as teen girls often do) into a lament about her faults. She was short (about 5'2"), her boobs were small, her hair had to be worn straight because it couldn't hold a curl, and besides it's just mousy brown anyway which is why she dyes it black...

"Hold on," I said. "Don't kid yourself that every guy is looking for a six footer who needs DD cups. Stop looking like you hate the world and everything in it. Your problem, I think, is that you look unapproachable. You don't look like you're available at all. Let's see your boobs."

She took off her top and her bra. I laughed when I saw them. At first she seemed hurt, but then I said, "No, here's why I'm laughing." I took off my own shirt and showed her that my boobs were smaller than hers. "Oh," she said with a big smile. I added, "I've been having lots of sex this last year and believe me, my 'A' cup size hasn't been a problem. And yours...my God, what gorgeous puffies you have!" She didn't even know that there were names for different kinds of nipples, and that puffy nipples were regarded by many as especially sexy, so I told her.

I said, "Show me the rest. Take the rest of your clothes off. It's just you and me, don't worry." She took off her clothes and I had to level with her. "You are a bit soft. You could stand to lose about 10 or 15 lbs. But there's good news, too." "What's that?" "A few weeks of hard work will probably take them off, and without any unhealthy and risky dieting. You're just a few weeks away from a brand new you." "Think so?" she asked. "No doubt," said I, adding, "But you're cute as is. Still, I assume you'd rather not be mainly of interest to 'chubby chasers.'" "No, I wouldn't," she admitted. "I've met those guys. Mainly middle-aged men who've come on to me. It's embarrassing. I want to tell them 'What the fuck, you ignorant shit. Can't you see I'm a goth...not to mention underage? Get outta here before I call a cop!'"

We both laughed hard, she because she was having fun and I because when she came out of her shell, she was actually a lot of fun to be with.

And I'm not kidding you or exaggerating for the story. Aside from being short, which only kept her from being a fashion or runway model, she had lots of potential for being hot. And as for her size, sure, some guys want leggy six-footers, but a little woman can be hot in her own way. And I've never understood the obsession with tallness when it comes to women, anyway. Aren't we the smaller sex? So being extra small would be a super-feminine characteristic just as being large and muscular might make a man a super-male.

So, I went to work on her face showing her several different looks she could have, from one that looked natural but was anything but, to one she could use when out clubbing. I showed her how to build up makeup in a way that keeps you from overshooting the mark. The best way to reduce makeup, frequently, is to take it all off and start over. I showed her what to do with zits and other blemishes. She made a list of stuff she needed to buy.

I asked her if she had any more practical clothes to wear than the gothic getup she'd been wearing at all times. She said her mom, typically, had packed her some clothes she thought would be useful here at the ranch. I said let's take a look. Sure enough, she had jeans, shirts, socks, and even a pair of leather hiking shoes. She even had another denim skirt of a more modest length and a much better fit that still showed plenty of leg without threatening to her ass cheeks peek out. I said, "You know, these are a lot more practical than your miniskirt and fishnet stockings, though I always had to marvel at how you were able to get around with those red patent leather boots of yours, with their 3-inch heels." "Years of practice," she said with a smile.

The phone rang and it was Maggie calling to say that Seth was in pretty bad shape, but would probably recover completely, though the next few days were going to be rough. They had had to open him up, repair some tears and ruptures and all that while dealing with several broken ribs and a broken arm no one had even noticed at the time. He would not be 100% for quite a while.

Then the subject turned to horses. She asked about each and every chore and seemed to grow less worried as I assured her that all had been done as usual. "Then I can stay here with Seth for now?" "Yes, of course. By now, I know what needs to be done, and I think I can recognize a sick horse. If one gets sick, I'll give you a call and if I can't reach you, Doc Marshall's card is taped to the fridge." "Great, then just take down this number and call me if you need me, but I'd really like to be here with Seth for now. He hasn't been awake since we left the ranch in the helicopter and I want to be with him when he wakes up, because he'll be in a strange place. It'd be nice if a familiar face is there to meet him."

"We'll be okay," I said. I was about to bid her good-bye when Leslie indicated she wanted he phone. "Hi, Maggie," she said. "I hope Seth gets better. Jill and I have everything under control." Maggie said something, Leslie smiled and handed the phone back to me. "Was that really Leslie?" she asked. I affirmed that it was. "Wow," she said with a chuckle (the first sign of good humor since the accident), "First you rehabilitated Larry last summer and now Leslie. You need to open a clinic for kids needing an attitude adjustment." I laughed and said I'd think about it.

There's a very refreshing ethic in rural and backwoods places that neighbors support one another, even if they are otherwise competitors. And this is how Maggie and Seth ended up with Leslie. Their neighbors to the North are also horse ranchers. The owner, a lovely 30-ish redhead named Cherish, asked if Maggie and Seth could use a cheap summer hand. She was already fully staffed and couldn't really take Leslie.

Because people out there can't survive without the help of their neighbors, who still chip in to help their neighbors build a barn or harvest a crop before it spoils, you can expect a number of calls asking if they can help in an emergency, and we got several, but the first was from Leslie's Aunt Cherish. Leslie got on the phone for a while and handed it to me. Cherish said, "Leslie says you're okay. Now, I know from Maggie that you're good and reliable. Is Leslie a help or a hindrance, and is there anything I can do to help you? I'll come right over if you like." I said no help was needed and that Leslie was pitching right in. "Really?" she said. I could see that Leslie was rolling her eyes.

It was getting dark and we had earned some relaxation time. As I have probably made clear, the ranch is rather austere, the kitchen is the living, dining, and family room all rolled into one. It's heated by a wood stove, which I stoked. The stove has a mica window in the door providing a nice orange-amber light when you turn the lights out. I stoked up the stove, for the evenings get cold even in the summer when you're at a goodly elevation.

Leslie and I turned out the electrical lights and lighted up a couple kerosene lanterns. Between the stove and the lanterns the room was bathed in an pleasant and warm orange glow. I suggested we change into nightwear, and so we were soon both in flannel nightgowns and slippers.

For evening entertainment, the ranch had a TV which is neither large nor small, a satellite dish, and a collection of VHS tapes (by now, they have DVD's, I'm sure, but then it was tapes). I've always liked thrillers and I saw Dressed To Kill in their collection. Leslie didn't really care what we watched, so I popped that tape into the VCR and pressed PLAY.

There is a love seat in the main room and we sat there at first trying to stay awake as we watched the movie, but soon we were all scrunched up, hugging our knees, pressed against each other, for it quickly becomes a creepy, surprising, and scary movie. And I couldn't help thinking how great Nancy Allen looked in heels and hose.

Leslie's skin felt great against mine. As the end credits of the movie started rolling, I looked at her to find she was looking back. Her eyes closed as I moved in for the kiss. As our tongues touched, I became aware that my panties had become a tropical rain forest.

"I'm not gay," she said. Even so, she kissed me back. "Neither am I," I replied, kissing her furiously as I reached under her nightie to find her clit. She was just shockingly wet. The lubrication allowed me to give her plenty of pleasure with very little pain. I just loved the sounds she was making. They excited me all the more!

I was aware that she admired me, and I didn't really want to take advantage of this, assuming it was a vulnerability. One thing I figured I could do was not to become the leader, so I gradually stopped taking the initiative. Before long, she was the one savaging me. Believe it or not, she gave me some of the best head I've ever had.

Then she crawled up and we kissed some more. Kisses full of the taste of my own pussy! As we did so, and after grabbing some of the wetness of her pussy, I pressed my "fuck you" finger into her asshole, which greeted it by momentarily tightening. She stopped and looked into my eyes. "It's all right," I said. "It's an interesting feeling. Give it a chance."

She kissed me with renewed vigor and slowly my finger slid in until the first two segments were in. I maneuvered her onto her back and pushed her knees up until they almost touched her shoulders. Now, I am built to contort, but her tiny little body was not, but even so we got her knees back far enough that I could get by then two fingers in her ass while I licked and sucked and kissed all around her pussy. She liked it. She liked it a lot. And the more fingers I got into her ass, the more she liked it, too! She came hard. Very hard. And I mean that in the best way. I could tell she'd never had an orgasm like that before.

While this was early in my sexual life, by that summer I'd already had sex with several female classmates, and I'd gotten past the "am I gay?" question by remembering how much I loved playing around with boys. The previous summer at the ranch had been my sexual awakening, and boy had I become awake!

Leslie talked excessively (or maybe a better word is "obsessively" is a better word) the next day as we went about the chores, which included feeding the horses, making sure they had fresh water, cleaning their stalls, and seeing that they got grooming and exercise. I guess talking was a way for her to relieve her tension over wondering if she was gay.

While we were back in the ranch house having lunch, the phone rang and it was Maggie. "Seth finally woke up, but he's not out of the woods yet, the doctors say. He suffered a lot of damage to internal organs which will take some time to heal. He faces dangers from blood clots causing a stroke or embolism, and while there are drugs to reduce clotting they can promote bleeding, so they are just letting Mother Nature handle it. We all have our fingers crossed. How's it going with you guys? Is Leslie really chipping in, or are you covering for her."

Leslie was right there, and I didn't want to embarrass her by swearing on a stack of Bibles that she was pulling her share (which she most certainly was). So I told Maggie simply that everything's fine and that Leslie and I had everything under control. She knew it was more than a one person job, so that told her in a subtle way that Leslie was indeed helping.

I reiterated that I would most certainly not hesitate to call with any questions and I reminded her that I'd already been through one entire summer there and that she knew I knew how to do almost everything. I also reminded her that the veterinarian's number was handy in case of a veterinary emergency. None of the mares were due to foal anytime soon and short of a cougar or bear attack (very unlikely), she had little to worry about.

"Oh, there is one more thing," she said. "Today we're supposed to do some breeding. I know you've handled it before as far as the mechanics. Today, you'll have to handle the business side as well." She told me where to find a contract, which I looked for while she waited. After I found that and several other pieces of documentation, she told me basically how handle the transaction. When I heard how much money I was collecting, I just about crapped my pants, but it explained how they could afford to run the ranch.

When she was satisfied I understood, she said, "I don't know anyone else I'd trust with this. You're our #1 ranch hand." I laughed, being their only real ranch hand. Leslie was a help, but still basically a visitor.

"What was all that about?" asked Leslie. When I told her about the breeding, she just about flipped. "Don't worry," I told her, "I've been involved in dozens of them. You can watch or I'll find something else for you to do."

"I'll watch," she said.

The man we were expecting was a guy who'd been to the ranch a few times before. He was known to one and all as Sven. A big late middle-aged Danish blond with bulging biceps and what couldn't have been more than a 32" waist (which, for you gals who don't know, is a very small waist for a large man to have). Despite his being as old as my dad give or take a few years, I regarded him as a hunk and could easily have worked up some interest in finding out what his pecker looked like and what he could do with it.

It was about 2 p.m. when his familiar yellow pickup rolled in, white horse van in tow. I was going over to greet Sven when something else stepped out of the van. What do I mean by "something else"? I mean, "Is this a man or a young god?" That's what I mean.

"Hello, I'm Lars" he said. "Is Seth here...or Maggie? My dad couldn't make it..." "I'm Jill," I said interrupting him. "Seth had an accident and he and Maggie are in town at the hospital, but I can take care of things for you. We're ready."

Now, how to describe Lars... I can't think of a movie star he resembled. A little like a taller version of Seth. A hunky young Marlboro man, only taller, and with perfectly white hair. Not yellow blond...pure white. As white as the snow atop the nearby mountain peaks.

Now, I was pretty scruffy from the work I'd done that day and Lars had pretty much stepped out of a gay Gentleman's Quarterly. I say "gay" because he was so far beyond being merely handsome and was well into the beautiful category, but without losing any masculinity. (If you think being a gay male is all about limp wrists and effeminate ways of behaving and talking, you need to check out gay porn, which frequently is about beautiful and very masculine-looking men. Sure, there's the sissy side of gay, but there's also the hyper-male side of gay as well.)

Poor little Leslie, with her low self-esteem. I could almost feel her pain. Many things might have been rolling through her mind. For one thing, having just established me as a sex partner, in rolls this god-like vision of young manhood. For another, she didn't feel very physically attractive, and by that time I had established in my own mind that I was very physically attractive. I'd never met a man who gave off any other kind of vibe who wasn't, in fact, quite gay...and even a couple gays said they found me tempting! (But they might have been pulling my leg.)

I gave her the friendliest smile I knew how to give, devoid as possible of any hint of pity. She managed a wan smile in return, but the general impression was of the deer in the headlights. I would have to tread lightly or she might be crushed.

After the paperwork and payment, we got the mare out and led her into what we lovingly called "The Bachelor Pad," because it was where a lot of the breeding took place. The mare's nickname was Ginger (we give horse's nicknames because their legal names are generally a mouthful). She was one of the most beautiful palomino mares I've ever seen. She was to be paired up with one of our palomino stallions, Little John, so nicknamed after the giant in the Robin Hood story. He was about as large as a good palomino Arabian can get.

More important to me than Little John's size, was his demeanor. To say he could be a handful was an understatement. He could be quite mean, in fact. I explained this to Lars, who said "Let me come along, just in case." Without objecting to this excellent suggestion, we took off for the stables with Leslie in tow.

Well, true to his reputation, once he was all prepared to be led out of his stall, he decided he didn't want to go and got as obstinate as a mule. Now, what's a horse weigh? A ton? Little old me at about 100 lb (back then) didn't stand much chance of muscling him out of his stall. I wasted a good 10 or 15 minutes seemingly just trying to get him to notice me. He wasn't even actively resisting. He didn't need to: simply ignoring me was enough.

At last Lars said, "Let me try. Sometimes it's better when you're a stranger to a horse: someone he hasn't pigeonholed or figured out. Step back out of sight." So, Leslie and I went around a corner where Little John couldn't see us. About a minute later, Lars was leading the horse out of his stall and so on we went to The Bachelor Pad with Lars in control of Little John.

Now, I hate to spoil anyone's fantasies about horses, but they are not very smart. In fact, I'm told the smartest barnyard animal is the pig, followed very closely by a good herding dog like a Border Collie and a goat. But horses have good memories, so they can learn tricks. They also recognize places, so as soon as Little John saw we were taking him to The Bachelor Pad and not the glue factory, he perked right up.

Nature took it's course and Little John's cock was fully extended by the time we got there. I noticed that Leslie's eyes were on it. I guessed she was suffering from Horse Cock Fever, the way I had the first summer when I really got to see one close up. I tried not to smile, but I was smiling on the inside. I was past Horse Cock Fever by then and my thoughts were all about how to get Lars's cock out where I could do something with it.

We put Little John in a pen next to Ginger to see how they reacted to each other. Sometimes a mare will take an instant dislike to a stallion and one has to go the artificial insemination route. At first she didn't even seem to notice him, but after a little while they were making very friendly gestures to each other. We put them together and to make a short story much shorter, Little John was "in like Flynn." It was just after 5 p.m. when we were done.

I knew that Maggie and Seth often let customers spend the night rather than have them risk driving a precious animal a long distance in the dark with the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel at 2 a.m. out in the middle of nowhere. "It's kind of late for heading back," I said. "We'll put you up for the night."

"Thanks," he said. "How can I repay you?" "Well, we're a bit shorthanded with Maggie and Seth away, and what with losing about three hours with the breeding, we're way behind in the chores. Why don't you and Leslie exercise the horses which still need it. Leslie knows which ones." I didn't want Leslie to feel so left out. Even so, Leslie said with dismay, "But I don't ride!" (True: she had led horses around, but hadn't gotten around to learning to handle a horse from the saddle yet.) Lars looked at her with a kindly smile and said, "We'll fix that."

While I did other things, they exercised the horses. I'd stick my head around a corner from time to time and quite soon, I saw Leslie on one of our friendlier palomino mares, Lars on the back of our most valuable black stallion, a feisty critter that was behaving like an old mare in his hands. Lars was a natural horseman. He was also refreshingly ego-free for such a handsome guy, and really seemed to take teaching Leslie pretty seriously.

At about 7, I was totally done with what I had to do. I had gone back to the ranch house and was watching a Miami Vice rerun when Lars and Leslie walked in a bit later. "All done!" she announced with a huge smile.

Before I could say anything about dinner, Lars asked, "It's about 45 minutes into town, if I remember right? The last town you pass through before taking the cutoff to your ranch." "Yeah, maybe a bit less," I replied. "How's about I buy you gals some dinner?" he suggested.

I thought for a bit: That would leave the ranch unattended. The little Devil on my left shoulder said, "Do it! What could possibly happen?" The little angel on my right shoulder said, "Maggie and Seth never leave the ranch unattended. Don't do it!" Unfortunately, the little Devil won by suggesting that perhaps we might end up doing some dancing to the jukebox after dinner. Like all teen girls, I lived to dance back then.

Lars unhitched the horse carrier and soon we were scooting along the road to the highway. Leslie sat in the middle and I rode shotgun. I was glad to find that Leslie no longer felt like the odd person out, and in fact, although she didn't realize it, I'm sure, I could tell by Lars's amused glances that he, like me, felt she was being just a bit too Chatty Cathy. But she was such a lovable little gal and was riding a bit of a high that I couldn't hold it against her. As for Lars, he seemed a very tolerant, hard to ruffle guy. I think he didn't want to burst her bubble, either.

As soon as we got into the cafe, I knew it had been a mistake to come into town. The owner, a very skinny and haggard old gal who probably should have been dead of lung cancer a decade ago asked in a rasp, "How's Seth, honey?" Realizing now that our little sojourn into town would almost certainly get back to Maggie, I explained the medical situation.

We got a bucket of chicken and Seth got a pitcher of Bud or Miller or PBR...some cheap "by the bucketload" beer (no Pilsner Urquell out in these small boonie towns), and we holed up in a booth in the back where he could share it with us. We had ordered some ginger beer, made right there in the cafe (and quite delicious it is, I might ad), but we dumped it and grabbed a pair of clean glasses while nobody was looking.

So, we had a fine old time there in that booth for about an hour, with Lars mostly telling us about his various adventures with horses. Leslie and I listened, and I'm sure her little pussy was just as moist as mine.

We had gotten a bit tipsy (speaking for Leslie and me) when someone yelled "Fire!" With that, the cafe cleared out as people ran out to see where it might be. By the time we were out front, people were already coming back in, knowing that the fire wasn't anywhere in their direction.

When we got there, however, the owner saw me and said, "I think it's coming from the direction of Seth's ranch. Is anyone there?" My non-reply was her answer. I fairly screamed at Lars that we had to get back to the ranch right away. We made a mad dash back to the truck and I'm sure we hit 80 mph a good deal of the way, at least to our turn-off. The drive up to the ranch isn't perfectly smooth, but he did a creditable 50 mph, I'm sure, which is probably about 20 mph over any reasonably sane speed for that stretch.

All along the way I was thinking how bad it would be on so many levels if the stable or ranch house were on fire. I couldn't imagine what could start a fire. Had I left anything electrical running? The wood stove was already cold by morning. Still, the glow in the sky was of smoke well-illuminated by a fire at its base, leaving no doubt of a big active fire going on in the general direction of the ranch.

Unfortunately, the way the drive winds around, the last part of it is out of sight of the ranch. I was totally hysterical, and so was Leslie. I'm sure we were both thinking primarily of the animals being roasted alive and secondarily of having to face Seth and Maggie to explain how it had happened and why no one was there at the time to save the animals.

We rounded the last turn and the ranch came into view. It was not on fire. The fire (which I later learned was a bonfire to celebrate a wedding), was over the ridge in the next valley. I got out of the car and dropped to my knees in tears. I don't think I've ever felt so guilty in my life.

Bless him, Lars said, "It's my fault. I shouldn't have suggested we go into town. That was real stupid of me."

"No," I said, wiping tears from my eyes, "I'm in charge here. There was no real need to go into town. I can see now that I risked everything for no good reason. But thanks for the offer to take the blame."

This time it was Leslie who was comforting me. "Come on into the ranch house," she said. "Let's have some coffee." "Yeah," said Lars. "I could use some coffee myself."

I was amazed: Leslie went in and actually knew how to make a pot of coffee. Lars stood around looking sheepish. I knew what I had to do: I called Maggie and confessed everything. After a long silence, Maggie said, "Thanks for telling me. I'm a little bit pissed at you, but you've obviously learned a lesson here."

"I have," I said tearfully. "I will never ever risk the horses and ranch again."

"I'm sure you won't." Another long pause. "...But Lars is pretty incredible, isn't he?"

That changed the mood and we had a good laugh.

"I trust you," she said. Relieved, I asked about Seth again, and she said he was becoming talkative and seemed unconcerned at leaving me in charge. She added that she would have to tell him what happened someday, but not while he was in recovery. I told her that I was glad for that.

Off the phone, I found the other two already working on their mugs of coffee. I had a full mug waiting for me as well. They were apparently waiting to see how I felt, and were relieved at my own apparent sense of relief. We turned on the TV and watched it on and off for a while until I switched it off so we could play some poker.

Lars is a super poker player and I'm still not sure Leslie understands the hierarchy of hands, but even so we had a lot of fun.

Lars had some Jim Beam in his truck, which he brought in. To his credit, he told us we could have one shot each and no more, which at our age was just fine. It was something we needed that day, which had turned into a very rough day indeed.

Leslie can't hold her liquor very well, which Lars and I found amusing. She was slurring her words and giggled inappropriately from time to time and even she knew she was drunk and laughed right along with us.

Until, that is, she fell asleep on the floor.

I looked at her then at him. He was looking at her as well, and when he noticed I was watching him he gave me a slight grin. Turning my way, he looked into my face and apologized once again for luring me off the ranch, and one more time I told him not to worry, that it was my fault for not declining. Then, I got a wee bit bold and said something like, "I thought going into town with you sounded like fun. I just chose a bad time to do it, probably because I thought there wouldn't be another chance."

I closed my eyes and he came in for the kiss. Well...he had kissed before. I knew that right away. He was fairly expert at opening a girl's jeans with one hand, too! Before I knew it his hand was deep inside my jeans, into my panties, and on my crotch. He knew what to do down there as well, spending a good while just massaging my clit and vulva before letting a finger wander into my vagina, which was so wet I was afraid it'd spook him.

It did the opposite.

"Wooow," he said when he found the moisture. Pulling his hand out of my pants, he stood up and pulled my jeans off. I didn't wait for him to help me with my panties. I all but tore them off. He wasted no time, either, and slid out of his jeans and jockeys revealing a cock that was of the long and slender variety.

Grabbing him by the hips, I pulled him to me and took him into my mouth. The flavor of his dick betold a day of hard work and of pissing several times and of leaking precum.

It was a good taste, and I knew that once his mouth was on my pussy, his mouth would be flooded with a pungent mixture of pussy and sweat as well.

He took his blow job standing for a while, but I could tell it made him weak at the knees from time to time, so I beckoned him down onto the couch next to me, where I blew him harder still, intermittently licking on his sandpapery scrotum and sucking his balls into my mouth one at a time.

If you look at a cock on its own and forget what it's attached to, it's like almost nothing else on earth, except perhaps for some kinds of mushrooms I've seen in books. Mushrooms that are long and slender with small crowns.

After a while he tapped me on the shoulder to indicate that he wanted lick my pussy, and so the next thing I knew, his head was between my legs with his tongue doing rather amazing things.

At one point, he pushed my knees up, baring my asshole, and I could tell he was going in to lick my asshole. I rolled off to one side and stood up saying, "How about a shower?" If he was going to do that, at least I wanted to be clean for him.

"Sure," he said. We trotted back to the bathroom where I started the shower running. When I turned around, he was totally nude. His young body was virtually hairless except for the patch above his dick. He wasn't heavily muscled enough to pass as a bodybuilder, but he was very well defined, revealing not only where one muscle ended and the next began, but even some of the striations in the muscles, too.

He stepped into the stall first. I would bet Maggie and Seth made love in there many a time. It had been built more than large enough for two. When I stepped in, he pushed me against the wall under the showerhead, dropped to his knees and started in on my pussy again, while I held his head in my hands, running my fingers through his hair.

Just when I thought I might go mad with pleasure, he stopped, grabbing the nearby bar of soap, and pulled me out of the shower stream. He ran the soap all over my upper body, rubbing it in gently with his large hands, kissing me from time to time.

As he did this, I was holding his dick, kneading it in my fingers.

Then, he started again below my waist, but this time he started at my ankles and worked his way up deliberately, until he reached my pussy, which he massaged as he pulled me back into the stream from the showerhead again.

Next, he turned me around and washed me yet again, touching me with his cock as much as he could. This time, his efforts ended at my ass after washing my shoulders and back first, then the back of my legs, and finally my ass cheeks.

He spent a goodly while not just soaping and cleaning between the cheeks, but fingering my asshole. I was happy he was fingering it far enough in that I was pretty sure it was further than his tongue could go. This made me happy because even after he did what I knew he wanted to do, I wanted to kiss him without worry of a bad case of stomach cramps.

When I was well rinsed, he guided me into a position where I was leaning forward into the wall under the showerhead, the water hitting my lower back, and with my feet set in a fairly wide stance.

He started by licking my pussy again. By the time his tongue found my asshole, I was almost desperate to know what it felt like, for I'd never had analingus before, which I have since learned is also called "tossing someone's salad" for reasons I don't totally understand. Some things one simply has to accept.

Analingus is one of the weirdest feelings. It's not intense, but it's very intimate and warm. Well, I guess it is intense, but in a very special way. I like it. I don't often get it, so it's a special treat when I do, and that was my first time, so it's locked in that special place we all have in our memories that we reserve for first experiences.

While analingus feels good, it's never made me cum. Not like a good fuck in the pussy or ass, so after enjoying it for a while, I made him switch places with me so that I could suck his cock again.

I was enjoying having his cock in my mouth when he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward the bathroom door. Leslie was standing there. Transfixed.

"You're awake!" I said. "Get naked and come on in. Join the fun."

I looked up at Lars's face. He looked a little surprised, but not disappointed.

Breaking her gaze with a twitch, she said "Uh...I don't know."

I knew what the problem was: It was her feelings about her body. "Come on," I repeated. "Don't worry." I gave her the most reassuring look I could manage.

He spoke up: "We're just having a little fun. Come on in and get wet!"

This was what she needed. I'm not sure if she wanted to or whether it would have been too embarrassing to decline. Whichever it was, she took off her clothes and stepped into the stall.

We embraced her and took turns kissing her. While one kissed her, the other would soap her up and wash her. A little on the plump side, she really didn't look all that bad. Not as bad as she had thought.

Once while kissing her, I whispered in her ear, "Grab his dick. Go ahead." It's hard to describe the look of horror in her eyes. But I reassured her that it was okay. But a few minutes later I saw her little hand slowly reach toward his half-erect cock and just form a little cup in which she held it. Then, slowly, her thumb crossed over the top to actually grip it lightly.

"Tug on it. Jack him off," I whispered. Soon she was giving him a pretty creditable stroke job and his pecker looked like a missile about to take off.

"Let's dry off and go out to the couch," he said. It sounded good to Leslie and me, so out we went. As we dried ourselves off, I whispered to Lars to get started with Leslie and as soon as I'd stoked the woodstove, I'd join in.

I took my time with the stove and of course then I had to wash my hands. I did my best not to look at the goings on on the couch until I was actually ready to join in. I wanted him to get a good start with Leslie.

When I finally got there, I found that I had had little to worry about. Leslie was laying on her back with her butt right on the edge of the couch with Lars on his knees between her legs, pumping away. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open and her little hands gripped Lars's wrists where he was bracing himself on her legs.

I sat down next to them on one elbow and played with her cute puffy nipples, rolling them in my fingers, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and smiled. Closing her eyes again, she was soon in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy. And, frankly, I was nearly there myself just from watching.

Done with Leslie, and still not having cum himself, Lars pushed himself between my legs and, not to put too fine a point on it, proceeded to hump the shit out of me. Leslie, coming out of her post-orgasmic stupor, was watching is with a vague and appreciative smile.

Like her, I just went inside myself and went with the flow until I had one of those sneaker orgasms. I have them now and then. Very little of the build-up, or maybe just hanging on the brink, and then you feel like a bucket ice water is thrown on you and you have an explosive orgasm. Those are the real mind-blowers.

I tried to push him out of me, but he resisted and kept pumping and I had a long series of aftershocks. It was by far the best orgasm a guy had given me up till then, and in the better part of the year since the prior summer where I had lost my virginity, I had wasted no time getting fucked as well and as frequently as I could, and by as many boys as I could manage to get into my cunt.

I was grateful to this lanky blond cowboy and wanted to give him something special as a reward, so I said, "You can fuck my mouth." With that, he straddled me and I opened my mouth. In came his cock and I used every trick in the book that I had learned in my two years or so of giving blow jobs. I even let him gag me several times, and each time he looked concerned, but I told him not to worry, that I didn't mind.

You can often tell when a guy is about to cum by a subtle change in your mouth as the cock sends up a small burst of precum to lubricate the urethra. And sometimes they're nice enough to warn you in case you'd rather paint your face with the ejaculate than have it delivered into your mouth. But I wanted it in the mouth. Quite frankly I had started masturbating when he went to work on my face, but at some point Leslie had dropped to her knees between my legs, pushed my hand aside, and was licking my pussy in a very loving and, I must say, effective way.

Thus, when my mouth flooded with Lars's sperm, it set off another orgasm of epic proportions and I spasmed, just about throwing Leslie onto her ass. As Lars fell off me, I swallowed his load, and closed my eyes to just savor what had happened. As I regained my consciousness of my surroundings, I found Lars dozing and Leslie giggling. She had obviously had the time of her life.

As we collected ourselves, Lars said he needed to get an early start. We slept together in Maggie and Seth's big bed that night with Lars in the middle.

Somehow, he managed to get out of bed, load up his horse van, and take off without waking Leslie or me, and while my memories of the day he spent with us are fond, I haven't heard from him since.

I quietly got up to take a shower, for the horses needed my attention. I would let Leslie sleep as long as she could, I thought.

I was under the showerhead taking water into my mouth when I felt hands go around my chest. It was Leslie hugging me from behind. Leaning her head on my shoulder, she said in a soft voice, almost a whisper, "Thank you." "For what?" I asked.

She didn't reply. She didn't have to. As for me, it was just nice being held.

My Aunt Maggie lives on a Horse ranch in Northern Washington State, The High Cascades. The mountains in this area are higher and steeper, on average, than those in the Oregon or California Cascades.

Maggie is my mother's younger sister, and I worked for two summers on the same farm that employs Maggie. I say "employs," but since she is the live-in girlfriend of the ranch owner, Seth, she's a lot more like a wife in many ways that a mere employee or girlfriend. They're far beyond dating and seem so comfortable with each other that they may as well be married.

In those two summers, I learned more about my mother than I ever learned from my mother herself, just as I knew more about Maggie from my mom than Maggie ever told me about herself. I called Maggie my mother's "younger" sister, but their true age difference is less than two years, so by that time of life, they were practically contemporaries. A year and nine months difference in age is vast when you're under 10, or even an early teen, but put a few decades on and it's nothing at all.

The ranch specializes in Arabians, those large, muscular horses which probably exhibit the physical characteristics of horses more beautifully and in better balance than just about any other breed. They're fast, they're strong, they have unbelievable stamina. If you close your eyes and imagine a horse, it's likely to look an awful lot like an Arabian. Some people would call them The Ultimate Horse. Seth's ranch is best-known for black and palomino Arabians and he owns horses from several of the major bloodlines. He also has some minor bloodlines possessing characteristics he uses to improve his own lines and to minimize the risks of inbreeding. Breeding for specific characteristics without too much inbreeding (mating closely-related animals) is a tightrope every breeder has to walk, no matter what creature he's breeding, be it a horse, a fish, or a green bean.

Several times a month, a customer would arrive pulling a horse carrier with one or two magnificent Arabian mares inside and the attempt (usually successful) was made to bring their mare or mares together with one of our well-known studs for breeding. Of course, a lot of breeding is done without bringing a mare together with a stud, often to preserve the health of the stallion. A mare who isn't ready to be bred can kick the stud with dire results. Sometimes the owner of the mare is given fresh semen and the mare is inseminated separately from the stallion. Often, chilled or frozen semen is simply sent to the owner of the mare, so that neither horse has to be exposed to the dangers of transport.

A lot of breeders still prefer that things happen "the Old Fashioned way," and so I watched horses fuck many a time.

My own sexuality was burgeoning at that time, and the first summer I worked on the ranch I was technically a virgin. By that, I mean that my hymen was unbroken. I'd been humping my pillow for years and early boyfriends had brought me to orgasm by putting their hand in my crotch while we kissed. I believe, if I remember correctly, that I'd given a couple blow jobs by then as well, mostly to do something for a boy I'd brought to a state of white hotness. When sucking cock back then, I finishing the boys off by hand. I certainly hadn't taken a load in my mouth or been fucked in the ass. Two concepts which I'm sure would have appalled me before that summer.

I'll never forget the first time I jacked a horse off. Now, there are a variety of techniques for collecting semen from a stud horse, but sometimes the only (or best) way, for a variety of reasons, involves simply masturbating the horse into a jar.

Prior to visiting the ranch, my "experience" with horses consisted mostly of riding them, and in retrospect, most of that experience was with mares. Maybe I was in an asexual stage of life, but back then I didn't think much about horse penises. My room was full of My Little Pony goodies, unicorn statues, and other girlie-girl horsey things. At that time, a stallion was just a boy horse and beyond that I was mostly concerned with their beauty, not their sex lives.

Then boys started to occupy my thoughts more than horses, and I did start to think about cocks, but the cocks I thought about were attached to a boy, not a horse.

So, wouldn't you know, one of my first tasks the first day was to help Maggie jack off their top stud. I say "help," but in truth the jacking off was done mostly by me. I'm sure they wanted me to, so to speak, "jump in the deep end" and get past the shock.

"How do you do it?" I asked. "Surely you have some experience with boys," Maggie both stated and asked. "You've masturbated a boy, haven't you?" "Sure," I said, based on perhaps two or three faltering experiences, during which my confidence had been bruised by being told I was doing it too hard or not hard enough. Later on, I came to realize that feedback isn't criticism and is an essential part of good sex, but back then I was still sensitive about such things.

Seeing I was having a hard time getting off the dime, she instructed: "Stoke his cock, dear." And so I squatted down and started rubbing his penis. "Harder and more vigorously, Jill. He can hardly feel that." I grabbed it more firmly and yanked harder. Before I knew it, it started growing. I really mean growing in the sense of extending. When I started, only about three or four inches were protruding from the sheath it's in, but with stimulation, it extended rapidly (or so it seemed to me) until it was at least a yard long.

At first repulsed, my repulsion gradually turned to fascination. The tip of a horse cock widens considerably and looks rather like a cigarette tip that's been put out by being mashed into an ashtray. There is no real glans in the sense that a boy has one. I remember it had veins running down it at least as big around as my fingers, dividing and subdividing into ever smaller veins like the roots of some giant tree.

"It won't be getting any bigger" said Maggie with a hint of amusement in her voice. Obviously, she could read my mind. Or maybe she was just reliving her own first experiences with horse cocks.

She jumped in and showed me how to finish him off. We collected the semen, froze it, and then went out for a ride. I couldn't get horse cocks out of my mind, though, and riding that day was almost like masturbating. Which is exactly what I did when I finally could find an excuse to go to my room. I think I told them I need a nap before dinner, but I humped a pillow so fiercely it made my little teen pussy sore. Riding, as you might guess, was painful for several days.

My favorite activity that first year was riding out with Maggie into the mountains and camping out under the stars. We were usually camping at a fairly high elevation for Maggie liked to use the horses to climb. Even in otherwise warm weather, the nights get colder the higher you go. We always took a tent in case of foul weather, but seldom had to use it and mostly slept under the stars. Seth never came with us because someone needed to be there for the horses.

The first truly cold night my summer weight sleeping bag simply wasn't doing the job and I was miserable. Aunt Maggie apparently heard my teeth chattering and said "Come on, let's sleep together. Get out of that bag." As I stood up, shivering, my skinny teenybopper arms crossed tightly, she took my bag and unzipped it most of the way down, then she put it open side facing down inside her bag and we both climbed in, getting the benefit of both sleeping bags and combining our body heat. It was like sleeping under a super-thick quilt. She held me just like my mom would have and not only was I warm but I was comfortable in the truest sense of the word, both physically and psychologically. We only slept that way when it was very cold, but those were the nights I liked most and remember most fondly. (And no, despite what some of you are surely thinking, nothing weird happened between us.)

A couple times, we slept in an abandoned mining camp's bunk house. It had been refurbished and was mostly used in winter or when dangerously foul weather rolled in any other time of the year.

My riding skills returned to me that summer and actually improved drastically. I was riding spirited stallions at full gallop and had only fallen or been bucked off a horse four or five times, and only when pushing myself or the horse to extremes.

Seth had a nephew named Larry who came by for two weeks or so the end of that first summer. He was a fairly good-looking blond boy, scrawny much like I was (scrawnier, actually) and with shoulder-length hair that looked perfect no matter how unkempt it might be. He wasn't good at chores, or I should say he wasn't good at pitching in. He didn't do anything unless asked or told to, but then he'd do a creditable job. You just never felt he was part of the "team."

I'm not clear on his exact age, but I think he was about a year older, maybe two. Like a lot of the nicer teen guys, he was shy around girls. Pair this with the fact that he probably felt inferior to a truly manly guy like Seth and you can imagine how out of it he must have felt. Now I know I haven't described Seth yet, so here goes: if you imagine a long and lanky Marlboro Man in tight-fitting well-worn (and certainly not acid-washed) blue jeans you'll have an approximation. Oh, and you can subtract the cigarette from the Marlboro man image: he doesn't smoke and even hates the smell of tobacco. He was an older man to my mind, so I didn't think of him sexually. Besides, he was clearly Maggie's. Ethical to a fault, he would never have made a pass at me.

So, it was uncomfortable to have Larry around the first few days. I could tell that Seth in particular had had his fill of the boy and despite the fact that Larry had done precisely nothing to ingratiate himself to anyone, I had come to almost pity him for his awkwardness. I had fit in immediately, here already two or three days, he was still a stranger to us.

It was over a hearty ranch house steak dinner that Seth suggested I might take Larry camping. Larry looked around during the impending silence. I really wasn't too keen on the idea, but when I realized that if I said no, it would really be a disaster, I tried to look as enthusiastic as possible as I said, "Sure...sounds like fun. I'll take him up to the lake by the old mine." Larry only said, "Okay."

Maggie smiled and winked at Seth. Suddenly I knew what it was really about: She and Seth needed some alone time. The ranch house was not very large: three bedrooms, two baths, and one "everything room," and all three bedrooms were near each other in the same short hallway with one thickness of wood between the rooms. You couldn't hump someone in there without the person in the next room listening in. I bet they hadn't fucked all summer long, unless it was on one of their rare trips into town for supplies. Maybe they pulled off the road somewhere for a quickie. Otherwise, I can't imagine when they could get their rocks off. I was near one or the other of them almost all the time.

I guess it didn't dawn on anyone to ask if Larry could ride. So, to everyone's surprise Larry asked how long a hike it'd be. Seth just stared at him. I think I covered my mouth to hide my shocked expression. It was Maggie who finally said, "Larry, this is a horse ranch. You do ride...don't you?"

"Uh...no," he said quietly and with ill-concealed embarrassment.

"I'll teach him the basics," I said. "There are still a few hours of sunlight."

So, I got out two of the better-behaved riding mares and taught him how to ride. He wasn't ready to handle a spirited stallion just yet, but to my surprise he learned quickly and finally showed some enthusiasm for something at the ranch. He seemed a bottomless pit of questions about horses, equipage and tack, and riding techniques.

The next morning, after the four of us devoured a large mound of scrambled eggs with home fries, bacon, and toast, we went out and loaded up two trusty trail-experienced horses. Maggie said that if anything happened, these horses knew the way back and would probably return, prompting a search and rescue.

Before we left the ranch, Maggie and Seth got very parental with us, offering us caution after caution and giving me a portable radio to use in case of trouble. I quietly assured them I would stay on the main trail all the way and that they could be sure I'd return Larry in one piece.

We rode off. I took one last glance over my shoulder and saw Maggie and Seth walking back to the house. I also saw Seth firmly grasp Maggie's ass. She brushed his hand off, but not very convincingly. They stopped and kissed. I smiled.

It was still well before Noon, and as was often the case, a haze hid the Sun. We rode higher and higher as the trail gradually rose and, as before, Larry was full of questions, not just about horses but about the area, about the flowers and trees, about whether there were bears and cougars. (There were, of course, and we'd be taking precautions against the bears. Cougar attacks actually tend to happen more in areas where suburbs encroach on wild areas. Out here in the wilderness, cougars would be keeping a good distance from us. We'd could count ourselves lucky even to see one.)

Eventually, we were actually above the clouds, looking down into a valley blanketed in impenetrable mists. I looked at my watch after a while and saw it was a bit after Noon, so I proposed we stop for lunch. Larry agreed. Like most boys, even skinny ones, he had a bottomless appetite and never resisted any opportunity to consume food.

As I recall, Maggie had packed not sandwiches as I'd expected, but sliced ham, sliced Swiss cheese, and Ry-Krisp crackers, with crisp sweet apples for dessert.

Larry grew quiet as he ate, just taking in the wild surroundings. I realized all of a sudden that I really knew little about him. To break the silence, I started asking questions. It turned out he was from Minneapolis. His father, Seth's brother, had taken a different route from Seth. Where Seth had majored in animal husbandry, Larry's dad had gotten an MBA and become a stock broker. Larry lived in a downtown apartment and went to a private boys school.

His parents had broken up when he was about 10 and for some reason his father had gotten custody. He suspected it was because she abused pain medications. His father refused to talk about it. To me, coming from a home full of love, this all seemed very appalling and I felt I was coming to understand Larry and actually sympathize with him.

Then, as can happen in the mountains, the clouds—which had gotten thinner—were now virtually gone except for the occasional tuft, and we could see down into the valley far, far below. Larry, coming from a city set in a very flat part of the country, was almost overwhelmed. He'd seen mountain vistas in books, but he'd never been in one. Despite his father's wealth, he'd never really been far from Minneapolis before. It turned out that visiting Seth had been his idea, not his dad's. He didn't say so, but I suspected it was an act of desperate rebellion on his part.

In turn, he asked probing questions about me and my life, and it was clear he coveted my life. I had grown to like him, actually, and if I could have waved a magic wand at that moment, I would have made him my older brother.

We must have spent an hour there talking before we remounted our horses and pressed on. It was well past 5 p.m. before we reached the lake. It's a beautiful spot. I think Larry had been expecting a pond. This lake is a true lake, large enough to sail a boat on, though all we had available to us was a canoe put there by Seth and Maggie and a few of their friends. It was laying by the shore of the lake upside down, which is how you leave a canoe if you don't want it to collect water.

At various places on the lake, they had also put lockers for campers to leave food and other belongings where the bears couldn't reach them, for there are both black and grizzly bears in this area. Black bears are dangerous; grizzlies are unimaginably dangerous. A black bear can kill you in an instant. A grizzly can dismember you in the same amount of time.

Seth told a tale about the days of animal baiting in England. Typically, a lion was pitted against a tiger, or a pack of fighting dogs against a lion or tiger. Apparently, this one time a tiger was pitted against a grizzly and the grizzly killed the tiger almost instantly, practically decapitating it with one swipe of a huge paw. The crowd, at first awed, grew angry, for they had expected to see a fight.

Tourists and hobby campers like to camp on the edge of a river or lake, and that's what Larry was probably expecting, but as I explained to him, Maggie called such locations "Brother Bear's Pantry," and camping in such locations was an open invitation to a bear encounter, so we'd be camping a couple hundred yards away from the lake up in the woods where I knew there was a nice clearing. There, we'd be much more likely to see a deer than a bear.

Neither one of us was particularly hungry, so I proposed we tie up the horses and do a little canoeing before dinner. Larry agreed and soon we had righted the canoe, revealing the paddles and a pair of life vests, which I insisted we put on, though Larry made a show of not needing one. I, playing Mother Hen, made it clear we were not going out on the lake without wearing them. I felt I had to play Maggie's role in her stead, and she would certainly have made me wear a vest. Laughing and rolling his eyes, Larry donned his vest and soon we were out on the water.

The tables were now turned: Larry knew how to handle a canoe and taught me how to paddle. In the past, when I paddled a canoe, I had found them difficult to control. If you paddled on one side, it turned the canoe in the opposite direction, and the only way to correct that, I had thought, was to change sides and paddle on the other side. The result was a canoe that zig-zagged. Maggie was no more canoe-wise and so we tended to switch sides frequently, which wore us out rather quickly.

He taught me to paddle in a semicircular or U-shaped stroke that cancelled the tendency of the canoe to drift away from the paddling side. Between that and having the bow and stern paddlers paddle on opposite sides of the boat, a canoe could become quite controllable. These skills, he told me, he had learned when he and his private school buddies had gone on paddling trips near home. Minnesota and even moreso Wisconsin, are dotted with numerous lakes, large and small. Switching ends with me to let me steer the canoe, he also taught me how to be the sternsman, who does most of the steering in a canoe. Occasionally, the bow paddler has some duties other than straight-ahead paddling, but that's mostly when docking the canoe or when maneuvering in whitewater, he told me.

Larry was looking more manly to me now. Recently, I saw that funny Napoleon Dynamite movie where the actor announces that "Girls like guys with skills" (if that's not exactly what he said, consider it a paraphrase). While that's a ridiculous line in the movie, it's also true to some extent. We like guys who exude confidence and can handle themselves. The problem with Napoleon was not that women didn't appreciate his skills, it's that for most of the movie he really didn't have any. Larry really knew how to handle a canoe.

We fooled around in the canoe until maybe 7 p.m. when we both agreed that we were hungry. I knew what Maggie had packed for dinner: a nice flatiron steak. I knew because I had asked for it. Now, I had never heard of a flatiron steak before visiting Aunt Maggie. I've researched it since, and it's the most tender cut of meat cut from the part of a cow called the chuck. Chuck is not very tender when cooked like good steak meat. By contrast, though, the part which has come to be called the flatiron steak is quite tender when cooked rare, and besides being quite juicy and flavorful, is also probably the tenderest part of the cow besides the tenderloin when cooked properly. Not well known in the Eastern half of the country, it's become fairly popular in the West and is widely available in both restaurants and markets. A flatiron steak is, like the Chateaubriand, big enough for two.

Anyway, in addition to the steak, Maggie had also packed two large Idaho potatoes in foil and four ears of corn also wrapped in foil. I told Larry if he would get a fire going in the nearby barbecue pit, I would take care of getting everything cooked.

Luckily, previous campers had left enough unused firewood around that at least we didn't have to scavenge up wood for the fire. And Maggie had packed a cigarette lighter. We gathered up some dry grass and twigs as kindling and before long, Larry had a good fire going. After it died down a bit and I had some coals to work with, I started the potatoes, turning them frequently by rolling them around on the barbecue pit's grid. I let them cook for a good half hour, then I put the corn and steak on the grid, turning the corn frequently while letting the large steak brown, first on one side then on the other.

We had put a few cans of pop in the icy cold water to cool off and so soon we were eating steak, potatoes, and corn off plastic plates, while drinking cola.

Larry had become quite talkative and we talked quite a bit about music. He liked music and was quite fascinated by both my knowledge of music and the yarns I was spinning about musicians I had met in person or stories my father had told about musicians he knew or had met. He (Larry) particularly liked a juicy story I had heard my father tell about a party Miles Davis had attended. After a while someone asked "Where's Miles?" My father didn't say anything, but he knew that Miles had met a beautiful young college coed at the party and in fact was boning her under one of the buffet tables, hidden behind a white tablecloth. My father was apparently standing in the one place, due to the fact that the cloth didn't cover the end of the long table, where one could see under it and where, my dad said, he could quite clearly see the jazz legend's bare ass going in an unmistakable motion between this lovely girl's widely spread caucasian legs, giving both him (my dad) and her a memorable story. He made it clear, though, that this wouldn't be a major memory for Miles, who had women throwing themselves at him wherever he went. Having been on tour with Miles in Europe once, he knew this for a fact. Miles often had sex more than twice a day. He not only had "one night stands," he had stands in the mornings and afternoons as well.

I disagreed with Larry about a lot of things. His taste was different from mine. However, our disagreements were friendly and just led to spirited discussion.

The sun was getting low. I hadn't been mindful of the time, and looking across the lake I saw something that gave me chills. A grizzly. I pointed it out to Larry who fairly shat his pants and clearly was extremely uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping outdoors.

"Back by the mine," I told him, "there's a bunkhouse once used by the miners, but Maggie and Seth and their friends have fitted it out for sleeping. It's all fixed up inside and while it's mainly intended for use in winter or when the weather turns bad, it's secure. It has barred windows and very strong doors. It's bearproof." (Of course as I said this, in my mind I was saying to myself, "I hope.")

Larry was relieved, and to tell you the truth, seeing the bear had made me a lot less enthusiastic about sleeping outside as well. I would be quite happy to sleep indoors.

There was also a small barn next to the mine. One which could be closed at night so that the horses would be safe from the bear as well. We first got the horses safely into stalls and then trotted over to the bunkhouse. I had been shown where the key was hidden, but in the dark it took a few minutes to find it. Once inside, we unpacked our sleeping gear. It was getting quite dark. I found a couple kerosene lanterns and lit them. In this dim light, we saw that there was some cordwood next to the rough fireplace. There were also some old newspapers. Larry asked me if he could build a fire. I said it sounded like a good idea to me. I was feeling a bit chilled, actually, and the thought of a fire offered the prospect of some welcome warmth. Besides, it gave Larry something to do.

In no time, he had a good fire going. I had raided a closet and found a bunch of thick woolen blankets. I laid a few of them out on the floor in front of the fireplace and wrapped myself up in one to cover my back. The heat from the fireplace took care of the front of me and warmed my toes.

Larry laid down on his side in front of me, his head supported on the hand of his bent arm. We continued the conversation we'd been having about music.

I don't know if you remember when you were this young: I was about 16, he perhaps 17. How awkward things can be when you're attracted to someone. How long it can take to make a move. How unintentionally disastrous and damaging a botched response can be to one party or both. I was both wishing for and dreading a "move" on Larry's part.

After a long silence, he got up and sat next to me. I knew something was about to happen, but I didn't know what.

When it finally happened, I laughed. Instead of doing something, he said, "Jill, I'd like to kiss you. Can I kiss you?" This is when I laughed, but I immediately saw that he was crestfallen. It had taken a lot of courage on his part just to blurt that out, so I set about trying to undo the damage.

I took him by the hand and looked him in the eye and said, "Larry, don't ask a girl if you can kiss her. Just kiss her. She may kiss you back. She may push you away. She may even slap her in the face. But don't ask permission."

"Why?"

"It's hard to explain." In fact it was. As I said those words, I didn't actually have an answer in mind, so I spent a little while thinking about it while he waited patiently.

At last I said, "Well, the girl wants to feel desired. She wants the guy to be passionate. Yes, she wants to feel that she's so desirable that they guy can't control himself, that around her he's overcome with desire and passion."

After a momentary pause I asked, "Does that help?"

He never replied. To my surprise, he was all over me. I was flat on my back and I was being kissed like I'd never been kissed before. Part of me wanted to fight him off and slap him silly, but that part of me was overruled by a part of me I didn't recognize. Maybe it was the big horse cocks. Maybe it was the way Seth's jeans fit. Maybe it was just me coming of age, but I decided to go with the flow. As Larry kissed me, I kissed him back with equal passion, for his kisses were more passionate than any kisses I'd known before.

This wasn't fooling around because everyone else was doing it, Larry really wanted to fuck me, and that felt good!

Soon his hands had pulled my shirt out of my jeans and were undoing the buttons as we kissed. My own hands were all over his body, eventually finding their way to his belt, which after a few faltering moments I managed to open.

As he fondled my tiny "barely there" breasts, I found his cock. My hands knew what to do with a young man's cock, and I went to work as he kissed me. Then, something new happened. He had undone my own jeans and his hand had thrust down deep and was right on my vulva, massaging it in a most pleasurable way. This was the first time I'd let a guy put his hand under my panties, and because I had allowed this to happen, something new happened: two of his fingers slid deep into my vagina, causing a sharp pain.

I yelped. He stopped, pulling his fingers out and apologizing profusely.

"Did I hurt you?"

I reached down and felt myself, finding a little blood on my fingertips. "Well...yes...but no."

"What happened?"

"I just lost my 'virginity.' You broke my hymen. You popped my cherry."

"Oh..."

By this time, I was laughing. He was distressed, not knowing if he'd done something bad...and was I laughing at him?

I couldn't leave him out on a limb like that so I snuggled up to him, laying my head on his chest, and said "Don't worry about it. I'm not mad at you. It had to happen sooner or later. I always imagined it happening the first time I had sex, though."

I was actually quite happy. The thought of losing my virginity had been a bit stressful and full of foreboding. Now it had happened and as it turned out, it was no big deal, though it did hurt. And so I found myself bonding somewhat with the guy who'd taken it, even if he'd done it with his fingers and not his dick.

I actually felt like rewarding him, so I started massaging his cock and kissing his tummy. He relaxed and hardened considerably. I examined his pecker. It was beautiful. I still dream of it. Large, not huge. Uncut. It was the first uncut cock I'd ever seen. I enjoyed watching the tip pop in and out of its sheath as I jacked him off. It took my mind off the stinging in my vagina.

Larry had calmed down and was relaxed. Now, instead of watching his cock as I tugged on it, I laid my head down on his belly, closed my eyes, and was gently jerking it as I let my tongue slowly but constantly circle it's tip.

In time, I tasted his jizz on my tongue. So I took the tip entirely into my mouth and let him cum there until he was done when, with a slow motion of his hips, he pulled it out and gently stroked my hair as I swallowed his load.

We spent another half-hour or so just laying in front of the fireplace in each other's arms. I have seldom felt so comfortable and relaxed. When I remember it, in my mind it looks like a scene from a Playboy or Penthouse magazine. Those magazines often do fireplace scenes which look so warm and comfy (as well as sexy), and that's how I remember it.

This relaxed scene was interrupted by noises outside. We looked at each other and ran over to the window next to the front door. From there, we could clearly see the form in the moonlight of a huge grizzly bear trying mightily to get at the food in the locker several tens of yards away. We felt we were safe, but this put an end to any more eroticism that night. So, Larry and I climbed into one of the bunks and slept together snug and warm under doubled-up sleeping bags in the cabin which cooled off rapidly as the embers in the fireplace died.

When I woke up, Larry was already up and had retrieved the food from the food locker and was in the process of scrambling some eggs. It was probably the aroma of the bacon Maggie had packed that actually woke me up. Mixed with that was the aroma of the coffee Maggie had packed. Somehow, the inexpensive house brand percolated coffee they served at breakfast out in the wilds was more delicious than the $3 lattes to be had from the espresso shops back home.

He looked at me and said, "Breakfast is served!"

I was impressed and told him as much. "I have to take care of myself much of the time back home," he explained. "Usually, Dad is gone before I wake up and it's either make myself a good breakfast or grab a granola bar before I go to school. I do the granola bar thing often enough, but now and then it's nice to sit down to a good hot breakfast."

We had a quiet breakfast during which we engaged in small talk. It was comfortable small talk, which was very nice. No reference was was made to the lovemaking of the night before. None was necessary. That was behind us. We both knew it would probably happen again.

While he cleaned up, I got dressed and realized that I had neglected to call the ranch the night before. I had told Maggie I'd try to remember to do so, so it wasn't a promise, but even so I knew she would want to hear from me.

When I did get through to her, I apologized for not calling the night before and told her all was well.

"He's not being difficult?" she asked. "No, not at all. He's really opened up. He's having a great time."

Reading between the lines, she said, "All of a sudden, I'm wondering if it was very bright of us to send two teens out alone without a chaperone." I told her not to worry, that nothing had happened. (A bit of a lie, to be sure, but since she was probably mostly concerned that I not go home "in the family way," she really didn't need to worry. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, I reasoned.)

I told her about the bear, and suddenly that concerned her a lot more than her niece being boned out in the boonies. I assured her we were being more than careful.

"Okay," she said, sounding placated. "You'll notice that I gave you more than enough food for one day. I told her I had noticed that.

"If you're having a good time, stay another day," she said. I told her that sounded like a good idea and that we'd probably do that. If not, I'd call her to let her know. She indicated that was fine with her.

Of course, Larry was happy to spend another day at the lake and one less day doing chores at the ranch. And I was quite happy to spend another day with Larry.

We decided to go and explore the far end of the lake where, on a prior visit with Maggie, we'd spotted a split-rail fence at the top of a rise. We had planned on going back sometime to see what was up there. Now it turned out it would be Larry and me, not Maggie and me. After packing some food and storing the rest in one of the lockers, we went down to the canoe and shoved off.

And so we paddled out onto the lake, which as most mountain lakes are, is much longer than it is wide, being flanked on two sides by mountain slopes. In fact, almost all large mountain lakes are just mountain valleys filled with what water can't drain into a river.

Larry taught me considerably more about canoes and canoeing. I learned, for example, that while The Great Unwashed will prefer a flat-bottomed canoe, in fact the most stable canoes have round (or, more correctly, somewhat U-shaped) bottoms and possess low initial stability. Get out in waves of any size, however, and the round-bottomed boat settles into the churning water, tending to keep itself and he paddler more upright, whereas the flat-bottomed boat tends to lean this way and that because it conforms itself to the surface of the water, and if the water is at an angle due to a wave, the flat-bottomed boat tends to go along with it.

Since Maggie and Seth and their friends had supplied the camping/staging area with a rather round-bottomed boat, I gained a little respect for them. At first I had thought them nutty for choosing a canoe that felt so wobbly. Seth showed me, though, that this distressing wobbliness was pretty illusory. The boat may have wobbled, but it did not want to tip over. Even with the explanation, however, I was a bit edgy the first ten or fifteen minutes out. Even though I'd been out in the canoe before with Maggie, it was Larry who helped me feel safe and at home in it.

The Pacific Northwest, defined roughly as Northern California on up to Alaska, is still very wild. I know from my several trips to Portland that, according to the locals, it's still one of the few cities in the U.S. where mountain lions sometimes wander into town and mix it up with dogs, often with tragic results for both the dog and the lion, the latter ending up being shot by police who are sometimes forced to take lethal action before someone can arrive with tranquilizer darts. That simply doesn't happen in Northern Ohio, although from time to time coyotes are spotted in suburban and rural communities. At worst, a bobcat.

Did you know that the North American mountain lion may have been the most successful large predator in the world, with a range encompassing all of North American, basically, from Alaska and Northern Canada down into Mexico. In many areas, they've been hunted to extinction, which is kind of a shame. To me, they are the most beautiful of all the big cats.

Another odd fact about Mountain Lions (all of these facts by way of Larry, of course): they are the largest cat that can purr.

What I was starting to say was, along the (and after I got past constantly obsessing about the canoe tipping over) we saw tons of wildlife. A female deer with a fawn, a lone bull elk with a gigantic rack of antlers, several osprey, some red-tailed hawks, and a bald eagle. Much of the time, it was Larry who spotted these critters. He had a sharp eye and knew lots of odd facts about most of the species he identified.

As well-informed as he was about animals, he was almost totally lacking in knowledge about plants. I even had to tell him that not all of the evergreen trees around us were pines, and that in fact the bulk of the trees were in fact Douglas firs and cedars. He didn't know that Douglas firs were the #1 wood producer in the Pacific Northwest or that cedar wood tends to be in various shades of orange, not yellow like most other woods. (God, had he never seen a "cedar chest"?)

I chimed in when I knew a fact he apparently did not, or when something he said wasn't exactly correct, but mostly I listened. This Larry was so different from the Larry who first appeared at the ranch. He was outgoing and interesting and funny, and boy, do we girls like a guy who can make us laugh.

I don't watch afternoon ladies' talk shows like Oprah as a rule. Not even back then, but from time to time I end up at someone's place while one is on, for example, and I end up watching a bit of it. I do remember seeing one show which was about "Knockout gals with average-looking guys." What attracted you to this guy instead of any of the hunkier guys I'm sure you attract?" In just about every case, the reply was "He makes me laugh."

What with stopping from time to time to rest or watch some wildlife, it took about an hour and a half to reach the far end of the lake. Sure enough, there was the split-rail fence up the hill that Maggie and I had seen on a prior excursion.

There was also a very new-looking pier, and at the shore end of the pier was a rack that could hold four canoes, although it held only one. We pulled our own canoe up onto the gravel next to the pier.

"Let's grab our packs and walk around a bit," I said. "I'm up for a hike," said Larry. We donned our packs, turned the canoe over onto the paddles, and headed up the path that opened up behind the pier.

The hill was steep and so whoever had made the trail built it in the switchback style, so, to go up maybe 100 feet took about 500 feet of walking, but we eventually did find ourselves at the top and at a gap in the fence. This told us that the fence was decorative and not particularly designed to hold animals in.

It was easy to tell that at one time this area had been clearcut. There were stumps everywhere. However, they weren't new stumps. Between their dark discoloration and the fact that moss and other plants had found a home on or in them, it was clear they were decades old.

We kept walking up the hill. The higher we got, the more clearcut we saw, and just as old.

Finally, we reached the top and there everything changed. Suddenly, we were on the verge of the grounds of some large house with a manicured lawn and professional landscaping.

The house had a verandah, and in the distance we could see someone beckoning us toward them by alternately waving their arms to get our attention and then just gesturing us in their direction. We looked at each other and quickly decided to investigate.

As we got closer, I saw that someone else was sitting in a deck chair. Still closer, it became clear that there were two kids about our age, but in reverse in both age and sex. She looked just a bit older than her brother.

Under his breath, Larry muttered "Preppies." "Preppies," I repeated. I guess he knew. He was the one who went to a private school, though he didn't seem very prep school to me.

The girl, a honey blonde with a deep tan stood there in a white tennis skirt and deck shoes. She had on a heavy wool sweater. In this part of the country, and at this sort of elevation, if it's going to warm up at all, it typically happens after noon, and sometimes well after noon.

Even back then I was pretty severely bisexual, and a pretty girl turned me on just as much as a great-looking, studly guy. Her legs were just fantastic. Long and shapely and the skin was flawless.

Her face was very cute. I find that there are two kinds of cute: One is babyface cute: roundish features, proportionally large eyes...that sort of thing. The other kind of cute is the pretty person with the endearing flaw: the gap in the front teeth, for example. In her case, her endearing flaw was a slightly crooked smile.

As we got closer, she was kind of bouncing up and down off her heels, which just made her fabulous calves look even better. I'm guessing from her bounce that she had done some cheerleading that had really been formative. I knew, because I had been on the Spirit Squad the previous term in high school.

Her brother, though younger, made something of a show of acting more controlled and mature than his sister as he stood up from his chair, just watching us approach.

Larry laughed under his breath and said, "If her name is Buffy and his Skip I'll croak."

The "Buffy" figure more or less pogoed down the short flight of steps from the verandah to the lawn and said, "Hi, I'm Pepper." I looked at Larry and got a look that clearly implied "Not Buffy, but just as preppy."

We introduced ourselves and followed her enthusiastic lead up the steps to where her brother was waiting. He was wearing white slacks with white leather loafers and argyle socks in pastel browns. His sweater was very similar to hers.

"Corky," she said to her brother, "I want you to meet Larry and Jill." "Corky?" repeated Larry, to his credit without irony or sarcasm, for I knew that Corky is every bit as preppy as Skip, if not moreso.

Corky shook our hands with a surprisingly (and perhaps studiedly) firm grip and said "Pleased to meet" to each of us in turn. When done, I noticed that he wiped his hand inside his pocket.

"So, what brings you here?" she asked. I explained that we had been camping and canoeing and were curious about the fence and what was up here.

Pepper explained that this was one of their dad's houses. It turned out he's one of the ones who made big money off the big electronics boom of the 90's. His name, while perhaps not exactly a household word, would be if you were heavily into stock investments and read Forbes and The Wall Street Journal religiously, or traded heavily in stocks. He had made many people rich, not the least of whom himself.

"Would you like something to eat?" Pepper asked. We were hungry and it was about time for lunch anyway, so we agreed. "Umm... Shoes off first," said Corky. Pepper looked at our scruffy hiking boots and said, "Oh yes, shoes off."

When we entered the house, which on the outside looked like a very large plains farm home with a verandah all around, on the inside was considerably more modern. It was impossible to tell at first if the floors were some dark hardwood or a very cunning synthetic floor material. Unable to find any repeating patterns, and also due to the sounds our feet made as we walked on it, I determined it was indeed wood.

On the walls were paintings all of a modern bent. By "modern," I mean 20th Century ugly art. There was some late impressionism, but there was more expressionism. I thought I saw an original George Grosz. I looked at it closely: It wasn't a printed simulation (which can sometimes be initially quite convincing). It was done by a painter, so even if it was a copy, it'd be a very expensive copy.

Observing my interest, Pepper said, with a smile, "It's real. Daddy wouldn't have a fake. And besides, he can afford originals of just about anything."

"Is he around somewhere?" asked Larry. "No," said Corky. He's on a 'round the world cruise with his girlfriend. Pepper chimed in with, "We were invited, but Chandee is so..." "Tiresome," said Corky, finishing her sentence, adding "So we decided to stay behind." Pepper jumped back in: "So he plopped us here where we couldn't get into trouble." They both smiled at that.

By then, we were in a huge kitchen with not one but two islands, one topped with wood and one topped with stone.

Pepper flung open cupboards exposing canned goods of all kinds from soups both familiar and obscure to canned tuna and sardines to has, beef stew, baked beans, and so on. Meanwhile, Corky had pulled a large foil-covered object out of the capacious fridge. It turned out to be half of one of those sugar-encrusted hams. Another foil object turned out to be a hunk of roast beef. These were followed by cold cuts galore. Everything from mortadella (the original Italian version of what we have come to call bologna) to real Swiss cheese (by which I mean cheese from Switzerland, not Swiss-style cheese as most of us know it).

Pepper had gone to another fridge and was retrieving condiments and such sides as cole slaw, a half dozen sorts of pickles, and a big head of lettuce still in its shrinkwrap. After getting three or four loaves of artisan bread out and showing us where we could find the plates, silverware, knives, and so on, Pepper and Corky took the lead, making selections and building lunch for themselves.

Once everyone had a plateful, we were led to what I gather was a family room of sorts, which had the best sound system I'd ever seen by that time in my life as well as the largest screen I'd ever seen on a TV. It was a flat screen TV, probably LCD. Screens of that type and size were not common at that time.

"Music?" Pepper asked. "Sure," I said, speaking for both myself and Larry. "What have you got?" "What haven't we got is more like it," said Corky. "I like jazz," I said. This got Corky's attention. "What kind?" "Oh...the classic stuff from the 30's through the fifties, mostly," I replied. His interest turned to delight, and soon we were listening to a mix of Coltrane, Modern Jazz Quartet, Charles Mingus, and Thelonious Monk, among others.

Mostly we listened, not talking much. After a while, Pepper asked, "Anybody like swing?" "I do," I said. "Cool!" Soon we were listening to some fabulous swing music, some of it old and some new. A few songs in, Pepper got up and asked her brother if he'd dance. Obviously, he'd done it before, but I think he was hesitant to do it in front of another male.

"I'll dance," I said. "You know how?" she asked in seeming surprise. "Is it so amazing?" I asked. I had been taught to swing dance by one of our jazz musician visitors when I was an early teen. I doubt if the early inventors of swing music had intended for a 12 year old white girl to be dancing with a 50-ish heroin-addicted black man, but that was how and from whom I learned. I learned the swing moves the black people did.

So that's why I had a lot of swing lore to teach Pepper, who was actually quite good. So good, in fact, that even though I knew more, she could have become a professional dancer had she the desire. She had the body for it.

I'm not entirely sure when I discovered my bisexuality, but I do remember looking at her gorgeous legs as she danced, and wondering to myself what she might look like without benefit of even that tiny white skirt she was wearing, and the white panties she showed whenever she twirled.

The boys were looking a little embarrassed, and refused several invitations to join in, probably because we were giving them prodigious boners. I say "We," because it was Pepper who had the bare legs and was showing off her undies.

Not wanting to let Pepper be the sole center of attention, I complained that my hiking gear was constraining me, so I took off my rather loose-fitting camping pants and my flannel shirt until I was attired in nothing but my own snug undies and a jog bra (which I didn't even need, because I've never had large enough boobs to prove uncomfortable even on a pogo-stick).

Soon, Pepper and I were dancing again, and not only could I tell I was getting plenty of attention from the boys, now...I was also getting it from Pepper, who after a bit of dancing with the now much more sparsely-attired me said, "Great ass!" The boys agreed loudly.

That was when the day took its first blatantly sexual turn.

We danced until mid-afternoon when I suggested to Larry that if we were going to make it back to the ranch by dark, we had to leave very soon. He agreed, but Pepper said "Not so quick." She was looking out the window and we all walked over to see what she saw.

As anyone who's spent time in the mountains can affirm, changes in the weather can happen suprisingly quickly, not so much because the weather changes quickly, but because you can't see those changes coming. One moment it's sunny, next a dark cloud is coming over the ridge and in five minutes it's pouring down rain, which is exactly what happened.

An hour later, with rain still pouring down, I lamented that we'd never get back to the ranch before dark now. We could get back to the camp, but I didn't relish paddling several miles in cold mountain rain without so much as a parka to protect me, and I said so. Larry agreed.

"Don't worry," said Corky. "You can stay with us as long as you need." Pepper agreed.

"We'd better call Seth and Maggie, though," said Larry. Glumly, I admitted that I hadn't brought the radio with me, I also admitted how stupid that was. It was back in the bunk house.

Pepper laughed and said, "Don't worry about that." "Why, do you have a radio?" "Daddy has everything. If I wanted to talk to him right now, I could. And he's...where, Corky?" "I imagine his ship is anchored somewhere near Koh Samui right about now." A place I'd never heard of at the time. It's an island off the coast of Thailand.

It took a little while and a few calls around to learn how to contact Seth and Maggie, but at last I had Maggie on the line. After assuring her we were in no peril from the weather, I told her it'd be impossible to be home before dark and she said, not to worry, to just stay in the camp another night.

"Actually, we're in a house. Remember the fence up the hill at the far end of the lake. We're probably going to spend the night here." All of a sudden she became concerned. I explained the situation and allayed her concern some, but only some. Once again, I'm sure, she was worried she's be sending me back to mom and dad pregnant. I did my best to placate her and assure her I'd be a responsible girl, and finally she let me get off the phone. She was irritating when she was that way, but I understood: she was in loco parentis. My mom would have been equally annoying.

So, the huge TV came on. It was a satellite TV and there was seemingly no end to what we might watch from sports to Mexican soaps or British pro wrestling to hard-core porn. I let Larry ask for the porn. I was curious but was too shy to ask at the time. I didn't think it was something a girl would ask to see.

When Pepper asked, "What kind?" even Larry was taken aback. I think we were both naive enough at that age to think that porn was porn and that was that. No thought that there might be sub-categories.

Corky helped: "Straight? Gay? Solo girl? Solo guy? Two girls and a guy? Two guys and a girl? Group stuff?...How about anal? There making more and more anal porn now."

Pepper hugged herself as if she was cold and said, "There's some even wilder stuff..."

I was already agog. Wilder than what had just been described? I wasn't sure I wanted to even hear about it. Corky smiled slyly and asked, "Ever heard of fisting?" "Er...no." "It's when someone sticks their entire hand and sometimes even part of their arm all the way into a pussy or asshole." "Is that even possible?" I asked. Like most girls, I really couldn't even conceive of giving birth, though obviously Mother Nature helped you with that. Something as unnatural as fisting gave me shivers. Perhaps that explained the way Pepper appeared to have the chills.

"It doesn't stop there," Pepper added. "People having sex with dogs and horses."

Corky didn't wait to be asked, saying, "That's not on satellite. That's in my private stash." Soon he had produced a dozen or so VHS cassettes and we all sat back and watched. I was seeing stuff I'd never dreamed of, or had heard of as almost mythical or legendary, and yet here were people doing it. I remember one German fisting tape where the guy was fucking some middle aged women in the pussy. A second woman stuck her hand into the first woman's pussy and jacked the guy off. He finished in the second woman's mouth!

Even more shocking was the bestiality stuff. I saw beautiful girls sucking dogs off and being fucked by dogs in the pussy or ass. I saw women blowing horses and taking what must have been a pint or two of horse semen in the mouth. He also had Brazilian porn: beautiful college age girls shitting in each others' mouths. That's when I first learned the word 'scat.'

My pussy was lubricating furiously even though I hadn't touched it at all. Luckily, only Pepper noticed and said, "Jill and I need to powder our noses, don't we Jill?" I agreed, and so we trotted upstairs. "I'll lend you a pair of undies." "Thanks." "That stuff's pretty wild, isn't it?" "Yes," I replied, not knowing what I could add to that assessment. She showed me to a bathroom and left, saying she'd be right back.

By then, I had stepped out of my panties and Pepper had returned holding a pair close enough to the ones I'd been wearing. She didn't hand them to me, though, but instead set them down on the counter, took me in her arms, and planted big, wet tongue kiss on my mouth while simultaneously slipping her hand between my legs and sliding a finger right into my sopping wet pussy. Nobody, male or female, had ever been so brazenly bold with me. I felt a sharp pain and pushed her away.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Not very bi, I guess. I misread the signals." I'm sure I blushed as I explained that I didn't mean to reject her. She had just hurt me since I'd only lost my virginity the night before and certain parts of me were still a bit sensitive.

"Oh my golly! You lost it yesterday. How precious. How absolutely cool! We must have a party." Suddenly, I realized that I really liked this girl. Her mannerisms were a bit strange, but I liked her. And I wanted her. So, this time I was the one who took the initiative and we spent a good five minutes kissing and groping, but she kept her fingers out of my pussy.

I didn't really want a party celebrating the loss of my virginity, especially since I'd lost it to an ignominious finger instead of a cock, but Pepper was obviously a force to be reckoned with, so I kept my mouth shut.

When we arrived back in the family room, she got the boys' attention and said, "I've just learned that Jill lost her virginity only yesterday. Both Pepper and Corky looked at Larry and gave him the opera house clap, a silent tapping of the fingertips of the right hand on the palm of the left.

Larry looked at me silently as if to ask how much detail I'd given out. (I suspect he was happy for them to think he'd fucked me, not so happy if they knew he'd done it with his fingers.) I did what I could with facial expressions to convey that our secret was safe and that they were probably imagining "The Stupp of the Century."

When I said Pepper was a force to be reckoned with, I wasn't kidding. She took absolute charge and set about creating a festival atmosphere. She had Corky and Larry go off to make some computer-generated wall posters and banners. She took me down to the basement where she rounded up balloons and pastel-colored fringed steamers and festive tablecloths along with party plates and napkins.

I followed her around, my arms gradually filling. When she saw I could hold no more, she grabbed a few more items and we headed back upstairs, depositing them on a long table in the house's large dining room which could easily seat more than 20, I'm sure; 25 if they were crowded a bit.

"How are you at cooking?" she asked in a serious voice, her hands on her hips. I laughed. "So, I have to cook for my own party? Actually, I'm pretty good." I was. My mom believed that even a girl destined for a lucrative career in business should still know how to do a roast, bake a cake, or make macaroni salad.

By this time, Pepper was making for the kitchen. When we arrived, she said "It's all yours. I'm very adept at microwavery and making coffee and I can do a scrambled egg. Beyond that, I'm afraid I'm a bit lost. So, you go to town and I'll be your helper. Make something good." The boys came back and she ordered them to decorate, so they disappeared and I went to work with Pepper's assistance.

The first thing I did was to do a quick inventory of what was at hand and available. The freezer was chock full of great stuff that'd never be defrosted in time: At least 10 beef roasts of various kinds, two turkeys and a half dozen chickens, pork chops might be quickly defrosted. Ditto for some ready-made hamburger patties. I noted them in case I found nothing else to work with.

In the fridges, the main things I found were the aforementioned ham and beef roast. Looking around more, I found everything I needed to make scalloped potatoes, an easy dish but a hearty one, too, and fit for a rainy evening. That plus some veggies and drinks would do for dinner. I found another smaller freezer with frozen baked goods, including some frozen pies and cakes. Also there were some brownies in a flat pan. I knew those would defrost within an hour or so, so that would be our dessert.

Pepper really didn't know much about cooking, for when I asked her to make about two cups of white sauce for the scalloped potatoes, she looked at me sheepishly. I told her how to make it and watched her every step of the way to make sure she didn't make a mistake. Meanwhile, I was dicing ham and slicing onion for the scalloped potatoes. That done, Pepper helped me peel and slice potatoes. She was a very good potato peeler, but not very quick, so I ended up doing about 3/4 of the potatoes.

While Pepper melted some butter and soaked some bread crumbs in it, I arranged the scalloped potatoes ingredients in a big oval roaster. I let Pepper sprinkle the crumbs over the mixture and popped it into the oven.

Next we set about preparing some green beans, which prompted a question. "Pepper, there's a lot of fresh food here that's almost certainly been here less than a week. Where does it come from?" "From the sky." I looked at her more intently to convey the idea that she really hadn't answered my question. So, she explained, "Daddy has stuff flown in about twice a week. Whatever we need or want. Within reason." "Within reason?" "I don't think Daddy would pay for a hooker for Corky. Not that he'd need to." "What do you mean by that?" "Never mind," was all she said and I dropped it, thinking perhaps it was just a joke that had fallen on its face.

"Oh (pause) my (pause) GOD!" Pepper exclaimed. "What with you guys arriving and the rain, I forgot: we're getting a shipment today. Oh, well, I'm not going out to get it in this weather. She'll just have to bring it up." Shrugging, she said, "Oh well, no big deal. She's done it it before." "She?" "Yes, Cass is a woman. She's a bush pilot who moved down from Alaska. She was up there doing nudie bar dancing and saved enough up for flying lessons. Then, she assisted a pilot by doing his milk runs for him while took on the more interesting and risky assignments. Eventually he died on one of his trips. Strangely, not a plane crash but an encounter with a Kodiak grizzly bear. He was killed within sight of his plane. Anyway, it turned out that he had no relatives he cared to will anything to. He had willed it all to her, and totally to her surprise. She ran his business for a couple more years, then sold it, keeping only one of his sea planes. Now she drops off provisions for a number of the more remote sites in Northern Washington."

Dinner was approaching readiness when Corky and Larry appeared, each with two bottles of champagne, which they quickly put into the fridge.

"Dinner ready soon?" asked Corky. "Another fifteen or twenty minutes, probably." "Well, guys, come on our and check out the decorations." They boys had done a bang up job. It looked like a wedding reception was about to be held, or the return of a soldier from years at war.

A knock at the door. Must be the pilot, I thought, so I quickly pulled on my pants and put my shirt back on, not bothering to tuck it in. Corky trotted over and let in a rather large figure in a big green plastic poncho with a hood. She had an expedition-size backpack on her back and was carrying what appeared to be two waterproof duffles as well. Pulling the hood back, I saw the face of a rather large woman with a bush of curly hair on her head and a big smile on her face. "How are you guys?" she asked as she dropped her load on the big rug inside the front door and hung her poncho up on the nearby coat rack. "I almost didn't come. Between the rain and the clouds and the dark, not the safest flying weather. But...I know these hills like the back of my hand, and I knew you guys would want your magazines. So, I just flow low enough to be able to pick out where I was and keep my bearings."

There she was, dressed like Paul Bunyan, a good six feet tall, her big mane of curls bouncing on her head, and a jolly grin on her face. All I could think of when I saw her was Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Big and sexy in an almost manly way. A woman, bigger than life, with (I was starting to notice) a killer body. The shirt may have been baggy, but it couldn't hide the fact that she had quite a rack. Her tight-fitting jeans didn't hide much at all!

"Hey, stick round for dinner," said Corky. Looking around, Cass asked, "What's the occasion." I know I must have been blushing so much I might have glowed in the dark. Pointing to me, Pepper said, "She lost her virginity to that guy over there," and she pointed at Larry. Cass laughed. "Sounds like a cause for celebration, though some would say it's the guy who busted the cherry who should get the party, but I'm into it. Congrats to both of you!" Remembering her manners, Pepper introduced us to Cass.

Her muddy hiking shoes now off, Cass walked over to Pepper and me and said, "Well, girls. Need any help in the kitchen?" "Not really," I said. "We're just waiting for the main course to finish cooking. Maybe another five or ten minutes."

"Let's build a fire in the fireplace," suggested Corky. "Sounds like a plan," said Pepper. "We need wood," said Corky. "Well, let's get some, then," said Cass. With that, she and the two guys headed down a hallway to where, presumably, the firewood was stored. Cass was in the lead. Obviously, she knew her way around the place.

Pepper indicated that we'd better stow the stuff Cass had brought, and so we spent a few minutes stocking the pantry and loading stuff into the fridges and freezers.

I couldn't quite gauge Pepper's attitude toward Cass. A little jealousy, perhaps? Born of what? While she was trying her best to be cordial, she certainly wasn't going out of her way to be nice. I realized she and her brother spent vast amounts of time together. Was there a little incest going on? Given the raging hormones all teens have and the fact that they only had each other most of the time, perhaps their lust had gotten the better of them and they had given in to a forbidden temptation.

As I pulled the scalloped potatoes out of the oven, I finally could resist asking no longer. "You don't like Cass. Why? She seems nice enough." "It shows, huh? I should've known. Actually, I like Cass, I really do. It's just that she and Corky have this flirtatious thing going and I have nothing." "So there's no..." Shocked, she replied, "Heavens no! She could legally do me, but him: If Daddy found out she was doing him, he'd see she got sent to prison. And I'm sure she has no desire to spend fifteen years with a prison full of women, many of them mothers and many of them guilty of murder."

"No, she's as hetero as they come. A true worshipper at the altar of cock. I've tried with her. No response. No, I'm not jealous of her so much as jealous of Corky. He's got something going on. I'm sure that she's going to do him up good shortly after his 18th birthday and that I won't be invited. Until then, yeah, he gets most of the attention. She thinks she divides it evenly between us, but I can tell that she and he have a special bond."

She chuckled a bit and said, "I get lonely sometimes. We do. Honestly, there are times I'd like to ask him to fuck me." "Corky?" (I'm sure my eyes were like saucers.) Now she guffawed, "Don't worry. Never happen. For one thing, there's half a chance Corky would tell Daddy about it and I'd have to go into therapy or something. Anyway, what is is and can't be changed."

"What can't be changed?" It was Larry. "Nothing I said. Girl talk anyway. You're checking on the food?" (Do I know guys or do I know guys?) "It's ready now. I was just letting it cool a bit."

Dinner was well-received and the occasion for the party was pretty much not discussed, to my relief. After all, how could my petty deflowering compare with the many yarns Cass had to tell of her adventures first as a stripper and then as a bush pilot? Her stories went on all through dinner and dessert and beyond into coffee time. (Thank heavens one thing Pepper knew how to do was operate their espresso machine!)

Now and then, Cass or Corky would excuse herself or himself to attend to the fire, and so by the time we all cleaned up and did the dishes, which only took about 10 minutes because all five of us worked at it, the family room was comfortably warm.

Cass was the first in, and looking out a window she announced, "Snow!" "Snow?" the rest of us said in virtual unison. "It happens at this elevation even in the summer, I'm told. About once every five years. Don't worry: it won't last beyond morning. Temperatures are still too warm for it to last. We looked. It was indeed coming down, and coming down hard. Eerily, since it was a full moon night, we could see rather that the area around the house was covered. "I guess you're spending the night with us," said Pepper. Now she was actually trying to sound welcoming, perhaps due to having leveled with me.

Now it was Pepper and Corky and Larry with their school stories. I could tell that Larry, who at first seemed to feel contempt for the brother and sister, was now warming up to them, and in fact was feeling a bit of kinship with them, despite their differences in personal style. Cass just sat back and listened and laughed and threw in her often hilarious comments from time to time. Despite the fact she was the only full adult there, she never condescended or lorded over us. She felt like one of us, and I could see that Pepper had fully warmed up to her, too. Obviously, talking about the issue had done her some good.

Then, I had an idea. "Champagne, anyone?" "Yes!" was the universal reply. I looked at Larry who looked back and I tipped my head as if to indicate "Come with me." We got up and went to the kitchen. I showed him where the champagne flutes were and while he got five of those, I retrieved two of the bottles and set them on one of the islands with the intention of looking for some snacks, but before I knew it Larry had me in his arms and planted a nice little dry kiss on my forehead. I squeezed his buns and said, "I want you to do something for me...promise?" He looked at me suspiciously. "What?" "Pepper is very lonely, and in case you hadn't noticed, Cass and Corky have a little dance going. I know she feels left out. So..." "Make out with her? You're kidding." "No, I'm not!" and No, this isn't some kind of test, either. Face it, we're together over the summer then it's back to you have your life and I have mine. We're having fun but we're not riding off into the sunset together. You can't tell me she isn't attractive. God, she's a Playboy centerfold girl. And she's nice, too. But, oh, is she lonely."

"But I like you." "I like you, too. I'm not asking you not to like me. Tell you what..." "What?" "I'll make it fun for you." "How's that?" "You start making out with her, and I'll join in." "You're serious?" "Deadly. Let's go. By now they're wondering what's taking so long."

When we got back, Cass got a big laugh with, "We didn't lose our virginity again, did we, Jill?" I said, "Sorry, I was hunting around for some nibblies." Cass countered with "Did she find something to nibble on, Larry?" Everyone laughed, except Larry and me. He blushed and by now I was just smiling at these virginity jokes, just glad that I was finally past that worry.

We had champagne and all gradually gravitated toward the fireplace, which was huge. A grown person could almost stand up in it. It radiated a lot of heat. This time, I was the one regaling everyone with stories, mostly from my dad's career as a musician and manager. Stories about Miles Davis and Sonny Rollins, Horace Silver and Bill Evans, Hubert Laws, "Tom" Jobim, Joao Gilberto, Mel Torme, and many others. My dad had so many, and I rarely heard the same story twice, at least not without some new details or wrinkles that made it even more interesting than before.

Looking at her watch, Cass said, "I need to get an early start. I've got to haul some groceries up to a camp on the edge of Glacier. (She meant Glacier National Park.) If I don't drop some food there pretty soon, those suckers'll starve." "Well," said Pepper. "You've stayed here before. You know where the guest room is."

Then Cass got up and kissed first Corky, then Larry, then probably in recognition of her softening attitude, she gave Pepper a very nice kiss as well. When she came to me, it may have looked like she kissed me on my cheek, but in fact she whispered so softly I could barely hear it myself, "Your Aunt Maggie says hi." I stiffened, which is probably why she quickly added, "Hey, I'm no stoolie!" She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder that felt eerily like Maggie's and trotted upstairs.

I didn't know whether to laugh at my aunt or be pissed off at her. I didn't know if she didn't trust me or just cared about me. Now, looking back with a few more years under my belt, having seen what wrecks other girls have made of their lives through bad choices, and at the same time seeing how strong motherly love can be, even for someone else's child, I completely understand, but then I was a bundle of mixed feelings to think that even here I was not totally free of adult supervision.

Corky put on some soft "chill" music and I poured some more champagne. We were all getting pretty tipsy. I kept looking Larry's way and mostly he was apparently trying not to meet my gaze. When at last my eyes caught his I gave him a look conveying great urgency, as if to say "What are you waiting for?"

Larry and Pepper were to my right, with Pepper between us. To my left was Corky. We were all sitting cross-legged, except for Pepper, who was on her tummy. At long last, Larry started to rub her upper back. Her eyes were closed, but I did see a little Mona Lisa smile appear on her lips. That's when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and Corky kissed me dryly on the lips. "Okay," I thought. "Let's see where this goes."

Corky was a surprisingly good kisser, a talent any girl will tell you is essential. A guy can look as gorgeous and hunky as can be, but if he is clueless when it comes to kissing, forget it. The biggest nerd with a talented tongue will get my vote over a guy with movie star looks who just doesn't get it when it comes to kissing. The worst are the guys who are germ-phobic and don't want to swap spit. What chance is there, do you think, he's going to be a talented muff-diver? (Speaking of which...another important skill.)

Anyway, I was starting to get worked up just from kissing when I heard moaning coming from Pepper. I took a quick look to find Larry's hand had strayed under Pepper's short little skirt and was caressing her cute little ass, which she had lifted just a bit. Why? So that her hand could get in there to play with her pussy! Now she had a definite smile on her face. Larry looked at me with a smile as well. I winked at him. He could see I was having fun, too.

I realized now that Corky had seen what was going on and was looking lovingly at his sister. He was glad she was enjoying herself, which made me feel better about him. Maybe they were preppies. They couldn't help that. But they were what my dad would call "mensches" (real folks) as well.

Corky and I got back to business. He pushed me down onto my back and we started kissing some more, and of course (to my delight) he had a pretty good idea what to do with my boobs. Glancing over at Pepper and Larry from time to time, I could see that they had gotten a head of us a bit, for Larry had found his way into into one leg hole of her undies and was giving her a pretty vigorous massage. However, soon Corky was massaging my own clit as well. His finger started to go in but I crossed my legs reflexively, reminding him "I just lost it yesterday, remember? I'm a little sore." "Uh?...Oh!" he said.

I didn't want to disappoint him, though, so I turned the table on him. I started kissing him and massaging his cock through his pants. He unzipped his pants for me and got his cock out. I held his cock in my hand while I kissed him, rubbing the glans with my thumb. Soon a little precum had drooled out of it and, wow, that stuff is awfully slippery! As soon as I started rubbing that in he got noticeably more excited.

Slowly, I stopped kissing Corky and slithered down to his waist, helping him get out of his clothes while I did the same. Soon, I was naked and sucking his dick furiously. The sounds Corky started to make after a while told me he was getting pretty outrageously excited, so it was no surprise when he pushed me away mumbling "Not yet." I laid my head on his thigh with his softening prick where I could look at and admire it.

It was then that I felt an unfamiliar sensation. Someone was sticking a wetted finger in my ass. Looking over my shoulder, I could see that it was Pepper. She looked into my face with a gaze obviously intended calm me, and said simply, "Relax your asshole, sweetie, and let me in. I can tell nobody's ever done this to you before. Don't worry, it's gonna be fun."

And so another finger popped another cherry on that trip. My first serious anal intrusion. Corky caught on to what was going on and soon he and I were doing a "69 on the side" with him licking my pussy while his sister fingered my ass.

Since then, I've become a total anal slut. I've even had a few anal-only orgasms, but mostly what works best anal stimulation and penetration combined with vaginal sex or clitoral stimulation. All of my most explosive and all of my strongest orgasms have come that way.

I soon noticed that Pepper, who was on her side as well was being rogered pretty hard from behind by Larry, and from the way she rolled her eyes and moaned I could tell she was lovin' it bigtime. Larry's eyes were closed as he concentrated on what he was doing, which was, basically banging like there was no tomorrow. At one point, he had to stop, probably to keep from cumming, and they both took a breather.

While, like many teen girls who want to avoid coitus, I had given blowjobs before, it was here that I learned to give deep throat and hold off the gag reflex. It's so ungraceful to gag on a cock and it really tends to kill the mood. It makes the guy look look abusive even when it's your decision to give it to him. It seemed that, all of a sudden, I could take a dick as far back as it would go and I could hold off the gagging. This is a skill I've always been grateful for since I learned it, and it was right then and there that I learned it.

I let Corky cum mostly in my mouth (another first), but I let the last few dribbles out onto my lips and cheek and spread it around with his cock, mostly just to put on a little show for him.

I rolled onto my back and got next to Pepper, putting our heads together. I called to Larry, then, who got up over our heads, straddling them, and Pepper and gave his glans a wet tongue massage, mixing in some good old fashioned cocksucking, a duty we took turns at for a while.

When Larry finally exploded (and do mean "exploded"), he shot right onto Pepper's tits and belly, dropping back into a steaming heap of spent flesh when he was done. Meanwhile, I slowly licked every drop of hot cum off her breasts, being sure to spend extra time on her nipples.

That done, she and I did a long and leisurely 69 on the side and managed to cum almost simultaneously.

We were all so exhausted, we didn't even go to bed. Rather we all stayed there in front of the fireplace under some of the Pendleton blankets that had been piled up at both ends of the massive leather couch.

In the a.m., I was awakened by the sound of the big wooden front door closing. That was Cass taking her leave. About 10 minutes later, I heard her plane taxi out onto the lake and take off. Gradually, the sound trailed off into silence.

I woke Larry up, and in the process Pepper and Corky woke up as well. "We should get going," I told Larry, who agreed. We re-dressed, packed up our things, and gave our new friends great big hugs, turning to wave as long as we could see the house. All that time, they remained on the porch, wrapped in their blankets and waving back.

As we approached the upside-down canoe and righted it, I said, "Preppies aren't so bad." He laughed to himself, but eventually said, "I grant those preppies are okay." "You're okay," I said. He looked at me with mock anger and said, "I go to school with preppies, but I'm no preppy."

The paddle back was quiet. The black water was smooth as glass under the still-gray sky. The wildlife was out in force, especially the ospreys and bald eagles, for bald eagles are fish eagles. They might catch the occasional rabbit or grouse, but they tend to nest near rivers and lakes and most often can be seen hunting fish. Twice, we saw an eagle sail down from the sky and pick a trout out of the water the way you or I might pluck a grape out of a fruit bowl.

We saw a mother deer with a fawn drink from the lake water. Further on, a bull elk with a giant rack of antlers watched us intently, no more than 20 feet away from us. We also saw otters (or mink?) and a number of red squirrels chasing around on fir trees.

When we reached the bunk house, I contacted the ranch by radio and assured Seth we'd be back before dark. He said that Maggie would be glad to hear we were safe. "Why, didn't Cass tell you?" I teased. He chuckled and added he'd be glad to have us back as well. Seth is not a man of many words, and when he says something, he means it, so that was a lot for him to say.

We had to scoot a bit to get back because both of us wanted a real dinner, and not the jerky and apples and such which was all that was left of our supplies. There were more supplies in the cabin, of course, but they were really for winter emergencies and we could easily get back if we didn't waste any time.

And so, we dragged into the ranch at about 7 p.m., put the saddles and the rest of the riding gear away, led the horses to their stalls, and took what had to go back into the ranch house with us.

Seth was sitting at the table with his feet propped up on the table in his gray woolen work socks, his dirty Levis dirtier than ever. (And as for the feet on the table thing, unlike Pepper and Corky's forest home, the ranch house has only one room that functions as kitchen, dining room, living room, and family room so, if you can't relax there, where can you relax?!!!) Maggie was leaning on the counter next to the stove when we trundled in and smiled just the way I'd expect my mom smiles when she hasn't seen me for a while.

"You guys go freshen up a bit," she said. I've got ribs and beans for you and some freshly baked cherry pie." A $50 lobster dinner wouldn't have sounded better. In fact, "stick to the ribs" fare was just what Larry and I wanted.

Larry and I dragged our tired selves back to our respective rooms to change. He had gotten to the bathroom ahead of me. The door was open and he was just kind of sponging the sweat and grit off his body when I got there. Seeing the bathroom was occupied, I started to walk away, but he called under his breath: "Jill, come here." I turned on my heel and stepped in. "What?" "Look," he said, pointing down to the wastebasket, where, amid the used kleenexes and various wrappers were at least a half dozen condom wrappers. Maggie and Seth had been using our away time very well indeed. I felt good for them.

In the remaining days, Larry and I spent quite a little time together. When I was less sore, we did our share of fucking by wandering off together after our chores were done. That was the summer I became a woman in at least one sense of the word.

Maggie took me aside at the end of the first full day back and commented on the change in Larry. She asked, "Whatever did you do to him? He's changed." But then she put a finger on my lips and said, "Maybe I don't want to know."

Larry and I do stay in touch, and there may be more Larry stories to come. I also hear from Pepper and even Corky from time to time. Definitely more stories will be coming from that quarter.

I know I teased you with stories about horse sex. Sorry, I've never really "done" a horse outside of a breeding situation. You never know what the future holds, though. The more I fuck, the more cocks seem to be getting smaller! I do have a story about a dog, though.

But that's a story for another day.

NOTE: Okay, here's a story I heard from a guy I met one night while out barhopping with Kelsey. After some superficial chit-chat I discovered that he was a photographer. Not only that, I'd seen some of his work. Very nice. To make matters more interesting, he lives in Portland, Oregon, my favorite city in the U.S. So, that's how we all ended up at a table swapping stories. He waited a while before jumping in with his, and he even expressed some hesitancy because, he said, we'd think he was bullshitting us. His story is quite unbelievable, but he seemed absolutely sincere in telling it. I was just taking it in with a grain of salt until he reached the end, which made me all goosebumpy. I asked him if he minded if I used it as the basis of a short story, and he said he'd be more than happy if I did, and that he'd love to see it when I was done. Now, I have polished it up and elaborated on it to flesh it out, turning a conversation into a real story and not just a tale, and of course "the names have been changed to protect the innocent," plus I've made it more linear than the way he told it, but none of the key elements have been changed. It's been fun to write. I hope you enjoy it. Oh, by the way, and to avoid initial confusion, unlike most of my stories it's told in his voice, not mine. I'm just repeating what he told me.

Isn't it funny how humbly some of those monumental changes in one's life can occur? You know: as the result of a coincidence or chance meeting? This story begins with the discharging of a small debt. Had I discharged it an hour sooner or later, my life certainly would have gone in a much different and entirely unknowable direction.

I was just returning some borrowed photo magazines to Abigail, a former colleague of mine who helped my budding freelance career by sending me some photography work whenever she could. Looking around, I noticed a very attractive young woman out on her patio.

I asked Abby who the girl was, and Abby said, "Come on back and have some iced tea with us, I might as well introduce you since you're here."

She introduced me as Phil Thomsen and introduced the girl to me as Clair Kirkhof, adding that Clair was a painter whose star was rising rapidly.

I discovered that Clair lived with a sister named Elize. Clair had gorgeously wavy auburn hair and long, slender legs. She was so beautiful she was absolutely painful to look at. I took pleasure in her beauty, but it was painful to know that she was not mine, nor, probably, ever would be.

"You and your sister have musical names," I observed.

She explained that they were indeed named after Debussy's Clair de lune and Beethoven's Für Elize.

Suddenly, it looked like a lightbulb had lit up over Abby's head and she asked, "Say, Phil, would you like to see their paintings?"

I ignored her question momentarily, asking, "Oh, so Elize paints as well?"

"Yes, of course," said Clair playfully (and with no hint of disdain).

"I'd love to see your work."

Clair winked at Abby, as though she had done something quite brilliant. Then she turned to me saying, "Well, are you free Saturday evening?"

I fell for the bait. "Sure."

"Great," Clair continued. "Elize and I are having a private showing on Saturday and we need some assistance. Abby was going to help out, but she's come up with a hot date for Saturday and wants to be free to be at his side during the show. I told her I'd let her off the hook if she could find a replacement. It looks like tag, you're it...if you don't mind."

Abby clasped her hands under her chin as if in prayer and pleaded, "Please, Phil?"

Maybe I should've resented being ambushed like that, but I was so taken with Clair that I decided to accept her invitation. Besides, I still owed Abby a favor or two more.

Saturday finally rolled around, and when I finally found the obscure address Clair had given me I saw that the place she and her sister shared was a loft over an empty warehouse. I could also see that it had skylights and tall windows all the way around.

I knocked hard. When no one answered, I knocked harder still. At last, I heard metallic-sounding footsteps approaching me from inside, the door opened, and there she stood.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said, "but I had a hard time finding you."

Instead of stepping aside to let me pass, she looked at me blankly, saying, "Look, this is a private gathering. No crashers."

I was more than a little shocked. I said, "I'm Phil, remember? Phil Thomsen? We met Thursday at Abby's. You invited me to come over and help you out tonight—and see some of your paintings."

After this explanation, she blushed deeply. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Phil. We've had some pretty brazen crashers in the past...and by the way, I'm Elize, not Clair."

My jaw dropped. "Twins! I didn't know."

"Tonight, Clair's in red and I'm in green, just to make it easy on everyone. Anyway, come on in, because we really do need some help in the kitchen. We need to be out there selling paintings, not pouring drinks and refilling snack bowls."

"Just lead the way," I said. We walked up metal stairs and into a huge room with brick walls that had been painted burnt sienna. At least forty people were standing around looking at twelve or fifteen large erotic paintings.

Elize explained under her breath, "The people here are mainly established or potential clients, plus a few friends from the press and the art community. The customers are a pretty strange crew, and our friends are even weirder, as you'll see. Anyway, they'll all be gone by 10 or so, and afterward, the three of us can get better acquainted." "Sounds great," I said.

Clair had arrived at my side and had overheard all this, so she told Elize, "I'll take Phil to the kitchen. You talk to Mr. Chalmers for a while; I've had enough of the old fart. Let him grab your tits for a while."

After patiently showing me what to do, Clair left me on my own, and for the next three hours, I served drinks, refilled snack bowls and trays, and picked up discarded glasses, plates, forks, and napkins.

Later on, with all the guests gone, the dishes picked up, the spills wiped, and the whole place swept and vacuumed, the three of us were sprawled on the couch drinking the dregs of the wine in the several remaining open bottles of French Vouvray, Italion Pinot Grigio and Aussie Shiraz.

We talked about art and photography for several hours and I grew to like and respect the twins immensely. And I mean both of them, since they were literally like peas in a pod, physically and mentally. They were both smart and erudite and had great taste in photography and all of the arts.

Despite their obvious talent, the girls were refreshingly free of the artistic egoism I'd found in past encounters with painters, who seem to place photography on a lower rung. Funny, since painting is not nearly as lively and widely enjoyed as it once was. It's now enjoyed and appreciated mainly by painters, critics, and investors, and to the public at large, it's a yawn. Which was a shame in their case, since their work walked a tightrope between art erotica and art porn that I found very enjoyable and stimulating. At the same time, they enjoyed what they were doing and the success they were beginning to enjoy wasn't spoiling them a bit.

I gradually sensed that, despite the erotic subject matter of their paintings, they were not widely experienced sexually. Not that they were virgins—they clearly weren't—but most of their knowledge of sex seemed to come from art and literature, not the bedroom.

Finally, it was very late and, because of the wine, I could hardly stay awake, even with the discussion firmly centered, as it was, on sex.

I got up and said, "Well, I gotta go." But when I stood up, I discovered that someone had put the whole world on a bit of a slant (though at least the room wasn't spinning as it would have done in my college days).

Clair said, "Phil, you clearly can't drive in this condition, but we're in no condition to take you home, either. Unless you want to take a taxi, maybe you should just spend the night and have breakfast with us."

"I really couldn't impose on you," I said, trying to sound perfectly sincere, which I assure you, I was not.

"Oh, come on," they said in unison, and I made a big show of giving in only grudgingly.

Clair showed me to the bathroom off the kitchen, where she gave me a fresh towel and some baking soda to brush my teeth with, which I did using my index finger. Before I started my own shower water, I heard a shower running elsewhere in the huge apartment.

After I was clean and dried off, I put my trousers back on, stepped out of the bathroom, and yelled, "Should I just grab the couch in the living room, or do you have a guest bed?"

After a momentary delay, from the other end of the apartment I heard one of them yell, "Come on in here."

When I found Clair and Elize, they were sitting in a very large bed, their hair wrapped in towels. It was obvious where I was expected to go: between them. And this is exactly where I went.

At first we just talked and chuckled nervously, but soon I felt their hands on my thighs. I turned to Elize and said, "Excuse me for a moment." With this, I turned to Clair, the sister I knew best, and kissed her. At first just a peck, but then her mouth opened to my insistent tongue.

Soon we were kissing and groping intently, and I did play a little trick on them then, which I never told them about: Whenever I kissed Clair that night, I gave her a little horizontal tongue wiggle as a kind of greeting, and as time went by, she would do this unconsciously whenever our tongues met. With Elize, I did a curly vertical wiggle. From that point onward, I could tell them apart in bed by kissing them. And this happened every time we kissed, even if the kiss was a little peck on the lips. Always a tongue wiggle.

Sometimes they'd tease me by taking each other's identity, and I always played dumb so as not to give my secret away. They would even joke about my tongue wiggle, but they never compared notes, so as far as they knew, I did it the same way for each of them.

I didn't notice the rustling next to me, but I did notice it when Elize's hand gripped my cock. I continued kissing Clair, but I stopped kissing and gasped slowly at the feeling of Elize's tongue on my belly and thighs as she slowly pulled on my cock.

I started kissing Clair even harder, rolling and pinching her nipples between my thumb and first finger. This time, she was the one who gasped.

It was at about this point that Elize's tongue found my cock, licking up and down it like a lollypop, and diddling the loose skin under its head.

Clair, meanwhile, was in an agony of pleasure, saying, "Oh, God! This feels soooo good."

Given this encouragement, I let go of her nipples and started rubbing her thighs, which she parted for me, offering up her damp little pussy to be caressed and penetrated by my fingers.

Now, we kissed more deeply than ever, and I was tremendously aroused. So when Elize finally took my cock full into her mouth and began sucking and bobbing up and down on it, I almost came and had to tell her to go easy for now.

After a minute or two, I declared, "I want to eat some pussy, but I don't know who to start with. Besides, I might get whiplash going back and forth between you."

Clair whispered in Elize's ear and they said, "We have a solution." With this, Clair laid on her back and signalled to Elize, who laid herself down on Clair, so that their pussies were stacked.

I got on my belly between their legs. The perfume of their sweet little vaginas was almost overwhelming. Both girls were obviously as wet as could be, with little droplets of dew on the beautiful pink and brown folds of their inner labia.

The first thing I did was perhaps rather piggish, but they loved it anyway: I rubbed my face on their vulvas, getting their pussy dew all over my face and in my beard. Then I took Elize's clit in my mouth and slowly but deliberately returned the favor she'd shown my cock. I noticed that Clair was holding her sister in a tight embrace, rubbing Elize's breasts and pinching her nipples. They tongue kissed intermittently. Obviously, they had had sex with each other. How kinky is that?

I brought Elize almost to orgasm, then worked on Clair, whose pussy was so damp by now from her own juices and those that had dripped down from above, that a wet spot had appeared on the sheet under her butt. Then, I brought Clair to the verge of orgasm.

This brinksmanship went on for better than a half hour, when Clair said, "I want to be fucked!" "Yes, fuck us!" chimed in Elize with equal enthusiasm.

So, they separated, and after a little eeny-meeny-miney-moe, I got on top of Clair. I can't tell you how beautiful she was, how tender and trusting the expression on her face. She liked me a lot...and so did her sister!

I fucked her for maybe fifteen minutes before bringing her to climax, which I did as much by talking romantically as by anything else. I'd been saving myself, of course, because I wanted to fuck Elize, too, and by this time I wanted an orgasm so badly I fairly ached.

So, I got on top of Elize and started in on her. She'd been masturbating while watching Clair and me, so she was ripe for orgasm, too. Still, I dragged it out for a good ten minutes, savoring her beauty, marveling in the same tenderness I'd found in Clair's eyes.

At last I scooped Elize's legs up in my arms so that her knees were pressed against her shoulders. This extreme position obviously thrilled her, and it was no problem at all to give her a big, long series of powerful orgasms.

At breakfast the next morning (which was actually served at about 1 p.m.), Clair told me how they got started in painting.

She said, "We started painting at our high school in Eugene. We both got a painting scholarship to (a well-known art school in NYC), but we dropped out after two years and moved back to Oregon. We couldn't stand big city life.

"After that, we got in touch with a writer friend of ours named Zazie. She already had some contacts here in Portland, and, after a couple iffy months, our work started to sell. Now, Zazie and her husband live in a cabin on a gorgeous lake near Zigzag. Okay, Phil, that's our story; what's yours?"

I explained that I'd been freelancing for a couple years after working for several years in the agency Abbigail worked at, and that mostly I did commercial shots for ad agencies and the occasional model portfolio.

"It sounds to me like you still haven't done what you really want, though," said Elize.

I admitted that ultimately I wanted to do figure and fashion photography, but that right now, it was the big gap in my portfolio. Like most artists, I did what I had to do to survive.

Clair said, "We've done some figure and fashion photography. Would you like to see?"

I said yes, and Clair ran off, coming back with a small portfolio. It was full of very good nudes and fashion studies. I asked, "Which of you is the model?"

"We take turns modeling and shooting," said Clair. I should have guessed: They were twins all the way.

Elize looked at my expression and said, with an impish smile, "You'd like to shoot us, wouldn't you? You'd like to take pictures of us."

"Sure I would." I hadn't said anything, though, having learned long ago never to ask your lover to pose for anything you might want to show. Most women delight in posing for their man, but few women are keen on the photographs getting into circulation. I certainly would never turn down an opportunity to shoot these two, though, especially if they were going to make a free-will offer. Besides, as pro models, they would have no objection to my photos being used to further my own career. All it could do was drum up business for them as well, so both sides would benefit. They looked at each other and, without saying a word, agreed in unison to pose.

We decided to do it later that same afternoon.

I went out and bought lots of film and spare batteries for my flash unit. Then, I went home and collected the camera, tripod, lights, and the rest of my gear.

When I returned, one of them greeted me at the door. "We've been busy," she said. When I kissed her, I knew she was Elize.

Going upstairs, I saw what she meant. The living room was full of chairs, couches, various props, and cloth swatches of many different sorts.

They were great models, of course. Absolutely uninhibited, they would assume any position without question. They knew no modesty, though I really didn't take full advantage of it. They trusted me, and I had no interest in violating that trust. I was interested in capturing eroticism not raunch, and I knew that if they liked the result, they would surely pose again. I also avoided shooting their faces, since I was primarily interested in the play of light and shadow on their incredible bodies.

Besides, I knew by then that I was falling in love with them both, and I didn't want to do anything that would cost me their trust.

At 5 p.m., after three hours of shooting, we were all dead tired and I called a break.

"We haven't discussed payment, yet," I said, suddenly feeling very unprofessional about the whole thing. Some "photographer" I was!

"Why don't you just take us out to dinner?" said Clair, "We don't want any money, do we Elize?" Elize agreed.

By the time we got back to their place, we'd had a Lebanese dinner and visited three nightclubs. It was well past midnight, and we were pretty well smashed.

"Do you have any film left?" Elize asked.

"Yep," I said.

"Want to shoot something in the bedroom, then?"

I told her that it sounded like a great idea.

After I adjusted the lighting and set up some props, Elize said, "My turn to shoot."

I was a little hesitant at first. I was the photographer, not a model, but then I realized how selfish that was, considering what they'd done and the fact that they were both photographers as well. "Just remember," I said, "no face shots. I haven't shot yours."

"As if people won't be able to figure out which twins are posing in the nude for you," Elize said snidely. "But don't worry, we'll protect your anonymity."

This time, Clair and I posed together—faking all kinds of sexual activities. And when Elize had had her fill behind the camera, Clair became the photographer.

But Clair had an idea. "Let's do some porn. High quality porn with good composition and lighting, but still plenty raunchy."

So, the next thing I knew, I had my clothes back on, only my cock was sticking out of my pants with Elize sucking away on it.

When Clair took over behind the camera, Elize put on a black garterbelt and stockings outfit, and Clair had her lay down on a couch, as pretty as could be except that her legs were spread quite wide. She then had me eat pussy for a number of shots. Then Clair had Elize bend over a table, and asked me, still fully clothed, to fuck her from the back which, only for the sake of art, of course, I was quite happy to do.

After perhaps an hour of this, Elize asked me if I was having fun. I admitted that standing around with an erection for over an hour while holding my orgasm back, had given me a tremendous ache in the loins.

She looked at Clair and said, "Poor baby! Well, let me shoot while Clair finishes you off." They huddled. Apparently they were planning something really nice.

Clair went away and when she came back, she had a wrist full of all kinds of bracelets: cloisonne, pearls, gold chain, you name it. She also had a small plastic bottle of personal lubricant, and she lubed up my cock as Elize took the camera off its tripod. Obviously, she wanted a close-up.

The next thing I knew, Clair's hand was moving up and down slowly on my cock, which she had in a tight grip. It felt wonderful, and the rattle and swish of all those bracelets made it all the better.

Eventually started going a bit faster and harder, according to my instructions. I told her just what to do to make it really good for me, and before long I could feel those changes going on inside that only a man can feel...changes telling him that his release is on the way.

It started with a little squirt of mostly-clear fluid, but I finally shot some cum about a foot up into the air and I heard the shutter click, and when it landed, it landed perfectly on Clair's now slowly-moving fist, dripping down like white candle wax over her fingers and rings. A glob or two hung off her bracelets as well.

"Fine," said Elize. "That'll be a great shot. Just you watch."

I stayed again that night, and in the morning, the three of us made wild monkey love. After breakfast we all drove over to my place to develop the pictures, and after I made contact sheets, I said, "You know, there are a lot of really great photos here. I just wish there was a place to show them."

Clair said, "You know, there's an erotic art exhibition in two months that Elize and I will be entering. I think you still have time to enter. I have all the info at home, if you want it."

"Enter your photos, too," I said. "Some of the best ones are yours."

They entered their paintings and we all entered photos in the show. One of my photos and one of theirs (the hand job) got accepted. So were a couple of their paintings. My entry took second in the photography category and the hand job took third. One of their paintings was not only "Best Painting," but garnered the "Best in Show" title, too. Overall, it was quite a success for all of us.

Now, Portland is a weird city, conservative in many regards, and yet it has more nudie bars per capita than any other city in the U.S. How would our work be received? Our photos were easily the most notorious in a show that was intended to be outrageous. Well, my business picked up dramatically and I was in heavy demand from the local agents and independent models for lingerie shots, especially whenever garter belts and so forth were involved. And the twins were now supplementing their painting income with occasional photography jobs and modeling assignments as well.

We were all doing well.

It was about this time that they asked me if I'd like to move in with them, and of course I did. And we lived happily forever after.

...Don't I wish.

One night we were sprawled on the couch, the three of us, one on each side of me. We had rented a romantic movie and were ready to have a movie and popcorn followed by a pretty serious fuckfest. I got up to make the popcorn, but couldn't find any.

Clair made a guilty face and said, "I used up the last of it the other night."

Elize scowled. "And you forgot to put it on the shopping list, I suppose."

Clair shrugged sheepishly saying, "I'm sorry. It's my fault, so I'll walk to the store and get some more."

"I'll go with you," I said. It was well after dark and I didn't really like the idea of my honey going out on her own.

"Don't be silly. It's only four blocks. I'm not a child."

I was worried about her, but I also knew that I was beginning to seem a bit paternalistic. So, despite my concern for her, I had to stay. Still, I couldn't resist walking her to the door and saying, "Please be careful; I love you."

In retrospect, I certainly wish I'd insisted on going with her. While the neighborhood was not notoriously "bad," a girl out after dark is always a potential victim.

"I love you, too," she said. Then she was gone.

Elize and I watched network TV for awhile, saving the movie for Clair. As time passed, we both got progressively more nervous, until, after thirty minutes or so, I finally said, "It doesn't take a half hour to walk to the store and come back."

"I know," said Elize. "Let's go out and look."

"No," I said, "I'll look. You stay here so someone'll be here if she comes back." Elize agreed to this. But this time, it was she who pleaded with me to be careful.

Soon I was downstairs and on my way to the store. I quickly came to the place where you have to decide whether to go the long, well-lit way or take the short-cut through a field.

Something told me that Clair, wanting to hurry, had unwisely taken the shortcut, so I walked out into the field, hoping with all my heart that Clair had not been so foolish.

When I got to the middle of the field, I looked around, soon realizing that an attacker would have taken her to the darkest, most hidden part of the field. Looking around quickly, I determined that that was a clump of bushes about fifteen or twenty feet away.

Walking around to the far side of the bushes, I saw her at once, lying on her back and naked from the waist down, her legs splayed like a Hustler centerfold. Her lovely, pleasure-giving cunt— which she had pledged to me alone—was exposed to the cold night air like a broken melon. Her throat gleamed with even in the dark I knew to be blood from its rusty smell.

I dropped to my knees, listened for breath, felt her wrist and neck for a heartbeat. Finding none, it sank in that she, my lover, was almost certainly dead. This fact overwhelmed me, and I lost my dinner in the dirt before screaming and crying.

A passerby ran over to see what was up and upon reaching the scene, called 911.

When the paramedics and police arrived, they confirmed the worst.

The next week was hell, what with grieving, funeral arrangements, and visits from friends and distant relatives (Clair and Elize's parents were both gone—in a twisted way, the one bright side to the whole thing).

Elize and I faltered at re-establishing our intimacy, so to spare us both pain, I think, she accepted an invitation to stay indefinitely with her old friend Zazie in Zigzag on the slopes of Mount Hood.

During those days, I became a workaholic since I had to pay the rent by myself and just to have something other than my grief on my mind. That took care of the days and the evenings, but the nights were very hard: I desperately missed both of the girls.

I wrote Elize at the address she'd left me, just telling her how I was doing and how much I missed her, but she never replied.

I tried to reestablish a social life, dating Abby off and on for a while. I'm sure she went out with me largely because she cared for me as a friend, pitied me, and wanted to help. But I was poor company; I inevitably turned our conversation to Clair and Elize.

I invited her to bed with me once—and she really tried hard to give in to me that night—but after five minutes of faltering, exploratory kisses and caresses, she said, "I'm sorry. I get the feeling neither of us is really into this," and then she left me alone. She was correct: It didn't feel right. And that brought home to me what I knew in my heart: I was still in love with Elize and really needed to get her back into my life.

About four months after the incident, I got a call from Zazie, who said that Elize needed my help and asked me to come out to the cabin as soon as possible. She mentioned some kind of problem.

I argued that I'd written Elize several letters, to which she hadn't replied.

"It's not her fault," said Zazie. "She'll come around, but I think she needs your help and support first."

"What's the problem, anyway?"

"She behaves very strangely sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

She wouldn't tell me, saying, "Please, just come on out here to the cabin and spend some time with her. I don't want to talk about it over the phone."

Of course, I had no choice but to say yes.

I got an early start and arrived at Zazie's cabin about 10 a.m. It was substantially larger than I'd expected, based on the word "cabin." It was a rustic pioneer-style log house with a good twelve or fifteen rooms.

I knocked at the screen door. Zazie turned out to be a lovely young woman roughly Elize's age holding a baby. Inviting me in she said, "Excuse the mess, but my husband's in San Francisco on business, and I don't have as much help with Jenny as usual." The implication, I suppose, was that Elize wasn't being much help. Zazie didn't say this in an accusatory manner, but just stated it factually.

I asked, "Where is she?"

She gave me a worried grin. "Out on the pier getting some sun. But, look, I want to talk to you before you go out to her."

This reminded me of the mysterious strange behavior hinted at on the phone. "Oh yeah, what's wrong with her, anyway?"

"Sometimes she seems to think—I don't expect you to believe this until it happens to you..."

"She thinks what?"

It was obviously hard for her to say, but at last she got it out: "Sometimes she seems to think she's Clair."

"That's preposterous."

"I know. That's how I felt at first. I thought she was putting me on, but whenever I tried to talk with her about it, she pretended not to remember. Unless, of course, she actually didn't remember."

I asked, "Could it be that she's developed a split personality as a way of attempting to preserve Clair's memory?"

Zazie said, "Well, the idea that she's going crazy has occurred to me. That's why I called you. But I've been reading about multiple personality disorders, and I don't think that's her problem. Multiple personality usually involves the invention of purely fictional personalities. So, I don't know what the problem is, and I'm confused."

Her eyes were filling with tears, and I suddenly realized not only how much Elize meant to her, but how real the problem was. I put an arm around Zazie's shoulder and said, "Let me see her. I'll take care of her from now on, if she'll come home with me. It may be time for her to try to get back in the swing of things."

Zazie agreed but said, "Now, understand that the Clair personality doesn't come out all the time. She's only done it three times around me. And, as I said, she won't remember it after it happens, though she clearly realizes she's lost some time. It's like a blackout after the Clair personality comes out."

Zazie got up and led me out the back door onto the deck, pointing to a lake. There, with a vista of Mt. Hood that took my breath away as a backdrop, Elize was laying on her tummy at the end of the pier catching some rays.

I walked to the lake and out onto the pier. I can't describe the feelings welling up inside me as I walked up to her. Her beautiful body, as lithe and sexy as ever, was not what I saw. No, I saw my best friend, and I was feeling the dreadful distance that had grown up between us.

Halfway down the pier, Elize heard me coming. She sat up and looked around as if looking for an escape route, but then hesitated, unsure what to do. "Hi, Phil," she said as she stood up, biting a fingernail. "I didn't know you were coming."

When I got to her, I gave her a good, strong hug, saying, "It's a surprise." Then I added, "You know, I've missed you so much."

She said, "I'm sorry, Phil. I've had no desire for sex..."

"I meant I was lonely, Elize. I don't want sex with you just yet, either, especially if you don't want it. You're a friend and companion. I can't enjoy life apart from you."

Elize relaxed somewhat, saying, "I know, Phil. Excuse me for acting this way. This whole thing has had me way off balance."

I said, "Come home with me, Elize."

"I don't know, I'll think about it."

"I'm going back tonight."

"I'll let you know tonight, then."

After this, Elize showed me all around the grounds. We walked for several hours on some of the hiking trails, and while the ice was clearly melting, it was melting slowly.

At one point, we were high above the lake on a promontory, the warm air blowing across the lake and into our faces. I noticed an island below and asked Elize about it. "It's beautiful, Phil. From the break in the treetops you can see there's a clearing in the middle, but what you can't see is that the clearing is full of Indian Paintbrush, and lots of other wildflowers whose names I don't know."

"I wish we could go out there and see it."

"I'll take you," she said. "We'll borrow Zazie's canoe."

After returning and having lunch, we asked for the canoe, which Zazie graciously loaned us for the afternoon.

The water was almost crystal clear and looked good enough to drink. On several occasions, I saw fish darting in the dark blue-green depths.

As cold as the water was, the air was quite warm by the time we arrived at the island, and the sun was beating down oppressively. I think we welcomed the opportunity to beach our boat and walk into the shady forest.

It took only five minutes to arrive at the meadow, and Elize was right...it was like a dream. Multicolored wildflowers, green moss, and lichens of various hues strewn among rocks and grassy patches. But most pervasively of all—as she'd said—was Indian Paintbrush, obviously at the peak of its brief season.

We laid a blanket on a flat rock in the shade at the margin of the meadow and talked. At first, I guess you'd have to call it "small talk." But we both began to let our guards down and talk about all the hurt we'd been going through. It was therapeutic for both of us.

Elize—who'd never known anything other than being part of a matched pair of sisters who loved each other so much that it bordered on incest—was now just another pretty girl. Something very special about her was no longer true. Half of her was gone.

"You still have me," I assured her. "We're still a pair...if you want me."

There followed a long silence, after which Elize pushed me down and scooted over, pushing her back against my chest in the classic spoon position, which allowed me to embrace her with her head laying on my upper arm as a pillow.

And that was the way we spent the afternoon: just lounging around in that heavenly clearing, remembering Clair, comforting each other.

We both had a couple good cries.

After dinner, with Zazie and her baby, we hiked another trail to a hot spring where Elize and I lounged, nude, in water that was almost too hot to bear while Zazie bounced her baby on her knee in the slowly cooling evening air, regaling us with stories that helped by keeping clear of any mention of Clair.

By the time we got back to the cabin, darkness was almost upon us, and I was becoming aware of a full moon rising in the southern sky.

"You two go out and sit on the pier," Zazie said, adding, "With the moon full, the mountain will be gorgeous. You'll be alone: Jenny and I have to go to bed."

"I was going to go..." I started to say.

"He can spend the night, can't he?" Elize asked her friend.

Zazie smiled, saying "Of course he can. Do you want me to ready a bedroom for him?" Sometimes you don't really ask the question you want the answer to.

For the first time since I arrived, Elize laughed, saying, "Don't bother. We're used to sleeping together."

Zazie tried, but it was hard not to notice her joy at the upward turn in Elize's spirits.

So, Elize and I gathered up some blankets and after accepting a bottle of wine from Zazie, we strolled out onto the pier. We took off our shoes and tried dangling our feet in the water. It was so cold, though, that it became a game to see how long we could stand it.

As time went by and the twilight faded into night, I could see what Zazie had meant. The moon positively illuminated the mountain, putting a slowly-shimmering, unearthly reflection into the lake water. I had been to Mexico, Europe and Canada—and just about everywhere in the United States, too—and I'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

It was a special moment, and I was sharing it with Elize.

Elize was obviously happy. She said she was getting cold and asked me to put my arm around her, which I did. For quite a while we just sat and talked some more. This time, though, we talked about us, our future, our plans. Clair's name didn't come up once.

Then we were silent again for quite a while. It was a very comfortable silence for both of us, I think. We were feeling close again. Emotionally, we'd bridged the gulf.

Finally, Elize broke the silence, saying, "I want to make love."

"Here? Now?"

She didn't answer, just pushed me down and said, "Let me take the lead."

I sensed she needed to feel in control, to feel she could modulate the speed and stop or back out at any time.

For the longest time, she just stroked my hair and cheeks, her fingers shaking.

"Take your time," I said, "we have all night."

Then she just laid her head on my chest for a while. I really didn't care whether we had sex. It had been so long since she'd held me, it was so good just to feel her body against mine, to once again know human warmth.

At last, she got up on one elbow and drew herself slowly to me, putting her lips against mine. We kissed dryly at first, just pecking at each other's lips. But slowly, in unison, we opened our mouths, and our tongues touched, tentatively at first, but then, after the obligatory tongue wiggle, with the overwhelming greed we'd known before.

"It's been so long," I whispered as I took a breath.

"Way too long," was all she said as she unzipped my trousers and found my cock, which she pulled out and massaged as she kissed me.

I unbuttoned my shirt for her, and she kissed my chest, pinching my nipples in her teeth and running her tongue all over my belly.

Now, ignoring the cold, she swung around a half turn on her hands and knees and bent forward to take my cock in her mouth. At the same time, I started kissing that sweet little pussy of hers, caressing the soft labia with my tongue, sucking on her hardening clit and teasing it with my lips and tongue.

I loved her so much, and I wanted to show her as much in every way imaginable, certainly including this way.

And so it went until the middle of the night, when we finally dragged ouselves off to Elize's room, where we spent the remainder of the night.

After telling Zazie our plans over breakfast, we packed Elize's things and headed back to the city and a new chapter in our lives.

A relieved-looking Zazie waved us an enthusiastic farewell as we left, inviting us to come back and visit anytime.

It's been about four weeks now since we left Zazie's cabin, and things are gradually getting back to normal.

Or, rather, we're inventing a new kind of "normal" for ourselves. Elize is painting again, and demand for her work is gradually building up as her confidence comes back. Demand for my work is rising, too.

Clearly, we're going to survive.

Sexually, things are progressing well. I'd say we're at least as close now as we were when Clair was part of the arrangement.

Elize is late coming to bed after her shower. When she arrives, she turns out all the lights and stands looking out of the large floor-to-ceiling window, presenting a shapely, sexy silhouette against the moonglow.

"Come here," she says, and when I come, she asks, "Do you like the moonlight?"

"Of course." "My name comes from the French word for moonlight, you know."

So this is what Zazie had meant...

"Elize, listen..."

"Clair," she corrected.

I'm a little confused, as you can imagine, but I decide to play along and try to reason with the Clair persona. "Clair, you mustn't do this to Elize. Chunks of time will be gone from her and she'll think she's blacking out. She'll think she's going crazy, don't you see?"

Her face turns downward, and her lower lip curls in a frown. "But I miss you, Phil. I'm so lonely. I want to be with you."

I sigh, and circling her waist with my arms, pull her to me.

She asks, "Can I come out at night and make love to you? I have to come out sometime...I need to." There's no ignoring the sincerity of her gaze. This isn't Elize acting, putting me on. In some sense, Elize really believes she's Clair.

I play along for now. "Okay, then. Come out at night, in the moonlight, and Elize will just think she's fallen asleep."

Elize turns around and draws me to her. She puts her lips on mine, and when I open my mouth to hers, our tongues touch...and I feel Clair's secret tongue wiggle, sending a thrill through my entire body.

"Phil," she asks, "why the goose bumps?"

I'm silent, except for, "So, it is you?"

She looks at me like I'm crazy. "Of course, it is."

Before I know it, she's pulling me slowly to the bed, where I almost fall onto her, her legs already parting for me, her pussy dripping with anticipation. Although I have tears in my eyes, I slide into her as though she were no more than a warm, pleasant dream...

After the lovemaking, I take a quick shower, and when I climb into bed, she rolls over and kisses me again.

It's Elize's kiss this time.

"You know what?" she says, "I'm really horny. Let's make love." With that, she disappears under the sheet.

And as her mouth finds my cock, I smile, knowing that my future looks very bright. Twice as bright, in fact, as I thought it ever could be.

Petter Hegre gets some of the most gorgeous girls in front of his camera. His site is one of the best reviewed sites on the Internet and the photos in his galleries are absolutely gigantic. Just click on a photo below to see that girl's gallery. But before you do, get that jar of Astroglide you keep in the drawer next to your bed. (And you thought nobody knew.)

Tuesday, October 10, 2006
You figure it out

It took me almost all of summer to write about my July 4 weekend trip to Portland. Here it is early October and there's no doubt that autumn is upon us. Some clues include the red, orange, and yellow of the maples, the sudden appearance of pumpkins on people's lawns, and the use and abuse of orange in all the store displays.

In case you've been wondering, I've been in touch with Mandy and I leveled with her about why I left Portland the way I did, essentially simply waving instead of saying good-bye. She understands and she's gotten over it. She and I will be hooking up again sometime, I'm pretty sure.

I now spend a day or so almost every week dropping by Alana's parents' place. (For those of you who need background: Alana is a girl I grew up with, played with, and went to school with who hung herself over the July 4 weekend after a break-up with her boyfriend.)

Seeing the devastation caused by her suicide has made me appreciate my family more. My younger brother, who knew Alana as one of my friends who took an interest in him, has been particularly bummed by the situation. He's mystified and can't understand why she would do such a thing. All I can do is assure him that she must have been in a bad place, although in my heart I know she did it for selfish reasons, too. To hurt Chuckie.

I don't talk about my family a whole lot mostly for privacy and security reasons, but I will say that my mom is a teacher and my dad was involved in the music industry. Even though he plays several instruments, he's now mostly involved in management and promotion. Why? Because after years spent on the road, touring in various jazz combos, he's decided he doesn't like a life where you're sleeping in a different hotel, tour bus, or airplane all the time. He doesn't like the alcohol and drug abuse so many musicians fall prey to. He likes being at home with my mom and my brother.

One reason I'm glad my dad was involved with music is that he taught me so much about it and because I got to meet so many musicians who, frequently, would spend the night with us to spare them the expense of a hotel room and an overpriced hotel restaurant breakfast. Mom would always put out a feast for these guys, much more delicious than any hotel breakfast. Fried ham, sausage, or bacon. Home fries fried up with chopped onions, homemade bread and jams. We didn't just love music in our house...we loved musicians.

I met many fine musicians, some very famous, some less so, some who've never made a name for themselves. And this was real jazz, not that Kenny G/Spiro Gyra stuff. I have met Maynard Ferguson, Charlie Byrd, Bradford Marsalis, Stanley Turrentine, and many others. Often, they'd jam right in our living room.

I digress.

My boss/friend/fuck buddy, Kelsey, who was promoted to manager of my company's local office, invited me to come along with her on a trip to Cincinnati. I would share driving with her and she'd pop for the hotel room, since she'd have to pay for it anyway if she drove herself.

It was a "fall colors" trip, the idea being to avoid freeways as much as it was practical to do. We would not have time to explore Cincinnati. That'd have to wait for a long weekend.

We took off at about 6 a.m. Saturday morning and didn't get into Cincinnati until about 6 that evening. Along the way we saw so much beautiful countryside. The beauty of Ohio's farmland is second to none, though, like I've said elsewhere, farmland is pretty much farmland wherever you go, and generally there's no way to tell by simply looking out your car window whether you are in Ohio, Georgia, or California, except that in some places you might have a mountain range off in the distance, which pretty tells you where you are not. You would not be in Ohio, for example. Anything called a mountain in Ohio would be a hill in most Western states.

Farms are scenic and farming communities are quaint, but they can also be disappointingly mundane. We have this idealized view of the country as a place where the bywords are "natural" and "homemade," but most of the time when you go into a small town's General Store you'll find the bakery shelves full of Wonder Bread and Hostess pastries, not the delicious homemade delicacies you'd be wishing for. Likewise with cold cuts: Oscar Mayer bacon, not something locally smoked. Usually, the produce is local and fresh, so mostly when I go into a general store, it's to buy some corn or berries. True, I've seen the exception, but it's rare. It must have been different back when the family farm didn't have to compete against today's conglomerate-owned mechanized megafarms.

Cincinnati is a paradoxical place. A good music town with a better-than-average nightlife, it's also very Bible Belt in some ways, with gung-ho prosecutors ready to enforce very restrictive laws. At the same time, it's where one of my heroes, Larry Flynt, got his start. While Hustler magazine now is situated in a much more permissive Los Angeles, it was founded in Cincinnati. BTW, I prefer Hustler to Playboy for its non-smoking jacket approach to sex. Hustler models are appropriately slutty, and there's no pretense when a guy buys a Hustler: He's buying something to jack off to. Often the articles are good, but let's face it: no one buys Hustler for the articles.

Hustler sex has gotten much raunchier over the years. They were the first major skin mag to show a girl's pussy. Today, Playboy just hints at pussy but in Hustler you'll see not just pussy but girls pissing or drinking piss, sucking cock, taking a wad of semen in the mouth, fucking in the pussy and ass. Just about anything short of scat or molesting children. It's virtual sexual anarchy. In other words, just the way I like it. I even find Hustler's photography more varied and original than Playboy's which, despite the high regard in which it's held, is extremely formulaic, and let's not even get into the airbrushing.

Penthouse, while nearly as raunchy as Hustler, frequently uses filters giving their photos a hazy look. In their own way, they're almost as processed and unrealistic as Playboy's's photos. When Hustler presents a layout, the photos are as clear and sharp as can be.

Anyway, we pulled into a nice downtown hotel just in time to drop our bags in the room and head on out for a nice dinner. While driving, I'd been researching restaurants and so when Kelsey asked what I'd like to do for dinner, I had a couple reasonably-priced suggestions. While Kelsey makes good money, she was putting us up in one of the city's best hotels. I saw no need to rake her over the coals over a meal. I had found a couple places in the middle price range which were known for burgers and/or barbecue.

We ended up in a very moderately-priced place which had a typical American menu of burgers, steak sandwiches, fried and grilled chicken, and barbecue items. It also served a couple local microbrews and, following in my dad's footsteps, I'm something of a connoisseur of microbrews. BTW, Cleveland has its share of great micros, but Portland is just about Beer Central in the U.S. Even so, we found some delicious Southern Ohio and Northern Kentucky microbrews to enjoy.

While we waited to be seated, we were casing out the wait staff for someone we might want to come to our room after their shift. There were several cute waitresses, but I told Kelsey I was up for some cock, and she agreed. We'd been doing girls quite a bit lately (not least of whom, each other) and it'd be fun to get us a guy for a change of pace. When it came our turn to be seated we requested to be seated in an area we determined was being served by a cute young guy who had an athletic build and was animated as he talked to his customers.

He was friendly but curt as he answered our questions and took our order. After all, the restaurant was pretty busy, but we had come in toward the end of the evening dinner rush, so as time went by and he'd drop by to ask how things were and did we want anything. We learned that he was a sophomore at a small local liberal arts college, that he was 20, was a native Arizonan, and was fascinated by the lovely fall colors, but was not looking forward to his first winter spent in a northeastern state. We told him to just be glad he was going to school in Cincinnati in southern Ohio, and not up where we lived, in the land of the "lake effect snow," where five or six inches of snow was fairly average and more than a foot was nothing to write home about.

His name was Dave.

He turned out to be a creative writing major, which led to some interesting discussions which could last only a minute or two, as he had other tables to serve. We stayed on, ordering light dessert, after-dinner coffee, and then after-dinner drinks. Along the way I discovered that in one of his courses, he was reading Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria Quartet. This was the key to getting him to spend more time with us, for he had just finished Clea, the last book in the Quartet and had some questions about the books that might help him get past some writer's block he was experiencing. Not only was he blocked, he was having trouble even thinking of a topic. Now, Kelsey is pretty well-read herself so between the two of us we got him involved in a very deep discussion of Durrell and his incredible Quartet. I regard reading it as one of my formative experiences. My style is nothing at all like Durell's, but his astonishing writing played a large role in getting me interested.

The restaurant was near closing, so we told him we'd like to help him and would be happy to do so, if he'd just meet us in the bar of our hotel. He said that'd be great and that he'd be there in about 30 minutes.

Kelsey and I hightailed it back to our room, unpacking our bags and freshening up a bit. I like cute, smart young guys. And despite being young and cute, he was also quite masculine, unlike many guys with literary interests.

When he arrived at the hotel, he was wearing one of those long black coats like the one Keanu Reeves wore in the Matrix series. His shoes had a bit of platform and came up above his ankle bones. He had put some gel in his hair and had punked it up just a bit. I guess he was required (or more likely found it to his advantage) not to seem too "out there" for his mostly very straight customers.

So, we spent probably another hour or so discussing the Quartet, giving him several good topic ideas. Now out of the restaurant, he actually seemed more serious and less jocular. I realized that that was a kind of act he put on for the customers, probably to increase his tips. More than merely physically attractive, he was becoming darker and more complicated. In other words, he was becoming quite interesting.

Kelsey up and said, "I'm tired of hanging out in a bar. I know I'll be more comfortable—I think we'll all be—up in our room. It's got a corner with a couple chairs and a table. We even have a bar in the room. What do you guys think?"

I waited for Dave to agree to the move and then I assented as well. I didn't want to appear overly enthusiastic.

Now, I let Kelsey lead the way. She's quite tall and has a fashion models slim build, except that she has a pretty good pair of hooters and a pretty impressive ass as well. Since her modeling days, she's put on five or six pounds, all in the right places. I could almost read his mind as he looked her up and down: "Oh, I'm getting a boner. I hope it doesn't show!"

When we got into the room, Kelsey took off her pullover sweater. She let it pull her satin top up above her bra, which was sheer enough to show off her magnificent boobs, not just their shape and size but also a hint of the color of her nipples. I've made love to a lot of girls, and while I have no particular preference for small vs. big, when it comes to your bigger than average breasts, hers are as good as they get. I've spent many an hour playing with them or resting my head on them.

"Oops!" she said, feigning embarrassment as she covered herself back up.

I, too, was wearing a sweater, but mine buttoned down the front, so pulling the same trick Kelsey had pulled was out of the picture. Instead I sat down in a chair, bracing my feet on the little coffee table. It was close enough to the chair so that my knees were up pretty high, giving him, I'm sure, quite a nice view of my thighs all the way down to my ass, since I was wearing a pleated skirt. Since I was also wearing a thong, I wasn't getting much coverage at all. I noticed that he took the chair rather than the couch, thus giving him the best possible vantage point.

Despite the distractions, we did delve back into our discussion of The Quartet. We had all learned some new words from Durrell. (Let me caution you: if you decide to read these books, you might as well keep an unabridged dictionery handy: Durrell's vocabulary is perhaps the most vast of any writer, and hardly a page (or even paragraph) will go by without some word you've never seen before appearing on the page. At the same time, his language is very poetic without seeming overly florid. Not feminine at all. Durrell is no Percy Dovetonsils.

As we talked, Kelsey made sure that Dave was well-supplied with booze from the in-room bar. He held his liquor pretty well, but by about 1 a.m., he was starting to show signs of being drunk.

Now, when Kelsey and I travel, we carry her nice boom box with us. Despite its small size, the sound is very good, with more bottom end than you might expect. It's also got a 3-CD changer built-in. Kelsey put in Mono's Life In Mono, an Astrud Gilberto soft samba jazz album, and some Tangerine Dream album (I know not which, but it was a particularly dreamy one). Perfect music for a seduction.

This done, she sat next to him on one side while I got up from my chair, sitting at his other side. We drank and talked, drank and talked, and drank and talked for it must have been an hour. As we got giddier, we took more and more physical liberties by punctuating our banter with various kinds of touching, by putting our hands on his knees, and so on.

His speech was becoming a little draggy and slurred. Now, conscious that women tend to be affected by alcohol to a greater degree than men, Kelsey and I had been pacing ourselves, drinking something like one drink to every three of his, so, drunk as we were, we were still much more in control than he was. When I felt the time was right, I suggested that Kelsey and I show him our psychic powers. He said that sounded like fun.

I explained the game to him. "I'll stand with my back to you and Kelsey. You'll silently show Kelsey a number between one and five with your fingers, then Kelsey will have me guess the number. If I guess correctly, you'll have to take off an article of clothing. If I miss, Kelsey and I will have to take off an article. Does it sound like fun?" "Yeah," he answered. "Let's give it a go! But how about if I guess how you're doing it, you both have to take off all of your clothes?" "Sounds fair to me," said Kelsey, and I agreed. He was going to lose anyway.

Now, before long he was down to his bikini briefs and I hadn't lost a single article of clothing. He was very unlikely to win, either, because I wasn't guessing. This game is a bit of a con, though amazingly very few people figure it out. In fact, I can't recall anyone figuring out before we explained it to them, which we don't always do.

How it works is, when the first person gets the number from the mark, she conveys the number through the number of words she uses to get an answer from the second person. If he holds up three fingers, she'll use three words as she tells me to answer. So, if he held up three fingers, she might say "Okay, Jill, go." Two fingers might be "Got it?" One finger might be "Okay," and so on.

"One more and you'll be totally naked," I said. "I know," he said. "I wonder what happens then? Is there some kind of punishment?"

Turning around and looking at Kelsey, I said, "He's right. I wonder what we should do to him? She looked at him rather severely, like an angry domina and said, I think I might like to have you hold him down while I suck his cock!" I played along, saying, "How cruel!" "And what would you like to do to him?" she asked. "I think I'd like to get him all hard and while you hold him down, I'll sit down on his cock and have him fuck me in the pussy and ass!" "Oh, I don't know," said Kelsey. "We might be violating his rights if we did that."

He feigned horror and said "Oh, no...not THAT!!!" but at the same time, he was playing with his dick, which was about as hard a dick as a dick can be. It was not the biggest cock I've ever seen by a long shot. I've sucked cocks so long I could barely get half in my mouth—and that by deep-throating. His was just about 7", I'd guess, but to be any harder, it'd have to be made out of chrome steel.

"Hold him down," said Kelsey. With that, I dragged him onto the floor and got onto my knees, my pussy on his face, his arms pinned under my shins. With a lick of her lips, Kelsey was down on his dick, licking and sucking it with obvious relish. Now and then, she'd stop and smile at me while fiddling with his nuts.

By the way, balls are fascinating. The way the scrotum is sometimes soft and loose and the balls hang down an inch or two, while at other times (most notably when a guy has been swimming) the scrotum gets very tight and hard and wrinkly, pushing the balls well up into the body cavity. Then, they have a texture a bit like sandpaper, it seems. Balls are fun to play with.

Did I mention what a good job he was doing with my pussy? His dick may not have been all that long but his tongue would almost put Gene Simmons' to shame. And he knew what to do with it as well, because he was by turns lightly flicking it on my clit and then gently and slowly caressing my inner labia. He wasn't even fucking me yet and already he was almost making me cum. In fact, I would have cum save for resisting it. I wanted to save myself for fucking.

He sounded like he might be coming soon, so I told Kelsey, "Hey, save some for me!" She had gotten into it so much she had pretty much tuned everything out, and I'm sure she would have let him come had I not said something.

Lifting her head, she smiled at me and said, "Oh, yeah..." She got up and took my position on his face.

His stiffy was as hard as ever as I did a wide squat over his pelvis, letting his cock slide into my, by now, sopping wet vagina. A thrill went through my body, as if a million tiny ice cubes had fallen on me. I started slowly lifting myself up and down on his erect cock, using the muscles in my vagina to grip his cock. I did this both for his pleasure and for mine, since he wasn't all that big (I'm sorry, I've been spoiled). This increased the friction and pleasure for both of us.

Almost as exciting as having his cock in me was looking at his lovely young body while I fucked him. Nice well-tanned skin with just a spritz of hair between his nipples and a little line of soft, dark fur going from his pubic patch up to his navel. He was the proverbial young god.

I slowly increased my pelvic motions and retreated into my mind for a while, my eyes closed, and visions of my most exciting sexual experiences running through my mind.

He started making the noises men make as orgasm is building up in them, so I stopped for a few moments and just rubbed my hands up and down his gorgeous chest, thinking "God, what will I do when I'm old and I can't bed beautiful boys anymore?"

Kelsey was looking at me through half-closed eyes. She was biting her lip, trying to hold off an orgasm a bit longer, I bet.

He softened just a tad, so I dismounted him and blew him for a little while, as he moaned. When he was hard enough, I liberally wetted my "fuck you!" finger with saliva and stuck it up my ass to give me some basic lubrication, and then, squatting over him again. This time, I was squatting on my feet, not my knees. And as I squatted, I grabbed his cock and guided it to my asshole. Then, I let it slowly slide in. His groan told me that he knew he wasn't in my pussy this time.

I dropped back onto my hands in a kind of upside-down spider position and slowly moved my hips up and down. I was slowly jacking him off with my ass.

By now, Kelsey had somewhat changed her position, and he was going to town on her asshole.

This was the scene for a few minutes until the extreme position I was in had tired me. I changed around so that I was on my knees facing down with my chest up against his. What this did was to allow him to use his own hips, which he did...fucking my ass vigorously. That position also gave me a close-up view of his tongue as it danced on Kelsey's tasty little asshole. I could also see that she was masturbating rather diligently, too.

The more he fucked me, the more I tightened my ass muscles on his cock. I know men like ass fucking because the ass is tighter than a pussy. It's usually also drier, which has its good and bad points. A guy doesn't want to fuck a dry hole for a long period of time. He'll get sore, and the asshole gets sore, too. That day, I had been moist enough inside, but I could feel myself getting drier. In this case, the added friction of my tightened sphincter was helping to urge him on to orgasm, and so with a minute or two I could that suddenly I was very well lubricated in there. I loosened my grip and his dick slithered out.

Then I tightened up my sphincter. I scooted forward just a bit and loosened again, letting his jizz drop and dribble onto his heaving belly. Once I felt it was about all out, I rubbed it, like lotion, into his belly skin.

He had gone limp, of course, and Kelsey had rolled off him, giving me a "Hey! What about me?!!" look. I said, "Hell, I haven't had one, either." "Sixty-nine on the side!" she said. It sounded good to me, so as she rolled onto one side, got down next to her on my side as well, with my mouth right at her pussy level. I began to lick. Now, given our 8-inch height difference, I knew from experience that I'd have to stretch my neck up a bit to reach her pussy while she'd have to bend her head forward and down a bit. We did this quite a bit, so we had worked out all the details.

We went at it for a while when, looking beyond Kelsey's ass, I could see that Dave was not only watching us, but was erect again! I stopped sucking on her crotch long enough to tell Kelsey "Hey, he's hard again!" "Good boy!" she said. Then she asked him if he was ready to go some more. He said he was.

She rolled on top of me, staying in the sixty-nine position. Next thing I knew, he was tonguing her ass again. Then he slowly worked his stiffy into her ass and before I knew it, he was rogering her pretty vigorously, and while I was licking her, I was getting a close-up view of he action.

Of course, I was working on Kelsey's clit at the same time, and in fact by working very hard at it, I gave her a huge orgasm as she yelled "Oh, my God...MY GOD!!! I am sooooo cumming...Ah, ah, ah, AHHHHHHH!" And so she came and left this world for a few minutes of post-orgasm reverie.

Dave wasted no time turning me over. He lifted my ass enough to stick a wet finger up my butt, and before I knew it, I was being fucked in the ass.

Slowly, I lowered my ass. I went slowly so that he could follow me down. When I was all the way down I relaxed. He relaxed his entire body, too, except for his hips, which kept pounding his cock in and out, in and out. What energy and endurance he had. I'm sure he could fuck a gal from sundown to sun up if she wanted him to.

I let him fuck me quite a while. From time to time he'd want to slow down, probably to keep from cumming, and then we'd just lay there, his weight full on my back. I could feel his breathing on my ear and in my hair.

Of course I had been masturbating at the same time and had brought myself nearly to orgasm several times, but held back. The next time he started up, I want at with a mind toward getting off, which I did. And when I did, it was like fire and ice all over my body. It was an especially good orgasm.

He could tell I'd come and after slowly pulling out, he rolled onto his back, his head resting on interlocked hands. A big smile on his face.

Damned if he didn't still have a stiff one. So, I quick ran to the bathroom and came back with one of those tiny hotel bottles of hand lotion. I lotioned up my hand and started giving him a hand job.

I like giving hand jobs because you can pleasure a guy and watch his face without being distracted by your own pleasure. By watching his face you have a lot of control, knowing when the sensation is building in him, knowing when what you're doing is working, or when it isn't.

And of course the best part about a hand job is when he cums and you have semen running down your fist looking like melted candle wax running down a candle.

When at last he came, his jizz at first squired about a foot into the air, and then just ran down my hand. When he was done, I licked the semen off the back of my hand and finished the cleaning up with a paper tissue.

We all slept together that night, Dave in the middle of the King-size bed, Kelsey and me on either side of him.

When we woke up the next morning, he had a morning hard-on. I let Kelsey have him. I went into the bathroom and masturbated in the tub, letting the water from the faucet run over my vulva. It may not sound like much, but any girl will tell you that she's had some fantasmagoric orgasms on her back in a bathtub.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was laying in a heap on her back, cum all over her nose and cheeks, and with the biggest smile you ever saw. "Morning!" she said, hopped up, and ran into the bathroom. Soon, I could here her showering.

He left after writing down his phone number for our next trip.

Once we were all spruced up and packed and ready to go, Kelsey picked up the scrap with Dave's number on it asking, "Do you want it?" "Nope," I said without a second thought.

She tipped her head, shrugged, balled it up, and dropped it into the wastebasket. With that, we left the room and checked out.

The trip back was even more glorious than the trip down, maybe because the sun was more to our back this time. Less squinting.

Or maybe it was because we'd been well fucked.

You figure it out.

Where in the world do they find all of these fine fuckable females? Gosh, I almost wish I was a SapphicErotica model myself. They are always having such joyous sex. Yummie!

PICTURE GALLERIES

Fresh teens go hard with strapon • See wet pink pussy stretched wide

Large dildo massages clit and vulva • Teens strip off to finger and suck

Angelic girls get licked to climax • See friends fondle and rub pussies

Friends steal secret pussy licks • Glistening pussies get deep licking

See pussy get swollen from rubbing • Girlfriends spread pussy and ass

See young girls stimulating clits • Suntanned girls lick pussy and ass

Five gorgeous teens in massive orgy • Teens give friend double strapon

See leggy girlfriends lick and fist

MOVIE GALLERIES

Private foursome lick pussy forever • See pussies pile up in sensual orgy

Outdoor pairs finger pussy and ass • Girls spoil each other with toys

Breasts rub as sensual girls kiss • See loving friends massage clits

Tender girls take turns with dildo • Stunning girls fondle pert breasts

Bestfriends share secret ass licks • Fingers get wet with pussy juice

See friend tease clit with dildo • Inviting lesbian takes dildo deep

Nipples harden as young girls suck • Teens kiss and snuggle to make love

See tasty teens lap up sixtyniner

Sunday October 1, 2006
Am I a "feminist"? That depends.

I got an e-mail today from a so-called "feminist" who blames women like me (whatever that means) for setting women back hundreds of years.

Okay, it's time for my rant on feminism. I've come close several times, but I can no longer restrain myself.

What I like is the work feminism has done to open up possibilities for women in terms of employment and in terms of generally making us coequal with men.

However, men and women are different and a lot of the things feminism complains about have to do with the very real differences between men and women.

Prepare yourself for some generalizations. One can't discuss anything without making some generalizations and generalizing is the way we think and make choices and come to understand our world. Not all men are tall. Not all women are short, but in general men are taller than women. Not all tigers are maneaters, but enough of them are that the generalization "avoid tigers" is relevant.

Yes, men earn more in the workplace, but the numbers for women are lower because we women tend to hold our jobs for shorter periods, leaving to have families or to follow our partners when they get a job elsewhere.

We are less likely to want to make some of the sacrifices career advancement may require: traveling, for example. We tend to like the social aspects of work more than men, and so we tend to be more loath to try for or accept a promotion that will mean leaving our work buddies.

We tend to be saddled with child-related duties, of course, but let's face it: in terms of most couples, it is we, the women, who are more obsessed with having children in the first place. In this age where abortion is widely available, having a child is a choice we make and choices come with consequences. You probably wanted children more than he did. Deal with it.

Myself and many other women excluded, of course, women tend to be less aggressive than men. I myself don't take shit from anyone and if I get dissed or harrassed by a man, I follow Camille Paglia's lead. Rather than affirming paternalism by complaining to my superiors (and even complaining to a female superior affirms parentalism if not paternalism), I'll find some way to get back in the context of the job. By embarrassing the offender in front of coworkers for example.

Speaking of Camille Paglia, now there is my kind of feminist. A brilliant scholar and practicing lesbian (not bisexual like me), she sees the mainstream feminists as inadvertantly affirming the worst stereotypes about women. We live in a man's world for now, and men don't respect bitching and moaning or running to some paternalistic/parentalistic entity to file a complaint. The mainstream feminist approach really sets us back.

Now one of the areas where the mainstreamers have it most wrong is in the area of sex and sex abuse. You may have heard that hyperfeminist Andrea Dworkin has said that "All heterosexual sex is rape." No, she didn't actually say that, and it's wrong to attribute that quotation to her. However, she did write that "A human being has a body that is inviolate; and when it is violated, it is abused. A woman has a body that is penetrated in intercourse: permeable, its corporeal solidness a lie. The discourse of male truth—literature, science, philosophy, pornography—calls that penetration violation. This it does with some consistency and some confidence. Violation is a synonym for intercourse." (from Dworkin's book, Intercourse)

She is arguing, in a nutshell, that penetration is violation, so basically she's not against heterosexual sex, really. She's against all sex ("Violation is a synonym for intercourse")! Her arguments here appear on their surface to be logical, but they are polemical and poetic and not technical in any way when you get right down to it. It's just bile.

Bile. Mainstream feminism is dominated by women who obviously have a chip on their shoulder regarding, if not an active hatred of, men. The problem is, men are the way they are just as we are the way we are. There is no point in bitching about something that's not going to change.

Unhappily, some men have responded by becoming more feminized and sensitive. By developing their feminine side. The truth is, while most of us enjoy the company of such men, we're usually looking for something a little bit darker, more dangerous, and different from ourselves when we want a good fuck. Often to a degree that is dysfunctional, we're looking for the bad boy. We may say we like sensitive men, but look around you: women don't chase after sensitive men, they chase after the one who's mysterious, ineffable, beyond our ken and grasp.

A male friend of mine lamented a while ago, "Show me a physically and mentally abusive pathological liar and sociopath, and I'll show you a guy who has a date on Saturday night." The truth, guys, is that many of us are not looking for Mr. Nice Guy. Feminist moaning about this won't change it either.

On issues of health, the mainstreamers have played to women's fears rather than taking the lead. For years and years the thing was, get that annual breast exam, complain about the amount of funding. In fact, women are more at risk from heart disease, but that would mean getting into the radioactive topic of eating and weight, so feminism stuck with the breast cancer issue. Thank you feminism: Who knows how many women you have killed by not addressing the biggest threat to our lives?

This brings me to the fact that feminism has complained about the slender body image and has supported women who would prefer to pursue the "fat is where it's at" philosophy. Nevermind that being thin is in fact much healthier than being fat, the thin body image is under attack by feminism, which has led to thin women often being criticized for looking anorexic. I've seen this epithet used on women who are just slender or thin, not in any way anorexic. Almost invariably, this slur has come from the lips of a woman who could stand, in the interest of her own health, to lose a pound or two.

Andrea Dworking died recently of what was described as "natural causes." It isn't natural to die at 58 or 59 (I've seen both ages used). Here is a photo of Ms. Dworkin:

Does it occur to you as it does to me that perhaps if Dworkin had been skinny, she'd be alive today and not mouldering in her grave?

Think women get the short end of the stick from the medical profession? Are you aware at around the turn of the prior century (1900), men and women had just about the same life expectancy? Today, women live on average about seven years longer than men. If there is some kind of conspiracy against women at work in the health professions, it's obviously been a disastrous failure.

In education, the feminists have complained that in our schools, teachers give more attention to male students. A (female) teacher friend admitted to me that this is true, but she added that "The boys generally are behind the girls. What am I supposed to do?"

I think what I object to most about mainstream feminists is that they feel they have the right and authority to pronounce how the rest of us should live. I had a couple drinks with a nudie bar dancer on a prior trip to Portland, and she said something I'll never forget when the topic came around to feminist disapprobation of women like her and, by implication, me. "We didn't throw off all those centuries of male paternalism and oppression just to be told by women how to think, feel, and act, did we?"

Feminism (of the mainstream variety) promotes the idea that we women are incompetent. Consider some of their attitudes toward rape. Did you know that some feminists argue that if a man and a woman go drinking, and then have sex, it is a form of rape? Now, I ask you this, if both a man and woman are drunk, but only the man is responsible if they have sex, what does that tell you about the woman? That of the two people there, she is the one who needs to be treated like a child.

I'm with the aforementioned Camille Paglia who says, on the matter of rape, that while one can't ever excuse a rapist, one has to ask, if a girl goes to a party dressed in a micro-miniskirt and tube top, flirts, gets drunk, and then goes up to a man's room and ends up being raped...what was she thinking? We can blame the rapist and still portray the girl as incredibly stupid. If you walk through a lion's cage and get mauled, surely some of the blame falls on you! Surely women can't be counted as full adults unless they show basic common sense and don't depend upon men to make sure nothing bad happens to them.

For me, feminism isn't about toeing the doctrinal line of a few women who really are not someone I'd want to raise a few beers with. Feminism is about freedom and freedom means being able to choose to behave the way I feel like behaving, or write what I want to write. If we all behaved the same way, that wouldn't be evidence of freedom, would it? Minimally, let's celebrate diversity among women and not assume that reaching a point where all women agree with Gloria Steinem or Andrea Dworkin is the litmus test.

I'm a feminist. I'm just not that kind of feminist.