Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Good Taste

As I'm writing more and more actual fiction and less about my own life and adventures, I find that one of the best places for inspiration is in bars, just listening to people rattling off yarns. It doesn't matter if their stories are the gospel truth or if they are total bullshit as long as they are interesting.

Kelsey and I were bar-hopping one night after the big storms that had the whole Cleveland area tied up for a few days, because we had both felt a bit housebound. Of course, we'd made it into work, but the driving was so bad overall that once we cot home, we'd just hole up at our respective homes.

So, we went out and hit this pub that's about halfway between us. It has a nice Happy Hour menu that includes half portions of their regular pasta dishes plus Buffalo wings, quesadillas, a couple different salads, and a quarter pound burger with whatever fixin's you might want. They are well known for their huge beer menu, with microbrews from all over the country and commercial beers from all around the world.

When you want to meet people in a watering hole, you sit at the bar, not tucked away in a both or at a table for two. One reason both Kelsey and I like this bar is that Tony, the owner, is a jazz lover like us, and that he favors the slow, thoughtful, sad kind of saxophone jazz. He plays it loud enough to enjoy but not so loud that you have to yell over it to hold a conversation.

So, I'm working on some quesadillas and a Caesar salad, which I'm washing down with, by then, my second bottle of Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold, when this 30-ish guy sits down two seats away and asks Rita, the bartender, "What's good as far as local beer? I'm new around here." I knew she would be no help. She'd been hired by Tony because she's alcoholic and had been sober a good 10 years or more. She had almost forgotten what beer tasted like.

Rita, who had been polishing a wine glass, tipped her head in my direction and said, "Ask Jill: She's always trying something new." He started to ask, but I stopped him and told him I'd hear him better if sat down next to me. Kelsey nudged my hip with her knee. Her way of silently saying, "Smooth move."

So he moved to the stool next to mine and I made a few suggestions. He ended up with one of my favorite Oregon beers, Bridgeport IPA, which he really liked. This got us to talking about Oregon and other places we'd been to. Kelsey chimed in from time to time with her experiences both in the USA and abroad, for she actually lived in Europe for a few years while she was a professional model. Of course, we didn't really know this guy yet, so we left all the really good parts out of our stories. He was the one who took the conversation into a sexual direction with a yarn about his first year living on his own while he attended grad school.

So, here is his story in my words as the classic omniscient narrator.

He had been accepted into a grad program in the Tempe, Arizona, area and had had to find a place to live with only one weekend to do it in. Now, Tempe is a university town and as he was looking just before the start of the term, he was finding relatively few ads, and almost all of those turned out to be taken. Since this was before everyone had a cell phone, he was finding himself spending a lot of time at pay phones in 110F degree heat. It was starting to wear on him.

Finally, he got a positive response. A woman with a fairly husky voice told him, "Actually, you called just in time. A tenant has had to move out hastily, and I told him that if I could re-rent his apartment quickly, I'd tear up his lease, so how quickly can you get here? I'll hold it for an hour. It's 3:30 now. I won't let anyone else take it before then.

So, he hightailed it over there, making it just in time as he'd gotten lost for a while in the Scottsdale area's freeway system. The building turned out to be a small 4-unit building in the fake adobe style that's pretty much universal in that part of the country. The manager/owner occupied one of the four apartments and rented the other three out to students.

She was one of those older women who, like the actress Diane Lane, is more comely and beautiful than 9 out of ten high school or college cheerleaders. She always wore something of the "sprayed on" variety which might have been jeans one day, capris another day, or short shorts some other day. When a woman can display her "camel toe" in jeans, those are very tight jeans! She wore her auburn hair in a classic coif that would have looked as at home on Rita Hayworth as on a 22 year old college coed. Her eyes were the darkest brown he'd ever seen, and while she had the most gorgeous hands with long, slender fingers, the lack of nail treatment told him that she did a lot of the groundskeeping and maintenance herself.

The available unit was on the ground floor and was opposite the breezeway from hers. It had obviously been left in a rush. He could tell because some junk was piled outside the door. She told him that that would soon be gone and that she did keep a tidy place, and expected help from her tenants in that regard. It looked lived in, which was a bit of a turn off, but he assumed it'd be cleaned and dressed up before he moved in. This was confirmed when she asked him when he'd like to move in. "Monday, if I can," he replied. She bit her lip and said, "So soon. I don't know. I need to clean the carpeting and get the drapes dry cleaned and the walls need a new coat of paint. And the gal who usually helps me is out of town this weekend, too. I don't know..."

"I'd be more than happy to pitch in," he said. That made her happy and she told him she'd knock $100 off the first month's rent in exchange for his help. That, she told him, is what she would have paid her usual helper.

The next morning, Saturday, he showed up a 9 a.m. and they got to work. First, they took down the drapes and while she drove them to the dry cleaners, he was dropped off at a Home Depot with a shopping list that included paint and plastic sheeting. She assured him that she had plenty of brushes, rollers, and the rest.

When they returned to the apartment, they straightaway got to work on the walls and trim. She worked him hard, as he knew she had to if he was going to move in on Monday. Sunday was reserved for cleaning the carpets.

They stopped at 1 p.m. for ham sandwiches and sliced avocados with a homemade herb mayonnaise to dip the slices in. It was a blazing hot day outside, probably 120F-122F, and she had had to leave the windows open and the air conditioning off to let the room vent, because, she said, she had some allergies and the fumes might have caused her to have an asthma attack.

So, they sweated away in sweltering heat. Actually, the temperature and the ventilation helped the paint dry extra fast, even the oil-based enamels she had him applying on the trim and around the fireplace.

Because it was so hot, by mid-afternoon she had brought over two six-packs of beer, and they both drank as they worked. Partly to while the time away and partly due to the alcohol, they started the kind of friendly conversation that naturally crops up in situations where strangers are forced to work together.

She told him that she was a widow. Her husband had died in a car accident about five years prior and she had bought the apartment building with part of the insurance payment. They had only been married two years and had planned on having a child, but two things intervened: he, it turned out, had a very low sperm count and then of course, he died.

He told her about growing up in Bangor, where he had an uncle who was a lobsterman whose boat he worked on while he was a teen. He explained that he had been accepted by a university in Massachusetts where he had studied biology, and that he wanted to go into desert biology, which is why he had sought and obtained a scholarship in the Scottsdale area.

As time went by, they gave each other more personal and sensitive information. It turned out that during her college years, which coincided with the birth of modern feminism, she had had an abortion, and that now that she might have wanted a child, she could actually have sex without worrying about an unwanted pregnancy. Her time had passed, a little earlier than expected, but it had passed.

He talked about being out with his uncle when a shipmate, the man's son, fell overboard off the bow, and had been drawn under the boat and into its screws, which chewed him up and spit him out. He was alive when they pulled him aboard, but they were a good 20 minutes from any dock and certainly even a rescue chopper couldn't have gotten there much quicker than that, so while his uncle steered the boat to harbor, he had had to watch his cousin die on a deck awash with blood, his arms and legs broken and bent in places where arms and legs don't bend. All the while his uncle is reciting the mantra, "How can I ever tell Sally?" the boy's mother. In the end, he had made the call, simply telling her there had been an accident and to hurry to the hospital.

When she arrived, she looked at the two of them who, by then, had only the worst news to deliver. She saw it in her husband's eyes, and she ran up to him, beating him hard with both fists, yelling, "My baby, my baby! You told me you'd take care of him, you sonofabitch." It wasn't his uncle's fault. The boy had died partly by doing something stupid and partly due to a freakish accident, but it had been enough to end their marriage, which up till then had been strong. The death of a child, especially an only child, will break up a marriage even more surely than adultery.

This got his new landlady talking in more detail about her husband and the circumstances of his death, which got her into a very sad and emotional state. She ended up crouched on the floor, her back to the wall, hugging her knees with tears running down her cheeks. Obviously, she still loved the guy very much.

When she finally stood up, he gently put his arms around her and told her what a psychologist friend had told him was the best thing to do in response to another person's grief. She (the friend) had called it "mirroring." She had explained that "Grieving people hate to hear platitudes like 'He's in a better place' or 'She's no longer suffering,' and simply want an acknowledgement of their pain." Doing what she had told him to do in such a circumstance, he mirrored: "I can tell how much you hurt even now." She shook her head in the affirmative.

The next day was much the same with more stories from their respective lives. She talked about the guy she had almost married until she found out he was cheating on her, and about the sexist boss who had taken her on a business trip assuming he'd be getting a piece of tail out of it. He told her about the country band he'd been in with another cousin, even though he hated country music, and about his job parking cars for a fancy Boston restaurant.

Once again the day was hot, the air conditioning was off, and the windows were open, so once again the beer came out. They were done by mid-afternoon and she invited him over to her place where they continued to reveal their pasts to each other. She made him a homemade fajitas and broke out her bottle of premium Tequila and soon they were rousing drunk and were watching movies from her considerable collection of VHS tapes.

As time went by, she started touching him in a familiar way, first on the wrist or shoulder, but more and more on the leg, as she had taken to sitting quite close to him on the couch instead of at the far end as she had first been doing.

It was getting late and both were a little woozy and he had to admit, he was becoming very attracted to this lovely woman.

As if she could read his mind, and before he could put up any resistance (not that he wanted to!), she had pulled down his zipper, extracted his cock and engulfed it in the comfortable warmth of her mouth.

He was, by then, no stranger to oral sex, but he'd never had a blow job like this before. She definitely had had a lot of practice and knew what she was doing. It seemed she was able to read his mind, and took him time and again to the brink of ejaculation, only to stop and let him come down a bit.

This went on for a good half hour until she decided to go for it, and when he she did he came and came big. He tapped her on the shoulder, as he had done many times before, to let her know he knew he was about to cum, but she kept on sucking as he filled her mouth.

She held the jizz in her mouth and must have swallowed it. He knew she didn't spit it out or run to the bathroom as many other partners had done.

To his surprise, she looked at her watch and said, "Well, you'd better go. I'll help you get moved in tomorrow." And with that, she sent him on his way.

The next two years were both pleasurable and strange, for she would drop by to visit him almost every day just to visit and give him a blow job! What a life!

The strange thing was, unlike most relationships he had had before, she didn't demand any kissing or post sex cuddling in exchange for sucking his cock. In fact, when it finally came time for him to move out, he realized that she had never kissed him even once, and they had never fucked. Not even once!

He announced his intention to leave, thinking that perhaps, at last, she might express some affection in terms of regret, but it didn't happen at that time.

After packing for two weeks with her help, and getting the usual blow job every day, it was finally time to leave.

The morning he was to leave, he went to her door with the keys and knocked. She answered, took the keys, and wished him a good trip.

Making one last attempt to draw her out and and get her to show some affection toward him, he offered to call her from time to time, but she seemed genuinely surprised as she asked, "Why?"

"Well," he said, "I thought we had something going here?" "We don't have anything particular going," she informed him, seemingly surprised at his suggestion.

"But what about...?" "What about what?" she asked, interrupting him. "You came by all the time and we made love." She laughed. "Made love? I just sucked your dick."

For a brief period he was speechless as this sank in. "Well, if there was nothing there...emotionally, I mean...why did you suck my dick?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she said, giving him time to guess. When he didn't, she explained: "I like the taste."

Errotica is a lot like Hegre, Met-Art, and JustTeenSite: European chicks with hot bodies. I stumbled upon Moon and was, well, very turned on. I think you will be, too. Clicking on the pics will take you to a gallery of her shots with more explicit photos. To visit the Errotica site and look around click HERE.

Today, a lot of a girl's sexual experimentation goes on well before she has her first vaginal fuck. It's not uncommon for her to have her first vaginal sex after graduating from high school or maybe in her first year of college, or if she can't wait any longer, on her Prom Night. However, it's likely she's been giving head or hand jobs (or even having anal sex) since she was fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen. A lot of today's parents, especially the older ones, are totally unaware of the sexual landscape their kids are living in.

The smart girl may think the guys she meets at school are cute and fun, but if I have any advice for those of you coming up behind me, it's that your first experiences should be with older men. No, not with old men, but experienced men who know what they're doing.

Boys your own age when you are in high school or even college may think they know what to do, but a lot of their experience is from reading or from porn and isn't realistic. The rest of it is garnered from friends who may be even more clueless than they are. Let's face it: when a guy relates a sexual experience to his buddies, he's not going to talk about his trouble getting hard due to being nervous, about prematurely cumming, and so on. The way he tells it, it'll make him sound profoundly studly.

We can practice kissing on other girls, but it's fairly hopeless to get any serious sexual training, if you will, from males our own age. They're just figuring things out as well, and in many ways I feel sorry for them, for their role requires more performance than does ours. Sure, often we blame ourselves for a guy's erection issues, but rare is the guy who will blame us. Normally, he takes it as evidence that he's not a manly man.

So, while I'm here in praise of older men, my advice to the boys is the same: get some practice on older women. There are many middle-aged women out there who'd be happy to do you, and I'm sure they'd be very patient and understanding of any problems you have. We women are by our nature nurturing. In fact, nurturing to a fault. It's easy for women to take on a codependent personality where we feel it's our purpose in life to fix broken people.

I've already written about my real sexual awakening, which happened mostly one summer before my senior year. However, I really blossomed when I went off to college. I wanted to go to school away from home, and yet I didn't want to be so far from home that getting back for breaks and holidays would be hellacious, so I ended up attending a small private college in Eastern Pennsylvania, far enough away to make running home every weekend (or being visited by my family every weekend) impractical, but close enough that I could get home with a six or seven hour drive.

You may think of me as a social butterfly. In fact, while I love to socialize with friends, I'm actually rather bookish and can easily spend day after day at my computer writing, or hanging out in a library or bookstore perusing books, or sitting in a campus coffeeshop reading and making notes to myself on my laptop.

One spring day, the entire world seemingly ablaze with crocuses, tulips, and the first fusillades of rhododendrons, I was in the coffeeshop annex of a big off-campus bookstore reading a book of Camille Paglia's essays I had just bought. She remains my ideal feminist. Takes no shit from anybody, not even other feminists. A confirmed dyke, she still refuses to hate men the way so many feminists do. I love her. She's my hero.

"Have you read her Sexual Personae?" asked a masculine voice. I turned to see a man at the next table. "I started it," I replied, "but I like her essays much more. So pithy and contrarian.."

"Same with me," he confessed, "I have found the essays more enjoyable." Looking at the empty chair across my table he very politely asked, "May I?" "Sure," I replied.

I closed the book and spent two of the most enjoyable hours of my life with this charming man talking about everything under the sun, from politics to music and movies to our own biographies.

His name was Nicolas, and he turned out to be a divorced doctor with a daughter about my age attending a school in Northern California. He lived and worked in the Chicago area, which of course turned the conversation to The Blues. It's been a dream of mine to hear the real electric blues, played and sung in a real Chicago blues club. And here, he did it several times a year.

Even before he stood up, I could tell he was in great shape. To compare him to a movie star, I would place him as Robert Redford about 20 years ago. And come to think of it, he even sounded a bit like Redford.

When he did stand up, apparently to take his leave, I noticed his waist which was was quite small, or was made to appear so by the relative broadness of his shoulders and chest. His clothing was modest in design but reeked of class. He looked like a GQ model in clothing that apparently couldn't bring itself to wrinkle...ever.

As he picked up his jacket, he bade me good-bye and thanked me for the good conversation. He turned to go but before taking his first step, turned back and said, "Join me for dinner?" I looked at my watch, and it was already 6:15 and, by God, I was hungry. And I mean "hungry" in so many senses there, for by this time I was hoping upon hope to get the taste of his cock in my mouth.

Naturally I said yes, and so we walked a few blocks as he pumped me for info on the good local places to eat. We finally settled on an old-fashioned Italian eatery. Today, so many so-called Italian restaurants serve hardly any tomato sauce dishes. Instead they offer what they call "Northern Italian" food. Now, I like some Northern Italian food, but as my dad often says, "Northern Italian food is basically Swiss food." He would go on to explain that there is this whole alpine area that spans Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and Austria called "The Tyrol." Despite embracing a variety of different languages (five of them in Switzerland alone, I believe) there is otherwise a common culture in terms of food, clothing, architectural style, and so on. So-called Northern Italian cuisine is not unlike the cuisine you'd find anywhere in Tyrol, with Switzerland at its epicenter. So, by contrast, the tomato sauce and pasta food of Southern Italy is much more uniquely Italian even if perceived, by the yuppies, as ordinary and plebeian.

So we got ourselves seated at a nice little traditionally Italian restaurant and ate family style. Bowls of spaghetti and meatballs and Italian sausage were brought out, as well as a big bowl of Caesar salad. All the while we were attended by a plump waiter who plied us with wine that he served to Nicolas so that he didn't have to check my ID, for I wouldn't have passed that test. My fake ID days were over by then for two reasons: 1) the technology designed to thwart faking had become pretty effective and involved far more than just making a very good copy and laminating it; 2) alcohol was widely available at parties anyway, and a pretty girl can always find a party. In fact, most weekends and some weekdays, I could actually have gone party-hopping. Certain guys were always good for a drink, too, and some of them would get bombed with me and didn't even try to fuck me. Still, I wasn't above trading a quick fuck for a few glasses of wine or beer.

We let our hair down even more. Nicolas was in town for a medical symposium to keep up with his field, which was neurosurgery. In other words, he was a brain surgeon. He talked about his favorite operations, about repairs made to brains that allowed people to speak, that had brought back lost memories, that had allowed people to go on and live normal lives.

He also admitted that occasionally there were failures. He said optimism was important for both him and the patient, but that he really didn't know what to do on those occasions when things didn't turn out as hoped.

He recounted the story of the blind person he had given sight to who, after a year, asked to be blinded again because she found the world of sight so incomprehensible and confusing. We are not born with the world already parsed for us. We learn about things like visual space, objects, perspective. To the newly sighted person, it's like you and I would be if all of a sudden we had to navigate life viewed through a kaleidoscope.

In the end, medical ethics prevented him from taking the girl's sight away from her and he referred her to counseling, but in the end she found a way to blind herself and resume the life she had learned to live.

It turned out his biggest failure was closer to home. His daughter, a lovely girl who, from the wallet photo he showed me, looks a lot like Jennifer Aniston, had been in a school bus accident when she was 13. While she had no physical blemishes, she had sustained some kind of neurological damage that left her with a gimpy walk and slurred speech. He had run every test in the book, certain that he could discover and fix her problem.

In short, he was unable to figure out the cause of her disability, and while he was readying even more tests, she finally asked him to stop looking. She said, "Daddy, you didn't do this to me. Stop feeling guilty." Until then, he didn't even realize he felt guilty, but his daughter saw straight through to the source of his frenzy.

Why should he feel guilty? All parents feel responsible for their kids' welfare and whenever something bad happens, they are plagued with "what ifs," many of them unreasonable. For example, what if he'd driven her to school that day? Well, but kids die in cars driven by their parents all the time. It was just a bad break. Here, though, her problem seemed to be right up his alley, and yet he had no remedy. She had accepted her fate perhaps to get on with life and possibly to free her father, but obviously in that latter respect it had failed, even though she had found a boyfriend who saw her worth and had an affliction of his own. Stuttering.

As he told me this story, I was touched at how misty he had gotten. Here was a really, really nice guy, a real "mensch," as my father would have called him.

Now, let me digress for a minute, since I've just mentioned my father. I think fathers (by which I mean good fathers) are important to girls, and once girls pass a certain age, having a father in many ways is more important than having a mother. Mothers make sure you are fed and sheltered and loved. But a good father teaches you the ways of the world and by example show you how a man should treat a woman.

I heard a social worker who worked with troubled teens (a woman, by the way) offer that of the many troubled girls she'd seen coming out of single parent families, girls raised by their fathers had far fewer problems by percentage than those raised by their mothers. This may be due to the fact that many girls develop an adversary relationship with their mother in their teens, and perhaps girls turn to their father for parenting at that point. Pity the girl who has no father. So, surprising as you may find this, I am not particularly in favor of "alternative" families. I recognize they may be the best one can do sometimes, but let's not pretend it's a substitute for a good mother and a good father.

Okay, so here is a man of my father's generation. And I'm hot for him. Is there something Freudian going on here? Maybe... And if so, so what? Am I going to let Freud rule my life?

I guided the conversation to more pleasant territory once the coffee arrived and we opted for dishes of Spumoni for dessert. Spumoni is the Italian ice cream that inspired the ice cream you may know as Neapolitan (and, of course, "Neapolitan" means "of/from the City of Napoli" or, to English speakers, "Naples"). He was a brilliant, widely educated man who surprised me by not recognizing the taste of the green part of Spumoni. "Pistachios," I told him, and he said, "Ah...yes!" and then he smiled.

Once the coffee and ice cream was gone and he had paid the bill (which was way beyond my budget at the time) we walked out to the street and he said good-bye. But I wasn't ready to go my way just yet and said, "Oh, we're not going up to your room?"

He was taken aback, bless him. If you thought all this was to get into my pants, you're wrong. He had been treating me like me might have treated his own daughter in many ways. So, after a fairly uncomfortable pause (for both of us, I'm sure) he said, "We could. I'm enjoying your company."

Enjoying my company. And I was really enjoying his. However, what I really wanted was to get his dick in my mouth. I wanted to get his pants to the floor, kneel between his legs as he lay back on his bed, and watch his face while I gave him The Mother of All Blow Jobs. The thought of a load of his jizz in my mouth was making me wet.

As it turned out, he was staying in a nice bed and breakfast, not a Holiday Inn, and so he had to sneak me in. The room was large and exquisitely appointed in that quaint old Early American style (not my thing at all, really), but he had a bottle of single malt scotch in his suitcase, which he shared with me. "On shot only," the doctor ordered and, believe me, combined with the wine we'd had with dinner, that was more than enough.

Finally, I got to the point: "Let's make love," I said.

Long silence. Finally, he said, "You're so young. I think..."

I interrupted. "I'm young, but I'm a legal adult. I'm allowed to make a choice like this. And you're leaving me way out on a limb here. It's starting to become pretty embarrassing. What? You're not attracted to me?"

"It's not that, believe me. Its..." and then followed a silence as he tried to find the words.

I knew exactly what the problem was and I decided to address it directly.

"Nicolas, I may be your daughter's age, but I'm not your daughter. If you fuck me, you're not fucking your daughter."

He looked at me, laughed, and said, "You should be a psychiatrist."

Even so, he thought for a few seconds more, so I took the initiative and asked him, "What attracted you to me in the coffee shop. I don't believe it was the book I was reading."

He smiled and said, "It was you, of course. You're beautiful. But it was also your outfit."

Ah...he had a common fetish interest. I guess I haven't mentioned that I was dressed in a kind of schoolgirl attire. No, not the Catholic or Japanese schoolgirl, but a similar style worn by many a college girl: plaid skirt, white shirt tucked in with a sweater over it, and wool socks almost up to the knee. I was also wearing a pair of shiny black Mary Janes.

"Let's play a game," I said. "You're my teacher, and I haven't been able to study for the test, and so I earned a bad grade. However, you know I can do better and would like to bump it up to an A. Go!"

He did a double-take, but once the initial surprise was over, he jumped in exploratively, since he didn't really know what I had in mind. "Er...young lady, I'm sorry and surprised but your score on the history test was a big disappointment."

I played along: "I'm sorry, Mr. Nicolas, but I had to work in the ice cream shop because the other girl was sick, and I only had two hours to study. Is there anything I can do to bring my grade up?"

He was lost, so he said, "I don't know. Do you have any ideas?"

"Well," I said, trying to look as innocent and coy as I could (considering that I wasn't innocent or coy), "I could suck your dick, Mr. Nicolas."

He was paralyzed and speechless. Luckily, he had been sitting on the edge of his bed, right where I needed him to be. I got up and stood in front of him and pushed him onto his back, but he got up onto his elbows. I pushed his knees apart and dropped to my knees between his legs. Before he could object, I pulled his zipper down and reached into his pants to find him already semi-erect.

He was neither big nor small, but his cock was gorgeous. On a scale of 1-10, his was easily a 9.5. I looked at it and looked at his face and it was blank, as if to say "Is this really happening to me?"

At first, I gave it the ice cream cone treatment, just licking it. God it tasted good! It was probably sweat and urine I was tasting, but it tasted better to me than the entire dinner had, Spumoni included!

When I finally took it into my mouth, his eyes closed and he dropped onto his back. I sucked that cock, and licked it, and flicked it with my tongue and he groaned and moaned. His cock eventually got rock hard with veins clearly popping to the surface. I could actually feel it throbbing in my mouth.

I stopped and stood up. I wanted badly to fuck him. I unzipped my skirt and it dropped to the floor in a ring around my shoes. I pulled my panties down and took them off as I stepped out of my skirt. I straddled him, grabbed his dick, and guided it into my pussy which, believe me, was sopping wet by this time.

And so I started fucking him and I mean I fucked him good. His eyes were no longer closed but looked right into mine. The look was one of appreciation and pleasure. He didn't know me well enough love me, but he liked me and he liked what was happening.

I knew he was into it when, after a few minutes of fucking, he said, "Can you take off your top? I bet you have gorgeous breasts." I stopped and laughed, saying, "Of course I can. And yes, I think I do."

Once the shirt and sweater were off, he looked at my boobs and said only, "Oh my God!" Yep, he liked 'em!

We hadn't kissed, but now the kissing started and oh, fuck, he could kiss. I've said it before because it's so true: if a guy can't kiss he can't make love.

This went on for a while and I said, "I'm tired of fucking you. Want to fuck me?" "Oh, God, do I," he said.

I rolled off and he stood up, taking off all of his clothes, revealing a great body with pectorals that looked like armor plates with a peppering of salt & pepper hair in between. He also had quite the six pack. Not much body fat on this dude! Before I knew it, he was on me and in me and humping me like the world was about to end.

I orgasmed within a minute or two, but he kept going and I kept orgasming and might have orgasmed all night long (yes, I'm kidding) except that there was a knock on the door and the voice of an elderly woman asking, "Is everything all right in there?"

Nicolas rolled off me and said, a bit out of breath, "Um...Nothing's wrong Miss Peabody. Sorry if I disturbed you." We looked at the clock and it was only 10 p.m. or so, but apparently that was after Miss Peabody's bedtime.

We chuckled to ourselves briefly. He held me in his arms until I realized that I'd had mine but he hadn't had his. So, I grasped his cock and tugged on it saying, simply, "That was great, but now it's your turn, Mr. Nicolas. I really want that 'A'!"

I crept down until I could suck him off some more and got right to work, making him hard again. By keeping him hard for a long time my saliva mixed with his precum and turned into a very slippery mix. Once I was sure the moment was right, I knew exactly what would get him off in a most mind-blowing fashion.

I got up and sat down on his wet and slippery dick, letting it slide into my asshole. I was fairly new to anal sex at that time, but I already knew it would be a big part of my sex life. Once he knew what was up, I could tell he was very much on board, and so I laid myself back on his belly and chest, raising my knees up to give him a favorable angle, and, turning my head hard to one side we started kissing. As he kissed me and fucked my ass, he also pinched one of my nipples with one hand and rubbed my clit with his other hand. He knew what he was doing (going back to the theme of this piece.)

As it turned out, when finally I came again (being careful not to be so noisy this time), my orgasm is what finally took him over the brink. Soon his calmness told me he had ejaculated. This was confirmed when he pulled out and I felt a familiar slippery wetness between my ass cheeks.

"That was good," I said. "Yes, it was," he agreed dreamily.

We just lay there naked for a while. He held me and looked into my eyes, stroking my hair. At last, he confessed, "I haven't had sex in several years. I had almost forgotten what it felt like." "I'm glad I could remind you," I said with a wink. Then, looking at my watch, I said, "But now I must return to the dorm. The doors lock at midnight."

We dressed and said a quick good-bye, punctuated with a prolonged hug.

I don't know if he tried to find me. I didn't go back to the coffee shop again for the next few days. I don't think I was consciously avoiding him, though I'm not sure what I would have done if I had encountered him. More likely, I was busy with studies and other activities and we just never connected. It's all for the better. It was so good, that one episode, that any attempt to repeat or duplicate it would likely have been something of a letdown.

And let's face it: We wouldn't be riding off into the sunset together. It was best we had left each other with a pleasant memory.

As it is, it's one of those few especially fond memories every girl has, all the more precious for having been fleeting. It remains one of my favorite masturbation memories.

While most of my stories are about more "age appropriate" encounters, and while I certainly don't seek out liaisons with older men, I have to confess that most of my escapades with older men have been very pleasant and exciting.

NOTE: New posts go at the top, as in most blogs, but that means that in a story like this, spread over two posts, you really need to find the first post in the series and read them in order. So, that's what I suggest you do here.

The morning after the night before, we found the boys in the restaurant again. This time they were at a table large enough for six, so we joined them. They'd been delaying ordering breakfast until we got there.

Dominic was telling the waitress that he would pick up the tab for the table when Gina interrupted to inform her that it would be put on her room's tab. Dominic was taken aback and we could tell his pride was somewhat hurt, too.

As the one average citizen among the girls I dropped the bomb, that Gina and Belle had more than enough money between them. It was nice that the boys had treated us the day before and that we appreciated it, however we couldn't maintain a pretense of relative poverty much longer without abusing their hospitality.

At first, the guys seemed dumbfounded, but Bax finally burst out with a hearty laugh and the other guys soon followed.

"Today," Gina announced, "is on us." I then suggested, "You guys know the area: We'll be here one more full day. What should we see before we go?"

Cal looked at the other two guys as he said, "Lake Louise? Jasper?" They shook their head in agreement and started regaling us with stories of how beautiful these places were, what we could do and see, and how much we'd enjoy them.

These were not unfamiliar names to me, but I knew very little about them. Gina and Belle knew little more. It sounded like fun, and spending another day with three nice guys seemed like fun, too, so we quickly agreed.

Soon, however the guys started wondering how much we could realistically do in one day, if we had to drive out and back in one day. This is when Gina dropped the second bomb, "Oh, but I have a plane. Suppose we drive one way and fly back?"

Dominic asked a seemingly obvious question I already knew the answer to: "But how will I get my car back?" "We'll take a rental car," said Gina, "and just leave it there."

The boys were simply not used to how money solved just about every problem. They thought for a moment and Bax asked, "Who is going to get the plane out to Jasper?" Gina seemed puzzled, but soon understood their error. "I have a pilot! I don't fly the plane!" "Oh," said the guys in unison, their jaws in their laps.

I think they realized that wealth was involved as soon as they heard the word "plane," but the degree of wealth escaped them. To them, when you're wealthy you buy a plane for yourself and learn to fly. When you're involved in Gina's and Belle's level of wealth, you own a plane and have a pilot ready whenever you need one.

So, in about an hour we all met in front of the hotel and were driven the scenic road between Banff and Lake Louise and eventually Jasper. Gina, through Ray's company's travel division, had arranged both a rental limo (with driver) and for a company plane we'd flown in on to be ready and waiting near Jasper. That took all of five minutes on her cell phone with someone named Wanda who obviously knew Gina well and served her every whim.

I felt kind of sorry for the guys because they had enjoyed playing the normal male role of being in charge and being the ones who would usher us around and shower us with favors. They weren't terribly comfortable in the opposite position, with a bunch of girls treating them.

While we waited for the limo, I took Bax aside and told him, "Look, I know how you feel. Gina and Belle have more money than you can imagine at their fingertips, and they can pretty much spend it at will. The reason I know how you feel is that, like you guys, I just have a normal job and make a comfortable living, but I have no serious wealth. Tell the guys to just enjoy themselves. I know both Gina and Belle very well, and they are not the sort to judge you because you're less wealthy than they are. We had a lot of fun yesterday. Let's have even more today. Their money just greases wheels. This isn't costing me a penny, either. And if we didn't like you, we'd be doing something else today."

Bax relaxed and nodded. "Okay. I'll tell the guys." I winked and let my hand brush against his pecker casually. Belle saw me, though, and chuckled to herself.

Funny, my fear of being paralyzed by my infatuation with Belle was gone. I liked Bax and the other guys and would be happy to fuck any one of them, and if I could involve Belle somehow, so much the better. But my mind was not obsessively on her anymore.

The limo arrived and it was typical of the limos Gina could command almost anywhere in the world. It had seats facing forward and back with plenty of footroom. In fact, there would have been room for several people to sit on the floor while still leaving plenty of footroom for those in the seats. It had a stocked wet bar.

It was going to be another warm day, so all three of us were wearing skirts (and none of us were wearing underpants). We were ready for action, though for Gina it would have to be with me or Belle.

Gina had a very cute jean skirt she told me she had picked up at a weekend market in Boulder last year, along with the tie-dyed halter she had picked up at the same time. This plus some simple white walking shoes, and she was ready.

Belle was wearing a short tan cowgirl skirt with fancy embroidery, rivet work, and rhinestones (though with her money, I really couldn't be absolutely sure they were just rhinestones!). And, of course, she was wearing some fabulous cowgirl boots as well and one of those cowgirl tops where the shoulders are a different color from the rest. In this case the shoulders were beige and the rest was dark brown.

I wore a powder blue mid-thigh cotton skirt that was snug around the hips and flared into pleats. I was wearing a shirt with a tropical print that I tied below the boobs to show off my tummy. I, too, was wearing walking shoes. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to do much hiking in Belle's boots, no matter how fabulous they looked, which I'm sure is the reason she was wearing them.

The driver had already received his instructions and so as soon as everyone was in and Gina had used the intercom to tell the driver we were ready and to close the privacy window, we took off for a drive through the unbelievably beautiful Canadian Rockies. It was still too early in the day to be driving with the windows down. Nobody looks good in goosebumps and blotchy skin.

I got in last and somehow the seating had arranged itself so that I would be sitting between Dominic and Gina. Belle, sitting between Cal and Bax was already engaged in a little banter with both of them. I was a little jealous, but not because Bax was showing interest in her (who wouldn't show interest in Belle, after all? Stevie Wonder or Michael Jackson, perhaps). This time I was a little jealous of one of my friends showing interest in Bax, who I had grown to like, though mostly because of the three, he was the one I'd been with the most and had grown to know the best.

Soon, however, Dominic and Gina and I had our own interesting conversation going. Dominic, it turned out, was a movie buff. I had already noticed a huge collection of DVD's at his place, many of them art and foreign films. Now, more than Belle, Gina and I are very sophisticated in our tastes, not just in music, but in cinema as well, so soon we embarked on a discussion that ranged from Truffaut and Godard, who roughly define the beginning of modern art cinema, all the way through to today with Quentin Tarantino, Hal Hartley, Jim Jarmusch, and David Lynch, among many others.

We talked about how French cinema, once noted for how much it depended upon dialog (and good dialog it was), was now making movies which could be compared with Hollywood movies in terms of action and visual effects, the very enjoyable Delicatessen, directed by Marc Cano and Jean-Pierre Jeunet, being a good example. He brought up Luc Besson, who had also directed The Professional (in which a precocious and prematurely sexy Natalie Portman twisted tough guy hit man Leon (Jean Reno) around her tiny little finger. Besson also directed The Fifth Element, one of my guiltiest pleasures, for it's not a great movie at all, but Mila Jovovich is so sexy in it, isn't she?

Dominic and I had a number of recent faves in common. In particular, he also liked Lost In Translation a lot. I love this movie for its depiction of a close and, in a way, loving friendship that develops across generations between a young 20-ish woman stranded in a Tokyo hotel while her photographer husband shoots glamorous musicians, and a fading movie star around 50 years old who's in Japan to make a whiskey commercial. Each takes the other "as is" and never once dismisses the other on grounds of age.

At one point, they are laying in bed together, fully clothed, watching late night TV, and to my astonishment it led not to sex but to a deep discussion of life, happiness, and marriage. The movie ends when they say good-bye and he whispers something in her ear which the audience can't hear. There is a lot of speculation as to what he said. Was it, "I'll be in touch" or was it "I wish you a happy life" or even "I love you"? The beauty of that shot is that we'll never know. How you fill in that blanks says a lot more about you than about the movie.

I retold the story of how my boss, Kelsey, once a fashion model, had more or less public sex with a famed Italian director out on the edge of a hotel balcony, with a gaggle of 15 year old Italian schoolgirls cheering them on from the balcony above. As you may or may not know, this is a "names changed to protect the innocent OR guilty" blog, so while it's not unlikely you know the name of this director, I'll neither confirm nor deny it.

I can't remember what took us in that direction, but Gina started talking about our high school days and our first sexual experiences and exploits. She recounted how we'd come home from school to study and watch TV and masturbate. Then she got on the topic of Max and Beth. Beth was a school chum and also lived in the same general area, just a few blocks over from our street.

Beth was a little strange and somehow didn't really fit in, didn't belong to any of the cliques, not even the "weirdo" cliques of disaffected intellectual kids. She was a loner.

Even so, don't get the idea that Beth was weird looking. She was hot in that peculiarly nerdy way. I hear she's gone on to open up an accountancy, and I can imagine her in horn-rimmed glasses, her long strawberry-blond hair tied back severely, long shapely legs tightly crossed, wearing a women's business suit that comes just to the knee when she sits. But I can't imagine her sex life, and that's mostly due to how Gina and I were introduced to it.

Gina and I were riding the school bus home one afternoon when out of the blue Beth invited us to study at her place. We were all worried about a big history test, and I think both Gina and I viewed the change from our normal study routine (which involved lots of activities other than studying) as probably a good change of pace.

So, we got off at Beth's stop, which was two stops before our own, and both phoned our moms to let them know where we were (for we were good little junior high school girls of about 13 or 14).

We had been greeted at the door by Beth's protector, a rottweiler who was, I think, large even by rottie standards. Since Beth was a "latchkey child" who came home to an empty house every day, her parents had wisely given her a companion and protector. Woe unto any unwelcome intruder to Beth's house while her parents were gone. Max was keenly aware of his family's attitudes toward others, and if he sensed you were friend and not foe, he was a barrel of laughs. But if he ever sensed the presence of someone unwanted, I know he would have torn them asunder.

We studied for a while on the floor of Beth's spacious bedroom and actually made quite a bit of progress. Once we reached the point that we answered each other's queries correctly better than 90% of the time, we relaxed and started the girl talk about movie stars, TV shows, singers, and so on. But mostly we talked about boys and speculated about sex.

Beth was on the sidelines of the sex discussions most of the time. We wondered if we could get our hands on some porn, just to see guys and girls "do the dirty" to satisfy our natural curiosity. In particular, we wanted to see ejaculation. How powerful was it? How much jizz came out? This was before anybody could see as much porn as they wanted anytime on the Internet. Me? I don't think I'd ever seen a penis anywhere else than on a statue or in a painting. My dad had no interest in collecting skin magazines, and so far as I knew, neither did Gina's.

Finally, Beth said something about showing us ejaculation. To our shock, amazement, delight, and disgust, she called Max, who had been sitting in a corner half-asleep, his jowly doggy face resting between his forepaws.

Obediently, Max came over and due to some sort of signal she gave him he rolled over next to her on his back. Before I knew it, she had an erect doggie cock in her hand and was slowly massaging it. Max didn't protest in the least, but rather panted and rolled his shiny black eyes.

I felt tingly all over and looked at Gina, whose feelings were obviously very similar. We had never seen any kind of erect cock before, and even if this one was on a dog, the very idea was pretty much overwhelming.

Noting our interest, Beth said, "You know what a blow job is?" We had a pretty good idea and nodded in the affirmative, almost hoping that what came next would not be a demonstration, but it was. And so she took Max's stiffy in her mouth and sucked on it slowly and lasciviously and, I must say, tenderly.

She was pretty well practiced at this, apparently, because she knew just about when to stop sucking and just lick around the tip until Max's load shot on his furry tummy. Well...we had certainly seen our first ejaculation, but had also gotten much more than we had ever bargained for.

Over the next few weeks, we studied at Beth's house fairly frequently, and while Gina and I never had carnal knowledge of Max, Beth was happy to demonstrate that, not only could she blow him, she could fuck him as well. (Boy, Beth's folks had got more than they ever bargained for when the bought Max for her.)

I think in watching Beth flip up her skirt and get into the doggy position in preparation for doing Max, it was the first time I had seen another girl's pudendum and realized that they don't all look alike, for she had one with very prominent inner lips that stuck out of the outer lips much like some kind of pink, fleshy bracket fungus. Other girls have no prominent inner lips at all, for they are hidden within the outer lips, which have to be spread to reveal them.

Oh, yeah, I was talking about Beth and Max. Well, Gina and I continued to go over to Beth's after school for a while until Beth started pressuring us to give Max a try. Soon Gina and I decided that the weirdness had gone on long enough and we went to studying on our own again. As for Beth, we noticed that she'd pal around with other girls for a while and then it'd come to an abrupt end, and then she'd pal around with someone else, and so on. That was her pattern, and I think it's obvious why. Word was getting around.

Eventually she disappeared from school and the word was that her folks had enrolled her in a private school, but Gina and I figured it might have been some sort of anti-bestiality intervention.

Like I said, she did open an accountancy so I'm sure she went to college somewhere. More interestingly, watching the evening news one night, they reported on a dog show and there she was, in control of a huge harlequin Great Dane!

Before long, we arrived at Lake Louise. Wow, what a beautiful sight:

We spent a few hours looking over the lodge and exploring some trails. There were lots of family groups with kids running all over the place. We finally got some relative privacy by renting three canoes. We paired up again, Dominic with Gina, Cal with Belle, and me back with my favorite, the good-spirited and hard-bodied Bax.

At first, some time was spent as the guys showed Gina and Belle how to paddle a canoe. As you may remember from one of my earlier stories, I had already learned the technique for paddling a canoe without turning it in circles and without switching paddling sides constantly, so Bax and I illustrated the techniques and soon Gina and Belle were almost as good as me.

The water in Lake Louise is crystal clear and both it and its tributaries are trout fishing meccas. I had taken a liking to fishing and wished we had had the gear and time to do some fishing (not to mention cooking up the little beauties!). However, I'm not sad that we had to settle for paddling around the lake because the scenery was fantastic, and the weather was cooperating very nicely.

We girls got the bow positions which is natural in a canoe, where it's better for the stern to be heavier. A properly paddled canoe is pretty much steered from the stern with the bow person contributing forward power, but when maneuvering is required, the canoe is steered from both ends. This is especially true of whitewater canoeing. However, even when it comes to avoiding an underwater obstacle that suddenly appears, the bow person can quickly put on the brakes or push/pull the canoe to avoid hitting it.

From the boys' perspective, of course, they got to ogle us from behind, and all three of us have curves. I could from time to time see how Cal and Dominic appreciated their bow persons, and I'm sure Bax was appreciating me as well.

We grabbed some sandwiches and soft drinks in the lodge and hit the road again, eating and drinking in the limo.

About halfway to Jasper there was a turnoff and Gina wanted to take some pictures of the mountains. I needed to take a piss and I announced as much as I walked out into the scrub. Belle said that she needed to do the same, so we went together.

It's funny, we had fucked these guys the night before, sucked their cocks, drank their jizz, and yet we still sought out privacy to take a leak. I squatted down to pee when Belle came up next to me and pissed standing up, like a guy. "I can piss farther than you!" she announced. So I stood up next to her and directed my stream out in front of me. A lot of guys don't know that girls can pee standing up, too. Anyway, she let out quite a burst which I couldn't match right away, but my stream increased and soon I announced a tie. Belle looked at me in mock contempt and said, "If you say so."

She put her arm around me and said, "I like you." "I like you, too," I said. Before I knew it, she had taken me in her arms and had planted a big wet kiss on my lips. She had also found my crotch and was giving my pussy quite the massage as well. Of course, I realized it couldn't go too far there and then, because in a minute or two if we didn't return, someone would come to find out if we'd fallen into a pit or been attacked by a cougar or bear (a remote possibility in this area, but a real one).

Belle realized it, too, and let go of me just as quickly. Suddenly, I was pissed off and slapped her on the cheek.

She looked stunned. I explained, "I want to fool around, too, but if that's what you want to do, then do it when something can come of it. I'm not your sex toy."

"I'm sorry," she said. She meant it. I had hurt her feelings, but Belle needed to grow up. She had hurt mine. She sprinted back to the car, looking back at me once. Immediately, I felt I'd overreacted, and that if I hadn't been prone to being infatuation with her, it wouldn't be such a big deal.

I walked back to find that again I was the last one in the car, and that this time seating had rearranged a bit with all three of us girls in the forward facing seat and the three guys facing us from the backward facing seat. This time I had a window, Gina had the other window, and Belle was in the middle. After a few minutes of driving and light conversation, Belle quietly reiterated in my ear that she was really sorry and understood why. Time will tell.

Next thing I knew, she was snuggling up to me. Belle. What a beautiful girl, but she has a long way to go when it comes to relating to people. Little girl lost. Gina and I, raised firmly by middle class families, had a much better grip on reality and relate to people much more easily. Usually, Belle just tried too hard. Very attractive and reasonably smart, she shouldn't need to try at all.

The ride from Banff and Lake Louise was about 30-45 minutes, and the one from there to Jasper was about 2.5-3 hours, give or take, including the piss stop.

Canadian wilderness scenery is spectacular. It just seems a degree or two wilder than similar scenery in the U.S., and maybe that's psychological, from knowing that Canada is sparsely populated by comparison. We certainly weren't alone, with cars passing us in both directions.

Jasper is a small town of the tourist persuasion, but not nearly as touristy as other towns. The Niagara Falls area comes to mind, and of course you can hardly beat the setting, although it's not quite as spectacular as Banff's.

We got there in mid-afternoon and spent some time wandering the shops with Gina and Belle buying things like there was no tomorrow, which, of course, they could afford. Me, I have to live within my means. Belle insisted on buying me something, probably to make up for her earlier transgression. So, I got a nice plaid miniskirt with a big fake buckle in the front that cost her $250 in a small clothing boutique. Something to go dancing in.

I did want to appease her guilt since I had been a bit hard on her, but her attempt to make up for it just underscored the fact that she could pretty much buy anything she wanted, which in a way devalued its value as a gift. Part of what you give when you give a gift is the sacrifice of time and labor that went into making the money you are spending. Belle wasn't even spending her own money. Oh, it was her money in the sense she could spend it, but she had in no way ever earned it.

Gina can spend money as facilely as Belle, but my friendship with her goes back to childhood, and when she spends money it's just so we can be together and have fun together. If she ever stepped on my toes, a simple apology is all she'd need to do. She would know better than to try to buy my affection.

I wanted to go horseback riding and, wow, everyone there knew how to ride! Dominic made inquiries and discovered a ranch that could outfit all of us on short notice, so we hopped into the limo and within a half hour were well out into the boonies.

Dominic had a surprise for us. Something he'd been told by the ranch owner. He told us to be sure to take a look at Maligne Lake on the way, and so we did. Wow!!!...

We were all blown away by the beauty of the setting, which we agreed was probably a notch or two above Lake Louise. I told myself I'd be back to Western Canada for more exploring. I'd always enjoyed visiting Ontario, but Western Canada, like the Western U.S, is in a class by itself.

About 45 minutes after reaching the ranch, we had all been outfitted with six fine horses, not just docile trail mares, but horses that wanted to get out and be ridden. Naturally, this ranch was on several different trails and we decided to take one that ran along a local river.

The river wasn't much of a river, hardly more than a creek, and it ran through a tight east-west valley that was very windy, which was nice: it had warmed up quite a bit as the day had gone by.

About a half hour away from the ranch, a stiff breeze in our faces, the horses got nervous almost all at once and obviously didn't want to proceed. Now horses, while not being terribly smart, do have keen senses and survival instincts humanfolk don't have, and we were looking at each other to see if anyone had an explanation.

Cal figured it out first, pointing ahead without saying anything. I didn't see it at first, but when Bax said "mountain lion," I knew what to look for and saw it. Not many people can say that they've seen a mountain lion (the cat which is also known as the cougar or puma). Me, I think it's the most beautiful of the large cats. Here's an odd fact: it's the largest cat that purrs. Okay, I watch too much Discovery Channel, but I'm a nature nut and love watching those shows about animals.

A cougar would have a hard time taking down a full-grown healthy horse, but I'm sure they've taken their share of foals, and so their predatory cat smell is probably imprinted in the genetic memory of a prey animal like a horse as a smell to be avoided.

The cat had been drinking out of the river, and even though it was probably a good hundred yards away, it had turned its head in our direction as it drank. It looked at us and as we weren't approaching it, it went back to slurping river water, then almost as if in a puff of smoke, it was no longer there. That was a moment I'll never forget as long as I live. Back in town later, we were told that many of the locals had never seen a mountain lion. We were very lucky.

Gina takes everything in stride, but I could tell that Belle was a bit shaken. Having led such a sheltered life, she had probably never seen a large predator outside of a zoo. She had just realized that where we wasn't just a big metropolitan park where the wildlife consisted of pigeons, squirrels and, if you were really lucky, maybe a red-tailed hawk.

She got even more nervous as the subject got onto bears, and of course as guys will be, they began recounting stories of how fierce bears could be and how even a magnificent beast like a mountain lion would be mere snack food to a grizzly bear. In truth, though, we'd be much more likely to run into a black bear and no bear would be likely to attack a group anyway. Even so, I could see that Belle was kind of looking around to make sure no other big predators were about.

We finally got to a gorgeous little mountain lake that fed the stream. Finding a meadow with a small beach and a few rocks on the shore of the lake, I took off my shoes and stuck them in the water. "Too cold for swimming," I announced. Dominic said, "Fed by that glacier over there, no doubt." I hadn't even noticed the glacier before because you could hardly make it out through a sparse stand of aspens whose leaves were starting to take on the fall colors.

Bax observed, "There's an even better reason not to go swimming here." He was looking down at my feet, which had been dangling in the water for several minutes. I shrieked when I looked down to find that I had acquired three leeches on one foot and two on the other.

One of the horses had a saddlebag with emergency supplies in it, including a some food basics. This, luckily, included some salt, which proved effective for removing the disgusting critters. I'm sure the leech story will make for campfire and fireplace stories for many years to come. At any rate, we were all glad that we hadn't all gone skinny dipping after that. This little lake, beautiful as it was, was totally infested with leeches.

By then, we all wanted to have some sex, of course. I wanted to make sure Gina got hers, which would have to be with me (Belle was, in a sense, "family," and so was off-limits, as were all the guys). Bax and I were pals and so while Belle teamed up with Cal and Dominic on the beach, I took Gina in one hand and Bax in the other and led them to a patch of grass I had spotted a bit higher up.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Belle had one guy on each side. Her top was already off, and while Cal was necking with her, his hand on her boobs, Dominic was massaging her crotch tenderly while gazing at her body in abject appreciation.

As soon as I hit the grass, I had two people who wanted to do kissyface with me, so I started kissing Gina first to let Bax know that she was definitely in on the game. She has the gentlest way about her, and as you may know, we've been fucking each other since our teens, so we're very comfortable together.

I turned to Bax next. He'd been caressing me all over, which was nice. Not going straight for the crotch, I mean, not that I would have objected. He just concentrated on being the gentleman even when engaged in the start of a wild field-fuck.

We all stopped long enough to get our clothes off and right away I got a treat. Gina knows I like a good face-sitting, so she sat astraddle my face and let me enjoy licking her pussy, which was particularly delicious that day.

Now, Bax was between my legs giving me excellent head at the same time. He has a very talented tongue whether he's kissing you or licking your pussy. I'd be happy to do him anytime. And while I'm not into musclemen particularly (I like the "muscle" between a guy's ears best), Bax's commanding mass and athleticism were a thrill.

I know what Gina likes very well, because many an afternoon "study" session had involved letting her sit on my face while I masturbated. And since I like it so much as well, we're always a good match. So, I gave it to her tenderly and after about five minutes, I'd guess, I heard the sweet sounds of my success as she toppled off me to enjoy her post-orgasmic afterglow.

This allowed Bax to creep up and do me missionary style. Now, I like doggy and spoon and some of the more exotic positions as much as the next gal. I'm even a bit contortionistic and have pulled off positions some of you can only dream about (even if they're nightmares!). Still, I think most chicks regard missionary as special because it's the one where you can kiss while you fuck, and from my experience, most chicks love kissing almost as much as fucking. Missionary is a "twofer."

Bax fucked me vigorously for a while. So vigorously that he threatened to give me an early orgasm, so I whispered in his ear "Want a blow job?" That's one question that seldom gets a negative reply, and so soon he was on his back and I was on my tummy between his legs giving him, from the sounds he was making, a very good time indeed.

Gina had recovered and was laying next to me, looking at me with a loving smile and stroking my back and ass, getting up into a doggy position, it was an open invitation to Gina to get behind me and give me head or a rimjob, but she didn't move. At the same time I soon felt someone licking my pussy. Gina smiled and soundlessly mouthed "It's Belle."

I stopped long enough to look back and see Belle's forehead as she licked me, and behind her, doing her asshole doggy style and supporting himself by bracing his hands on her shoulders, was Dominic. Apparently, she'd finished Cal off already, since I got a glimpse of him a couple yards back, fondling his cock as he watched.

A few minutes later, Bax came in my mouth in a big white surge, and it was a little unexpected which excited me and I damn well might have come right then, except that Belle stopped giving me head almost simultaneously.

I got onto my back, resting my head on Bax's tummy, his cock by my cheek. Belle and I still had not cum. After minute or so, she tugged on my legs to coax me away from Bax and I cooperated. I was too pooped to try to take the lead by then, and I was curious to see what she would do.

Before I knew it, she was straddling on my face, slowly grinding her pussy over my open mouth, so of course my tongue came out to see what was going on, and liking what it tasted, it went to work.

At first, she looked down smiling at me as I licked her twat. But soon her eyes were closed and I enjoyed seeing the subtle changes in her face corresponding to a flick of my tongue here, a probe there. Presently, she could no longer stay vertical and, arching her back, dropped back onto her hands. I continued licking and she moved her pelvis gently.

Then something happened. An unexpected taste in my mouth. Lightly salted asparagus? I quickly realized Belle was drizzling pee into my mouth. Ah...she knew how to get me excited. I turned my head left and right and kissed her thighs in appreciation, and she wetted my cheeks in silent reply.

By the way, if you're wondering what piss tastes like, it has very little taste of its own and depends a lot on what a person has eaten. Also, generally it's germ-free and perfectly safe to take in your mouth. Some people drink their own pee for health reasons, and that may have some health benefits (though I generally only drink pee when sexually excited). However, just like drinking ocean water, drinking nothing but will throw the body chemistry off due to an overaccumulation of chemicals the body is trying to get rid of.

"Let's do sixty-nine," I said, and so, lifting one leg she pivoted, turned around, and repositioned herself over me. I could now lick her pussy and receive her piss in little squirts while she sucked on my clit and licked my labia. I could feel her fingers probing my vagina and I could also feel that they were very wet.

By then it was past mid-afternoon and the sun was halfway to the horizon. It was warm and the air was moving slowly, propagating a gentle rustling sound as it wafted through the tall grass and bushes. It was a very comfortable situation. We had acquired an audience of four, sitting at my end so as to observe the piss show (and probably admire Belle's ass as well, surrounded as it was with the remainders of Dominic's jizz).

I was on the verge of orgasm and it took every fiber of my being to ward it off while I concentrated on giving Belle the licking of a lifetime. Intermittent with her own licking were sounds telling me she was getting close as well, and while, normally, I regard simultaneous orgasm as one of those "if it happens, it happens; if it doesn't, it doesn't" things, I could tell it was a real possibility here, so I tried to achieve it.

Her hips started moving in rhythm, as though she were timing her motions to the rhythm of a thrusting cock, only it was my head and tongue that were providing the beat. A whimper let me know she was there, but, bless her, she kept going even though I could feel shivers going through her. I kept at it a while longer until her spasms subsided, then I just let go and had a wonderful series of orgasms, finally tapping her on the ass. She rolled off me and lay on her back using her forearm to shield her eyes from the sun.

One of the observers started applauding and the rest joined in.

Dominic, who is a real outdoorsman, said that a lake like this either came from a spring or from runoff, and either way there was likely to be leech-free water not far away. The lake was small and one could actually walk around it in about a half hour, I'd guess. He trotted off and returned in about three or four minutes waving for us to follow. We gathered up our clothes, and his, and followed his lead.

It was a small stream with water that was as clear as it was cold. It was too cold to stay in for long so one by one we waded into a side pool, rolled around, and got clean. Because of the breeze and the heat, we were able to dry ourselves off just standing around talking. Soon, we were back on our horses returning to the ranch.

Before we mounted our horses, though, I took Belle aside and gave her a big hug to let her know all was forgiven. I whispered, "That was a good fuck, sweetie. See: that's what I want." She just smiled and shrugged. Obviously, she was happy to be in my good graces again. I guess I'll never have enough perspective to know whether I had been right to slap her, but it didn't matter now. From now on I knew the infatuation was over, and that we could just be "friends with privileges" or "friends with benefits," depending on your preferred wording.

We found a humble little pizza shop in Jasper's main drag and ate a good old fashioned pepperoni pizza with additional mushrooms and peppers on half of it while drinking Molson Golden Ale and laughing over the events of the day.

The limo had returned to Banff immediately upon dropping us off, so Gina hired us a taxi to the nearby airport where our plane was waiting. There was more jolliness on the way back, though the trip was quite short. It almost seemed that more time was spent strapping in, taking off, climbing, and landing than actually closing the distance between the two towns.

The limo ferried us from the airport to the hotel, where we bade the boys good-bye and thanked them for all the fun we'd had. Each one got kissed three times by three girls, though I gave Bax a special kiss. I hope to see him again sometime.

They begged us to come back soon, and we said we'd try, knowing it wasn't likely. It wasn't that we wouldn't enjoy a repeat of the events of the last two days, and it wasn't a "Four-F Club" thing at all. (What does that mean?: "Find 'em, Fellate 'em, Fuck 'em, and Forget 'em Club.") The fact was, there were just too many more places to go, things to see, experiences to be had. Chances are, next time we'd be going somewhere else.

We gathered up our things and were on our way back to Cleveland within an hour. I'd like to tell you a story about all the nasty and delicious things that happened on the plane, but to tell you the truth, between all the activities of the day, the sex, the sun, and tummies full of pizza and beer, we were totally drained. In fact, we slept most of the way.

We went back to my place and slept some more, but I was up at 6:30 a.m. because Kelsey expected me to be at my desk that morning.

When I got home that evening, Gina and Belle had gone. There was an envelope with a note saying "Thanks. I always have so much fun when we're together Belle wanted you to have this for your hospitality. -Gina" In it were $500 in $100 bills. Gina would never have felt the need to give me a money gift, but Belle assuaged whatever guilt remained with money. She didn't understand yet that being a friend is gift enough.

I wrote Belle a kind note thanking her, stuffed the money into it, and mailed it at work the next day, hoping she would understand.

I've noticed that many of the most petite and (umm) young-looking girls on the Internet are Russian. I don't know if it's something genetic or lacking in their diet, but they seem to produce a lot of tiny little fragile-looking absolutely gorgeous little dolls, with great big eyes and perfect skin. They are old enough to pose (the 2257 notice at the bottom of their gallery pages assures us of that), but wow. Well, take a look at one of them who has made a name for herself as one of the top Internet models. Meet Kristina Fey. Below the sample photos (which link to her website) are links to promo pages with (yes!) movies of this graceful little darling. Hey, and while she's petite, you gotta admit girls and boys, she's got a fantastic ass!

X

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MOVIE GALLERIES

Angelica	Bathroom	Bathtub	Bed	Dancing
Computer	Folk Dress	Kitchen	Piano	Pipe
Sauna Bath	Pussy Shave	Discotheque	Poolside	Not The Whip!

I've run into ALSscans.com's chicks from time to time and I finally decided to present them here. Why? Well...just look at them: They are super-hot!!! Now, I do like a pretty bush a good deal of the time, and their girls are always bare down there, but after all, the "ALS" in their name is supposed to mean "All Ladies Shaved." And while there is an almost dreadful sameness in the body type they present, for those of you who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing you'll like. I know I like looking at them while (to quote one of my favorite pop tunes) "I touch myself."

If you click on each photo, you'll see the girl's gallery, and from there, if you wish, you can link to ALS Scans to see even more!

Well, who should show up at my door late one Saturday afternoon last summer but Gina? I've written about her in the Las Vegas series of stories and in the story named And to think I got paid for doing this! While reading those stories before this one would be the best introduction to Gina, in a nutshell, we met in high school and have been buddies ever since. Oh, and she worked as an escort for a while, but now she's a kept woman and quite happy to be one. So much for that.

We used to come back to my home or hers after school to study, to watch after school TV, and very frequently, to masturbate together.

You have to imagine two thirteen or fourteen year old girls in short skirts, our spindly shapeless matchstick legs stretched out on a bed, books open, TV on, pillows clutched between our legs. That is how many teen girls masturbate before they cross the Rubicon represented by pleasuring their bald or fuzzy little pussies with their hands.

The studying would go on for a while, kind of half-heartedly. We'd comment on boys we knew or from the after school TV shows. We'd rate the movie stars for sexiness. We'd try to study some more. Then, we'd give up and just talk about "things." You know. We'd make jokes about the teachers or clutzy neighborhood boys or ugly girls. (Oh come on: we were teens, and teens do that! You did it, too. Even if you were an ugly duckling yourself, you always knew someone uglier than you. You can't hold kids to adult standards.)

We talked about what this mysterious thing called "sex" was about. We knew it made babies, of course. We even knew the mechanics, despite the rather ham-handed explanations of the nurse in our hygiene class, who couldn't seem to get the word "vagina" out of her mouth, leaving the impression with more than one girl that sex amounted to taking a stiffy up the butt, an activity I've learned to enjoy, but it shouldn't be a girl's first understanding of what sex is.

Gina was a bit more precocious than me and after talking about "things" one day she asked me if I'd ever masturbated. I was only vaguely aware of the term as something the religious kids cautioned against because it might result in our spending the rest of eternity hopping around on glowing coals or swimming in The Lake of Fire, or minimally being flogged by demons in purgatory for hundreds or maybe even thousands of years. I told her that no, I hadn't. But I was curious and I asked her if she had, wondering if she was actually willing to risk The Fires of Hell.

"Here's one way to do it," she said. And with that she took one of the several throw pillows on her bed, stuffed it tight against her crotch, and rolled onto her tummy where she immediately started grinding away, her little ass rising up and down.

I was totally fascinated. More accurately, I was electrified. The cute and bubbly girl I knew completely disappeared into this fair-skinned little machine, her being centered on her hips and ass, everything else motionless. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I ever experienced voyeuristic excitement of a sexual nature.

She stopped long enough to ask me, "Want to try? Come on."

I thought about eternity in Hell being roasted alive in the dreaded Flames of Perdition while being taunted by horned demons jabbing me with sharp metal tritons, decided that no such thing existed, and grabbed one of the other pillows.

Almost as soon as I started mimicking Gina I knew I'd made the right choice because my entire take on reality changed in an instant to embrace an entire dimension I'd theretofore been absolutely unaware of. (Well, not exactly unaware. I guess I'd heard of it but this was my first glimmer of what sexual pleasure was all about.)

She was back at work on her pillow with her eyes closed, so I closed mine and slowly ground away on my pillow, teaching myself what worked and what didn't and discovering what that magical part of the anatomy called the clitoris can do. I found that applying my clitoris to a bunch or fold of fabric, or a seam, or a bit of piping gave me a little extra pleasure.

I was humping the pillow somewhat vigorously when I felt Gina's hand touch mine. It was to get my attention. "Make it last, don't go for it right away. It's better the longer you wait," she said. So I slowed down and just let a flood of brand new sensations slowly engulf me as, in the back of my mind I wondered, "What could possibly be better than this?" Because "this" was already the cat's pajamas as far I was concerned. I already knew I'd be doing this a lot.

After a certain period of time that could have been five minutes or could have been a half hour, Gina softly said, "Okay let's do it!" and the vigor of her humping increased drastically. Her hand tightened on mine and I redoubled the intensity of my own humping as well, and as I did so the already strange sensations increased dramatically as well, so I went at it even harder.

I don't know if you can remember your first orgasm. This was mine and I'll never forget feeling like I was exploding. It was like ice water. It was like pins and needles. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was way beyond chocolate milk shake good. It was good beyond words.

Gina looked at me knowingly as she basked in the afterglow of her own orgasm, knowing that I'd never be quite the same ever again and that it had been her doing.

I looked back at her through the fog of my own afterglow and said, "That is worth going to Hell for." After a few minutes of silence we had a lengthy giggle fit, and her mom, who had just got home from work yelled from below, "What's going on up there?" "Nothing, mom," said Gina and we giggled some more with our hands over our mouths.

From then on masturbation tended to happen almost every time we got together to study, except when a really big test was coming up, for both Gina and I were good students and anytime we got less than an "A" was an occasion for a great weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, to use biblical terminology.

Gina is one of the few people from high school I've remained in touch with. One of the true friends. Looking back, I can see that when you're in high school, you assume that everyone who's a friend there is a friend for life, whereas I suppose most of us discover by the time we're two years away from high school, we're out of touch with almost every person we used to count as a friend.

I remember my dad predicting that that would happen, and as with most of the things he told me, he turned out to be right. Gina, however, is an exception, and I know now that I have a very special friendship in Gina.

She's also a pretty damned good fuck, so I welcomed her visit.

I think in the beginning of this story, I left the impression that she just showed up at my door. She's polite enough not to do that. She actually phoned the night before to ask if I minded if she dropped in for a while (an interval I never asked her to define precisely).

So, there she was at the door. Cuter than ever. Her eyes showing she was as happy to see me as I was to see her.

"I have a surprise," she said. "I brought someone with me."

A pretty head peeked around the corner, smiled, and said "Hi."

It was Belle.

(If you don't know who Belle is, I strongly suggest you read the It didn't stay in Vegas series of stories to understand who Belle is and what it means to see her again.)

Now, Belle is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and while I'm very bisexual, whenever she's around I'm as gay as can be. If there's anyone you're just helplessly attracted to, someone it's almost painful for you to be around, double that and multiply it by 10 and you'll have some idea how hot I am for Belle.

"Well, come in, guys," I said. Gina walked in and Belle bounded in after her. Or pranced. If you have ever seen a colt at play, that is the impression Belle always leaves, of being young and "full of piss & vinegar" as my paternal grandma used to say. Belle had grown up wealthy but unlike so many offspring of the wealthy who turn into preppies, Belle had simply been bequeathed a perpetual childhood. And like a child she wandered around my apartment examining everything, asking questions, anything but acknowledging my existence.

I think Gina could sense my pain and finally said to Belle, "Aren't you going to give Jill a proper hello?" Suddenly Belle seemed to realize she had been rude and ran up to me, putting her arms around me, pressing her small breasts against mine, and brushing her cheek against my cheek as she did so. "It's so good to see you again," she said. I'm sure she meant it, but with Belle, every emotion, every reaction is but momentary, and while all emotions are transient, nothing lasted very long with her. She would grow up someday, assuredly, but there was no hint of it just yet.

I'm sure Belle knows how attractive she is, but if you tried to talk to her about it, I'm equally sure her reaction would be "How weird!" She's also totally lacking in guile, but it hardly matters: If an elephant steps on a mouse unintentionally, the mouse is just as squashed. (squeak, squeak, squeak)

Well, I served up some microbrew and we chatted a little while. It turned out that Ray was going to a meeting in Helsinki and Gina, who had gone with him a couple times before, felt she was "all Helsinki'd out," and opted out of accompanying him. He had lent her one of the company jets and a crew (for corporate jet rentals is the business Ray is in) and so she had decided to use the opportunity to grab Ray's niece, Belle, and visit me.

We could use the jet to go almost anywhere, she said, and with Ray's connections and her company credit card, there were really few limits on where we could go or what we could do.

I suggested we go out to eat and discuss a destination over dinner, so the girls dragged in their suitcases from the rental car and soon the three of us were dressed to kill. Gina wore tight red capri slacks with what I called a "Wonder Bread" white top that had red, yellow, and blue polka dots. She wore a cute pair of red pumps with 4" heels and a strap going around the front of her ankle. She's always super cute because she's so petite anyway and has a pixie hairdo, but she looked killer in that outfit.

I wore a white wrap skirt, secured with Velcro, that left a good deal of my thighs exposed. I chose a shirt with a bold green floral print and a pair of white wedgies with about 1" of platform and about 2" of additional lift.

Gina and I waited with growing impatience in the living room as Belle decided what to wear and got ready to go. When she finally joined us she was stunning. She had gone a bit punk, dressing in skin-tight leather shorts that went down to just above the knee and had several chains going from her belt into her pockets. On top, she had an equally tight-fitting plaid sleeveless top that zipped up the front and had pockets in unexpected places, including on her shoulder blades! All of this was completed with socks in a matching plaid that went up to just below the knee. For her feet, she had the clunkiest Frankenstein boots I've ever seen. It was pretty clear which of us would be attacting the most attention.

The irony is that for Belle goth and punk are optional "looks" and don't in any way reflect her worldview. She's rich and is anything but rebellious. But who am I to complain? I went through a year in high school as a "Hot Topic goth" as many girls do. The difference is that her clothes are a lot more expensive and she's a young adult. I was a kid.

Anyway, she was hotter than Hell, but what else is new?

At first I suggested we go to Carrabba's Italian restaurant but the consensus was that there are Carrabba's everywhere and Gina wanted to take Belle someplace unique to the Cleveland area. Cleveland took in a lot of Eastern European immigrants as refugees from the Nazis, so I suggested we go to Balaton, a Hungarian restaurant on Shaker Square in Shaker Heights. Aside from the expected goulash and paprikash, this place also offers incredible schnitzel's (veal, pork, or chicken, delicious and so big you can't even eat half of one).

We shared two bottles of sweet German Auslese. Belle and I had chicken paprikash and Gina had a chicken schnitzel, which she shared, and by the time we were done, I'm sure we all looked about 6 months pregnant. Gina said it was the best meal she had ever had.

Our discussion turned to where we would go. I reminded them I had a real job and whatever we did would be conditioned by that. I expected my boss and fuck buddy Kelsey would give me a little time off if I needed it, but I also knew the coming week would be a busy one for her and I didn't want to totally abandon her.

Of course, Gina and Belle have been almost everywhere, so they gave anything I chose a lot of weight. I knew Kelsey could spare me a couple weekdays, but I didn't want to push it, so I didn't want to choose anything as exotic as Japan or Australia.

Recently, I had seen some books about the Canadian Rockies. I thought that while they weren't perhaps the tallest of mountain ranges, they were among the most beautiful. Gina didn't really care: she was with friends and knew that we'd be having a good time on her dime (well, Ray's) and would be happy to play the role of Fairy Godmother, waving her magic wand to make it happen.

I had been to Banff on a ski trip in my early teens and had been so impressed with the image of a giant hotel dwarfed by beautiful sloping mountainsides. I wanted to see Banff when there was no snow on the ground. The last time I was there, I only got to see the hotel intermittently, because it snowed a good deal of the time. Here it is:

I once met an elderly architect in a bar on a business trip with Kelsey. When I got on the topic of the Banff Springs Hotel, he laughed and called it "the world's ugliest hotel in the world's most beautiful setting." He said it was totally unique in a bad way and looked like it had been designed by someone who had never seen any architecture before, or had only seen details of other buildings and assembled them like assembling a jigsaw puzzle from random pieces drawn from half a dozen different puzzles.

He compared it to Timberline Lodge in Oregon, another great resort hotel in another grand mountain setting and said that Timberline, also a unique design, worked visually in a way the Banff Springs Hotel did not. Nevertheless, he said, he went to Banff at least once a year just to see those mountains. He even made it a point to stay in the hotel. Showed he had a sense of humor.

Well, I'm sure he was being a bit ironic and hyperbolic about the hotel and the setting. There had to be uglier hotels in the world, probably located on freeways in Oklahoma or Iowa, and there were so many beautiful settings in the world, how could one choose just one? Perhaps he was just showing off in the presence of a pair of sexy females.

Gina knew about Banff, but had never been there and was curious. Belle had been there to go skiing, but had never seen it without snow, either, and said the idea sounded great.

I got out my cell and called Kelsey, explaining the situation. She gave us her blessing and even though Gina had me invite her as well, knowing what was going on at work (bigwigs visiting later in the week), I knew she'd have to decline. I expressed my regret at being absent at such a bad time, but she rightly pointed out that while there was much to be done, there was nothing that couldn't be done by any of her other minions. It was mostly dog work.

When we got home, we packed enough stuff for 2 or 3 days, which I explained to them was about as much time as I could spare on such short notice.

As is typical with Ray's planes, the one Gina was using was ensconced in a small privately-owned airport. Less congestion and less bureaucracy. Ray had agreements like this with airports all over the world.

Soon we were in the air on a heading that would bring us into Banff just before daybreak. We were all a little tired from the dinner and wine we'd had, so we just talked. In a way, it was kind of like my days after school with Gina, where we talked about boys and movie stars and sex, except that now we knew a lot more about sex.

Belle was a full participant in these discussions. I think I may have left the impression that she's not smart. Yes, she does seem to lack focus quite a bit, but I assure you, it's due to how active her mind is. She is far from a dullard and is capable stunning flashes of pointed wit, especially when people underestimate her and treat her like one.

It turned out she knew quite a bit about music, and not just dance music. She became fascinated by the fact that my dad was once a touring jazz musician and that once he stopped touring we still had a parade of well-known and undiscovered musicians in our home, as the word got out that they could save some money and enjoy some excellent food by staying with us.

Our door was always open to musicians, and I've heard many an impromptu concert in our livingroom, where there's a Bösendorfer grand piano, or in our dining room. Between those who stayed with us and those who visited, I have met probably about 80%-90% of the touring jazz musicians who were active in the U.S. in the 1990's. Not only that, I've known them with their hair down, chatting over a meal, having coffee and cigarettes after dinner, and so on. I've heard them talk about each other, about promoters and recording companies. I've heard them talk about the little promotion deals they make to earn a little extra dough.

For example, I remember a certain guitarist who is well known for promoting a certain brand of guitar. He uses one of this company's guitars on stage, but when he brought several guitars into the house for a jam session, none of the three guitars he brought in were of that brand. In fact, one was of his own design, executed with the help of a well-known British luthier. When asked by another musician "Where is your (brand) guitar?" His reply was, "I have to play that one, and I play it every day. These ones are for fun." Electric guitars are an extreme example of an instrument whose sound varies greatly with construction material, electronics, and hardware, but even a horn player will generally have a promotion deal with one manufacturer but will own one or two more instruments made by that brand's competition.

Dad had two main rules for visiting musicians which could be summarized as "Respect my home and family" and "No drugs in the house." Now, heroin addicts need to be on heroin just to maintain a semblance of stability, so forbidding them to be under the influence while visiting us was far too much to ask, and would have had us dealing with someone in withdrawal, so often a musician would say he was going out for fresh air, but it was understood he was probably going out to the car for a dose of smack. I saw him kick a few guys out for violating one rule or another. Sometimes they'd say something "over the line" or sometimes Dad would find evidence of drug use in the bathroom, and he wouldn't hesitate to toss them out on their ass. The word got out that he ran a tight ship, and after a while such incidents stopped.

Belle's dad, Ray's brother, had made a fortune in sophisticated electronics used primarily by the military and aerospace industries. She assured us that some of the primary electronic systems on the plane were designed by her dad's company, and were used because of their redundancy and imperviousness to even electromagnetic pulse weapons. What a lot of people don't know is that in addition to the thermal radiation of an atomic bomb, an electronic pulse is also generated that will fry circuit boards far and wide, rendering them instantly useless and damaged beyond repair. Crucial military systems need shielding to protect them from such pulses.

This took the discussion in the direction of 9/11. I remember the morning very well. I had just booted up my computer, which has CNN as the homepage. I saw the headline which was something like "U.S. Under Attack" or something similar, and I thought some hackers had hijacked CNN's site. "Somebody's going to jail for that one," I thought to myself. I went to the company's little break room, which has a few folding tables with folding chairs, and has a TV always locked on to CNN. The room was crowded with about 20 people instead of the 2 or 3 I might have expected at that time of day. Every eye was on the TV. It was then I discovered it was real. Okay, the CNN headline was a wee bit inflamatory, but a truly formative and earthshaking event had taken place.

It was at just that moment, too, that the second plane hit and the room was filled with gasps and screams. Even the general manager was there watching with everyone else. No one was being asked to return to their desks. He knew that no work was going to be done that day anyway. And no business was being done anywhere else, either. For almost the entire day, if the telephone rang, it was a relative of an employee calling to make sure the employee knew what had happened.

I told the girls something they didn't know, which was that the scenario of flying a commercial jet into the Trade Towers had been floated on a TV show shortly before it actually happened. For just one season, a wonder spin-off of the X-Files named The Lone Gunmen ran, and in one of the episodes they thwarted an attempt to fly an electronically hijacked commercial airliner into The Twin Towers.

This led to a discussion of the invasion of Iraq and the consequences thereof. We all agreed that George Bush is a cretin, but Belle wondered what Al Gore would have done after 9/11. The public wanted something done and they wanted results, not talk. As a superpower, the U.S. could hardly be seen to just lick its wounds and act like nothing had happened, she said. So, even Al Gore would have had a big problem and, had he won the Presidency instead of George Bush, can we be sure we wouldn't be hating him just as much today? In all honesty, I don't know. Seeing Gore nowadays, he sure seems to be almost glad he wasn't elected. And who could blame him? He gets the best of both worlds: everyone knows he won the popular vote, but since he didn't take office, he doesn't have to take the blame for how it was handled, which likely would have pleased no one, given that the options were few.

I didn't agree with all of Belle's views, but I was becoming impressed that there really were wheels turning in that pretty head of hers. Maybe she was growing up after all.

After an hour or so of this, We pulled out the trundle bed which was located behind the large projection screen at the back end of the cabin. After taking turns in the small bathroom, we slept all the way to Banff. We didn't even wake up for the landing, which like almost all landings in Ray's jets was super smooth, I'm sure.

The captain's voice over the P.A. announced that we were in Banff. I looked at my watch. It was 9 a.m. Cleveland time, making it 7 a.m. Banff time. A good time to be arriving. We could get an early start. The first orders of business would be checking into a hotel and figuring out how we'd spend our time.

We were speeded through Customs due to Ray's connections once again. The usual questions, but in a more perfunctory way than one might expect.

The lives of the rich. This was how Gina and Belle lived. They can go to some nice or exotic place without a plan, the way you or I might go to a shopping mall without a real plan, just winging it after I got there. Well, for a couple days, I was going to live life like a rich person.

It took 30 or 40 minutes to get to the hotel, for of course it was all arranged that we'd be staying at the aforementioned Banff Springs hotel. It's one of the largest hotels in the world, and yet it is dwarfed by the surrounding mountains. If the first photo didn't make the setting perfectly clear, take a look at this one.

Actually, I've seen hundreds of photos of this hotel, and the setting is so vast, no single photo really summarizes the setting in an acceptable way. You could probably do it only in a satellite photo which would then totally lack a sense of place.

So, if you're getting the picture that the setting is beautiful, believe me...it's well beyond merely beautiful.

We were whisked through check-in (big surprise) and welcomed as though we were celebrities. Gina explained that Ray had stayed there many a time and that since the reservations were made in his name, they wanted to impress him with how they treated his guests as well as him.

When we got to our room, well let me just say that by my standards it was a bit overdone, but I guess when you're paying hundreds of dollars a night, you expect a little opulence.

We already knew it was going to be a hot day, for it was well into the 60's by 8 in the morning. So we changed into warm weather clothes. In a mountain town at this elevation (and at 4537 feet, it's the highest city in Canada) any day that starts this warm will likely turn out to be hot.

I endured watching Belle change out of her gothic girl outfit into some very brief and tight cutoff jean shorts. I say endured because she was momentarily nude. She tied a white shirt under her boobs, baring her lovely tanned tummy. Gina put on a cute pair of shorts, too. Red ones made out of a denim-like cotton fabric. She also had a white top, but tucked it in. Me, I had a white tennis-style skirt and a nice floral print top. We were all wearing sneakers.

There were several guys at the next table having waffles. Except for one whose back was turned, they were sneaking the occasional glance. Now, one attractive female is going to get glances, let alone three, so we were being looked at by the entire room pretty much. Even our waiter, a 50-ish balding man with a ring of hair and a build that made me think of Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood tales, spent an undue amount of time at our table making sure we were happy.

At last one of them spoke up and said, "It seems you're looking for something to do today, are you?" He said this in that peculiar Canadian lilt. I almost expected him to end the sentence with "ey?" He was a clean, athletic looking guy with hair the color of straw. When I say "athletic build," I mean he looked rather like a guy who was into track & field. He wore his hair in a short, very middle-of-the-road GQ sort of style.

Gina replied in mock contempt: "So you've been eavesdropping on us?" (Actually, we were delighted for the attention from a table full of good-looking eligible guys.)

Now, Gina may be only about five feet tall, but I don't think I've ever seen any guy (who wasn't gay) fail to respond to her cuteness. She's a classic "pocket rocket" and though her body is tiny, it's very well formed. I could tell he was intrigued with her.

The guy across the table from him spoke up with, "It's just, we were going fishing up at Lake Lacrosse, and we thought perhaps you'd like to go fishing with us." (Now, don't try to find it on a map: I changed the name for reasons you'll soon find out, but it had a French name.)

This guy was a dark-haired fellow with a bit of the look of a body builder and longer, wavier hair than the first guy. Very muscular without looking overbuilt like actual competitive bodybuilders do. He also had a great smile and I was betting he was the joker in the group.

The third guy turned around and eyed us for the first time. The pleasure reflected in his eyes was evident. He liked what he was seeing. He was almost a carbon copy of the first guy in terms of athletic build, but had light brown hair that looked as if, with just a small change in tint, might go in either the blond or red direction, for you could see hints of both. His hair was long, but straight, kind of like Tom Petty (of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers).

I looked at Gina & Belle and instantly knew that fishing sounded like a very good idea. "But we don't have any gear," said Gina. The dark-haired guy spoke up and said, "My uncle Mike runs a rental shop. Don't worry about the gear. We'll take care of it, won't we guys?" The others nodded agreement, and we let them rent gear for us, even though I'm sure either Gina or Belle could have arranged to buy they gear and probably the lake we'd be fishing in, except that it was almost certainly on government land. (And not even that might have stopped them, such was the influence they could muster through Gina's partner Ray or Belle's dad.)

And so, we soon found ourselves driving all packed into a large and very serious-looking off-road vehicle, driving through at first two-lane roads and then one-lane mountain roads, taking in the gorgeous mountain scenery and getting to know these nice guys, for without exception they were gentlemen, attentive and deferential. They were also smart guys who found they could make more money in the local construction industry than in academia or some profession. Or, if not make more money, at least make good money and be able to work out in fresh air rather than in some stuffy office in Calgary or Vancouver.

Their names, in the order in which I wrote about them were Cal, the blond, Bax (who would look at a baby boy and think, "I'm going to call him Baxter"?, and the light brown-haired guy, Dominic. All three came from Calgary. Apparently Dominic had come out first and the other two, after visiting him, came out to stay after they got their degrees. Dominic started working for a small construction company and within three years had become a partner in the business. Cal and Bax were both in construction as well, but worked for a different company, and were given a short leave while their company was somewhat stalled on its current project. In fact, they said, they'd even be working that day except that a large load of lumber had been delayed due to a fire in their primary supplier's lumber mill. Their company had had to make hasty arrangements with an alternative supplier and the lumber wouldn't start arriving for a few more days. Until then, they were totally free. As a partner, Dominic could take brief periods off on short notice.

I developed an almost instant affinity for Bax, the muscular one. Not that I'm into muscles, but because I was right about his sense of humor. He was always making jokes. Not tasteless jokes or put-down jokes. He was witty and quite the punster. Some people hate puns, but I find them quite funny. He was also surprisingly erudite in the music area, and as you all know, if you've been reading even just this story, there is a lot of music in my own background, so at the urging of Gina and Belle, I ended up retelling stories they had heard before and was, along with Bax, the center of attention.

When we finally arrived at the lake, it was gorgeous. The water as smooth as glass, reflecting the sloping tree-carpeted mountains that framed it. That dark evergreen color has to be one of the most gorgeous colors on earth, especially when you see it in such vast expanses. I could certainly understand why three guys from Calgary in the plains of Alberta would come upon a place like this and think they were in heaven. I know I felt that way.

Bax was even succeeding in what I felt was impossible: taking my mind off Belle. I wasn't feeling half as gay as when she and Gina had first arrived at my door. I might even want to fuck this muscle hunk! Even if Belle ended up fucking one of the other two. (Ouch! that thought hurt, though in my heart I knew she was sexually active and had probably had sex with several different guys in at least the last month, if not week, if not yesterday or the day before.) But Bax was quite good at taking my mind off Belle with his many amusing fishing stories, which were not so much about the fish as about things that had happened while fishing. About the time Cal fell out of a rowboat (with a little help from Dominic who, while going to help Cal by giving him a net, jiggled the boat and sent Cal flying overboard). Or the time when a bunch of rowdy frat boys, already pretty well soused, wanted some advice about the best spots to fish, and Dominic had sent them to a lousy spot at the far end of the lake just to get rid of them. After they left, Cal and Bax and Dominic had rowed over and collected the beer cans the boys had left lying around.

The reason I haven't told you the name of the lake is because it's a great trout lake that isn't in the guide books. It's one a few locals know about and can go to for some solitude and quiet.

Even though the guys were amply supplied with Molson lager, they weren't drinking to get drunk and the alcohol never turned their talk or behavior ugly. We caught a few trout, but clearly the guys came here as much for the peacefulness and beauty as for the fish.

It was Cal who asked if we'd like to go swimming. There was apparently a place where you could jump into the water from a slightly overhanging rock. It was I who rather stupidly said, "But we didn't bring any swimsuits." It was Bax, the joker, who said with a delightfully perverted grin, "That's okay: neither did we." Suddenly feeling like the prude of the bunch, I decided to be the one to say, "Okay, let's do it!" Following the three guys, we hiked a trail along the rim of the lake for a half mile or so until we came to a spot about 30 feet above the black water. The lake water was quite clear, so the blackness confirmed that it was deep in this spot. Had it been shallow to any degree, we would have seen the pebbles and rocks on the bottom, Cal explained.

"You've jumped off here before?" Belle asked. Now, Belle typically isn't Little Miss Caution, but she was asking a question I'm sure Gina and I had in the back of our minds. The boys laughed and said, "Just about every time we come out here."

Bax started taking his clothes off, which got the rest of us started. Gina was the quickest, and even though I had somewhat paired with Bax and claimed him as my favorite (believe me, girls are sensitive to these things and among close friends respect them), he took the naked Gina by the hand and communicated with a glance "Let's jump together." They looked so cute: the huge muscular Bax jumping off with the the pint-sized, almost childlike Gina. It looked for all the world like a father-daughter scene.

I think we all were thinking that, because we started laughing like crazy. Then Dominic looked down to make sure Bax and Gina were out of the way, stepped back to me, and held his hand out. I took it and we ran about three steps toward the edge, taking us out into the ether.

I knew it was going to be cold. I knew mountain water was cold intellectually and, hell, I'd felt how cold it was to the hand as we pulled trout out of the water. Even so, I had forgotten what a fucking shock it was to be immersed in ice water. As soon as I hit the water, finding myself at least 10 feet below the surface, my lungs wanting to pant, it was then that I remembered how unpleasant it is.

It seemed an eternity before I could reach the surface and start panting. As I rushedly swam for the nearby shore, I could see Bax holding Gina in his arms like a reverse Pieta, her back against one one of his large arms, her bent knees against his other arm. Was she injured? But then I realized, no, he was just giving her his bodily warmth as best he could. I could almost see her goosebumps from 20 feet away!

Belle and Cal were next and after she resurfaced, she was full of expletives about how cold the water was, between gasps for air and fits of laughter.

When we were all out, I said, "You call this 'swimming'?" The guys laughed and Bax said, "Well, not exactly. We usually jump in once before we leave." It had been a hot day, and once the burning sensation subsided and we got back in the sun, which quickly dried us off, it actually felt quite good.

So, we piled back into the car (it was late afternoon by now) and drove back toward the hotel. We did agree to stop by Dominic's place to do up the fish and have dinner, though.

His place turned out to be on the way, so we turned onto a drive that took us gradually downward to a house built on the edge of a river with its face on the shore and its back, facing the river, up on stilts. Bax explained that the river could come up quite a bit in the Spring when the snow and ice started melting.

Thus, Dominic really didn't have a back yard, and his front yard functioned as a back yard. He had a very nice, quite large outdoor grill made of red brick masonry (and why not: he was in construction, after all). It turned out that Cal and Bax had helped him build it. After setting up the charcoal and lighting it, we were taken inside for drinks. Bax served as bartender and, the day having turned quite hot, gin and tonic was the order of the day...or more Molson. Me, I went for the gin and tonic.

Dominic prepared the trout in the kitchen, and by the next time I saw them, they were wrapped in foil making slight sizzling sounds on the grill. In no time we were feasting on trout served with microwaved frozen green beans and garlic bread made on the grill. After a long day outdoors and an ice cold swim, it tasted just great. Dominic had obviously become an expert at cooking trout and it surely was some of the best fish I have ever had.

After consulting with the girls, I invited the guys up to our room in the hotel and they enthusiastically agreed.

By the time we got back to the hotel, at around 8:30 or 9, it was getting quite dark. When you're around tall mountains, the sun sets much earlier than in a flatter place like Ohio.

So, we sat around in our room with the guys, watching TV, but mostly just talking. Everybody got to tell something of their life story. My story and Belle's were extraordinary right from the beginning. Belle had never attended a real school. She had been largely raised by a nanny and housekeeper and had been home-taught by hired tutors supervised by a friend of the family who was a professor of education.

Of course, my own upbringing around famous musicians is always good for conversation.

I was even surprised about how frankly Gina talked about her own life, which was really pretty ordinary before she met Ray. As you may know from one or two other stories, Gina had done some escorting in the Detroit area, which is how she met Ray. Gina was taking a very tough course of studies and she found that by being a high-priced call girl she could make enough money working just 2 or 3 nights a month to live quite well while paying for her courses and books. She's very cute, and for the guy who likes the very, very petite kind of girl, she's about as good as it gets.

The high end call girl usually works with a very well-heeled, well-educated clientele. The sort of guy whose schedule doesn't allow for very serious "dating." After a year or so, Ray had become attached enough to Gina to set her up with a luxury apartment high atop a downtown Detroit high-rise apartment building. Her place became his place, because until he met her, as she told it, "His home was on a plane." Executive jets were his business, and as you must know pretty well by now, his jets are luxurious.

Some wealthy people live in hotels, so living in a luxury jet isn't so far-fetched.

However, by now, he and Gina were a pair, and while I knew he was realistic about Gina's sex drive, and while she loved him deeply, I had no idea how she was going to handle this situation. Three girls, three guys, and all of us healthy and horny. And, oh yes, Gina was horny. She could sit out the festivities which would soon be beginning, but...would she?

As time went by, Bax and I had paired off and were sitting together in a love seat. Belle and Cal were on the floor by the fireplace looking through a guidebook together. Gina and Dominic were on the couch talking quietly.

Sooner than I expected, Bax came in for a kiss, and of course I let him, opening my mouth slightly to let him know he was welcome, and soon our tongues were caressing. We might have kissed for a minute or so. I looked and saw that Belle was on her back receiving some gentle kisses as well. Strangely, I felt no jealousy or anger.

Even Gina was gently kissing Dominic. I was a little worried for her, but she's a grown-up and I certainly wouldn't play the snitch role. She's just about my best friend and my main concern was that she not do something that would bite her in the ass.

Talk about "saved by the bell." A cell phone went off, and it was Gina's unique ring. She sprang over to the desk where her phone was sitting and I could tell from the expression on her face that it was Ray calling. She left the room, giving me a glance that told me she wouldn't be back soon. She had figured out what she had to do, which was not to be making out with Dominic. I read her lips to say "I'll be in the bar."

Poor Dominic. Bax had been watching the whole scene with a "what the fuck?" look on his face and I quickly explained that technically, Gina was in a relationship. One she'd be wise not to risk. Belle and Cal had hardly skipped a beat and I could see her stroking his hair as he sucked on one of her nipples. He understood and looked at poor Dominic who was obviously trying to figure out how he fitted in. He got up and started going for the door, obviously to follow Gina. I called out his name and as he looked at me, I shook my head conveying that that was a bad idea. Instead, I scrunched over closer to Bax and patted next to me. After a moment of being as dumb as a post he realized I was inviting him to a 3-way.

So, soon I was being kissed and felt up by two nice guys. Belle was already being pretty heartily humped missionary style, but he was doing it in a slow grind so I felt he was settling in for a good long fuck and not a quicky. Lucky Belle!

As for me, I had a little treat in mind. Something I hadn't had in a little while. "Are you guys up for a little 'DP'?" How charming...they didn't know the terminology. So I explained it as delicately as I could. "Double penetration," I explained, "You know: one in the front door and one in the back door at the same time."

"Oh, sure, why not?" they said in unison. "Cool," I said. Bax said with a quizzical expression: "Right now?" "No," I replied. "Let's build up to it first. It'll happen when we're all ready." Christ, Dominic didn't have an erection yet.

So I was kissed and groped for a while until I felt Dominic's hand reach up under my skirt and through one of my panty legs until he found my pussy. Soon he was gently massaging my labia and diddling with my clit. After a while I opened my legs a bit more...an invitation for him to let his fingers slide into my pussy.

Don't think Bax wasn't busy, though. He was playing with my tits and kissing me on the mouth at the same time. Gradually, I had been leaning his way, and he was by this time holding me in his arms. At some point (I'm not sure exactly when), Dominic got my panties off and was giving me the full hand job. And my knees had pulled up to help him.

I stopped kissing Bax long enough to say, "I'm ready for some cock." I stood up and removed the rest of my clothing and the guys did the same. I told Bax to sit down. I got on my knees between his legs and got to work on his already stiff pecker. This put me in a good position for Dominic to get to work on my behind, and after a minute or two more of fingering me to make me nice and wet, his cock found my pussy and he started slowly fucking me from behind.

Bax's cock felt so good in my mouth, and the taste and extra slipperiness of his precum excited me even more and made me all the wetter for Dominic. He had a delightful way of running his finger through my hair as I blew him. Every now and then he'd tap me to let me know he'd be cumming if I didn't slow down, so I'd stop and lick his balls for a while, allowing me to savor Dominic's rhythmic pounding.

I took a quick look at Belle, to see her flicking her tongue all over his cock. He was sitting back on his elbows watching her. Just for a moment I took in the beauty of Belle's body. Her short black hair, her perfectly formed body. The greatest pair of legs I'd ever seen. That ass...wow!

But I was being fucked and fucked well, and I wanted to give as well as I received, so I went back to work making it good for Bax and Dominic.

I pushed Dominic out of me, stood up between Bax's legs, turned around, and sat down on his cock, which slid in pretty easily, it still being wet with my spit and his precum. Bax was so far forward by this point that I could lay back on his belly, and he started pounding my ass. I signaled to Dominic and he was back in my pussy, facing me this time. I said, "This is DP, guys." Bax, ever the joker, said "You know, I think I like it. I'll have write that down: DP." Dominic and I took a moment to laugh and got back to work.

The thing about DP for the girl is there really isn't much to do. You just lay back and enjoy the rhythms and polyrhythms. There really isn't very much beyond...but there is one thing I'd never tried and this seemed like a good time.

I said in a half whisper so both guys could just barely hear me: "There's another kind of DP." They were mystified, but still kept pumping me. "What do you mean? asked Bax.

I stopped them and said, "Dominic, I want you to fuck my ass." Bax started to pull out, but I told him not to. I said, "I want both of you in my ass at the same time." Dominic stifled a laugh as if to say I must be joking, but then he realized I wasn't.

I told Dominic to make his cock wet with spit, which he did. Soon, he was working his way into my ass, and for the first time I thought I'd taken on more than I could handle. I'd seen girls taking two cocks in the ass in porn, so I knew it was possible. After a minute or so gritting my teeth I was stretched out enough that it stopped hurting. They had been fucking away, but now I felt comfortable enough to go to work on my pussy, three-fingering myself with one hand and twiddling my clit with the other.

Dominic came first and pulled out, falling into a heap on the floor. This gave Bax plenty of lubrication. Unfortunately, I was still pretty well stretched out, and to tell you the truth, looking at Dominic on the floor, I realized he was the bigger of the two, which meant Bax was suddenly working with a very loose asshole. So, I did my best to bear my sphincter down on his dick, and after a half minute or so, I could tell he was feeling good about the situation.

So was I, and soon I was lost in the pleasure of having my ass fucked while I masturbated. It was the best orgasm in quite a while and I'm afraid I gave out a big squirt that landed right across Dominic's back.

He let out a yelp of surprise, but soon the three of us were huddled on the floor together, I being cupped between the two men, who gently stroked my skin and hair.

My eyes wandered over to Belle, who was 69'ing with Cal. I had looked just in time to see Cal's sperm drool out of her mouth and down his dick onto his balls. She looked at me with the most lascivious grin, then her eyes widened at first and then closed. I could tell she was having her own orgasm as Cal's cum was still dripping out of her mouth.

The five of us got dressed and huddled together on the couch for a little while. But then I said that the guys should go. We agreed to meet them again the next day and they took their leave.

I told Belle I'd go out and find Gina. She said that was a good idea.

When I found her, she was in a booth in the back of the bar reading a magazine and nursing a rum & coke.

I slipped in beside her and as she looked at me, her eyes teared up, but she smiled. "I think you did the right thing," I said, and she nodded.

When we got back to the room, Belle was already asleep in one of the two bedrooms. Gina and I showered together, where we kissed and hugged, and molested each other. I was glad that I was able to get her laughing again.

Ray knows that Gina and I are fuck buddies from way back and our relationship doesn't bother him. In fact, if you've read all of my stories, you know I've done a 3-way with him and Gina.

When we got into bed, I took her in my arms and kissed her at first lovingly and then passionately. Then I finger fucked her for a while, finishing her off with some vigorous head until she came so hard she had to push my head away from her crotch.

"You've always been my best buddy," she said. She is my oldest friend. We're friends for life. And then she kissed me on the cheek and added the sweetest thing of all: "Thank you for being you."

When I woke up the next morning, she was still in my arms.

I love the In-Focus girls. They're hot as hell and if I like one, I don't have to imagine away the girl or girls in the photo with her as I would with SapphicErotica girls.

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Monday, January 22, 2007
Sometimes Life Just Fucking Sucks

Seth finally returned to the ranch, but would be in for a long recovery, and so it was run by Maggie and Leslie and me. It was nice to have Maggie back, especially given my young age, and having already done at least one thing that was very unwise and could have led to disaster, namely abandoning the ranch for a night on the town. I was more than ready to hand the reins back to Maggie in exchange for the considerably less stressful life of a lowly ranch hand.

Leslie continued to shape up both mentally and physically and we enjoyed her company. Her body grew more slender by the day and in place of the waistless sausage body she had when she arrived, she was actually developing feminine curves. Even her hair took on a luster it hadn't had before.

It wasn't easy to find a time or place, but Leslie and I would have sex once or twice a week as well. Typically, in the late afternoon or early evening, with chores out of the way, we'd ask Maggie's leave for a ride out one of the several trails.

This area is very sparsely populated and not featured in any of the trail guides or hiking maps I've ever seen, so we could take a horse trail a certain distance, go off the trail a ways, and have total privacy. I have fond memories of getting my pussy licked on a big flat rock next to a rolling creek or of finger fucking Leslie in a lush meadow, the orange glow of twilight flooding the valley as the sun set.

One afternoon, Maggie took me aside and said that Cherish, Leslie's aunt, needed some extra hands a few days for apple picking. How would I like to help her out? I said I'd be glad to and asked if Leslie would be along as well. Maggie said, they needed someone here to help out as long as Seth couldn't pitch in and that Leslie would go, of course, but that she would stay behind if I wanted to go instead. Leslie had grown quite fond of the horses, so I wasn't totally surprised.

Actually, I was glad because I knew Cherish pretty much by reputation at that time. I had seen snapshots of her at the ranch and had talked to her on the radio once or twice (no phone service at the ranch), and had always wanted to meet her. This was in part because her name seemed so well deserved (she was obviously deeply loved and respected) and in part because from the photos, she seemed almost unearthly beautiful.

This was confirmed when she pulled up on an old pink Caddy convertible. I say old, but it was mint. It was from the years when Cadillacs had big fins in back. Maggie and Leslie ran out to greet her and Seth, who was on the porch, stood up creakily and waved. She waved back and blew him a kiss.

I had had to run into the house to grab some things and was the last to reach the car. Cherish had gotten up and was sitting on the back of the driver's seat and had one arm around Leslie as she talked to Maggie. When I got there, she grinned and said, "So this is the famous Jill!" I looked around and found a sheepish face on Leslie. I wondered what Cherish had been told about me. I was pretty sure it had little to do with the fact that we were fuck buddies!

She looked me up and down and said, "Well, you're every bit as cute as she and Maggie have said you were. Are you ready to go? I gotta haul ass to get back to the farm." I said I was and she said, "Well, toss your stuff into the back seat, tootsie. Let's go!"

I did as instructed, and walked around to the other side, sitting my butt on the passenger door, swinging my legs over into the car and dropping down into the passenger seat, which was a capacious bucket seat. The car had been retrofitted with seat belts, but there was a limit how snugly they could fit since the seat was deep and wide. So deep, in fact, that the lap belt barely touched my tummy and upper thighs.

Cherish is an aggressive driver and the ride down the ranch's road to the highway was an experience in itself. The road, not being very well finished in places, was handled gingerly by most drivers, especially those with a horse trailer in tow. The suspension on the old Caddy rattled but the ride was surprisingly smooth. Not even when careening back to the ranch the night I thought it might be on fire had I been driven on the road so fast. It was white knuckles all the way.

It wasn't until we got safely onto the main road and smooth pavement that a conversation started. This was also when I stopped white knuckling it and relaxed enough to really look at Cherish. I've seen many beautiful women, but Cherish is in that special class of women I've elsewhere described by a term a photographer used, which is "a woman so beautiful, she's painful to look at." If you've seen such a woman, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you have yet to see a true exemplar of goddesshood.

She fit right in with the car in a way. She was wearing 50's style capris made out of blue denim and a checkerboard print shirt she had gathered up and tied just below her boobs, which were quite ample and since I was still young and mine, only an A-cup even today, were even smaller then, intimidated me. My eyes were drawn to them repeatedly as we chit chatted. I tried to talk intelligently, but I found my eyes wandering back to them, wondering what they looked like and how they felt to the touch.

Cherish had short dark brown hair. Some women are made to wear short hair, and she is such a one. The style was anything but "boyish," and with her Chinese Red lipstick, she looked the part of a model from a Life magazine of the early 50's. Even her shoes, which were short heels with a square toe and a 2" wedge sole were reminiscent of a 50's beauty. Of course the one dissonant aspect was her hands, which, while slender, small, and feminine, were the hands of a woman who used her hands for real work. No polished and painted, claw-like nails, just hands the way Nature intended.

Once we were on the open road, Cherish really hit the gas and I glanced at the speedometer from time to time usually finding a speed somewhere in the 80-90 range. It was small talk with her asking most of the questions. How old was I? Was I going to college? What would I major in, and so on. That sort of thing. I did learn, however, that Maggie had apparently taught some continuing education courses in farm management during a period when she lived in Seattle, and that Cherish and she had buddied around quite a bit until Maggie met Seth and moved out to Seth's horse ranch. Cherish had come out to visit them a few times and when she received a surprisingly large inheritance from a beloved uncle, she had decided to look for farm properties in the general area in order to be near Maggie and Seth.

Out in the country, friendships and alliances are very important. When a barn burns down or a crop needs to be harvested before an early frost, neighbors drop everything to help, and while this was no actual emergency, Maggie and Seth could spare a hand and in doing so repaid a debt they owed her for watching things while they went on one of their rare vacations, which typically consisted of riding the trail to the lake and spending a few days out in the wilds fishing and probably fucking each other's brains out.

Cherish's orchard carpeted a small valley. Her farmhouse sat in almost the exact center of her farm. A bunch of migrant workers had pitched tents and parked trailers around her farmhouse. Forecasts predicted a rainy spell to arrive in three or four days, so now seemed a good time to get the crop picked, she told me.

She took me out into the orchard where the work was being done. Looking at the efficiency of the workers, I wondered how much help my inexperienced hands could possibly be. I had every intention of pitching in, but these people knew exactly what they were doing and worked very fast and very hard. The mystery was soon dispelled when she said, "You're not here to pick. You're going to be my righthand girl. You'll help when I run into to town for supplies, when I cook, and when I'm doing the chores. Out in the orchard, you'll help me supervise. Actually, you'll probably spend a good 50% or more of your time with me in the orchard.

Since you know I'm as into chicks as guys, you can imagine the heaven I was in. I had to wear a tampon to keep from making a big wet spot in my undies and jeans.

I soon found myself out in the orchard where Cherish explained, "These workers are mostly Mexican, but some are from Guatemala. They understand Spanish better than English, and even then for some of them Spanish is a second tongue. I understand you're half Hispanic. How is your Spanish?"

I laughed as I explained, "I'm half Hispanic, but not from Latin America. My heritage goes back directly to Spain, and even then several generations back. My Spanish is probably not much better than yours if you've been dealing with these workers for a few years. At home, we speak English exclusively. In school I'm studying French, actually. My French is better than my Spanish!"

She looked a wee bit frustrated, but said, "Well, perhaps two of me will be better than one of me. At least we can be in two different places at the same time."

And so, following her orders I made sure her directions were carried out, and it wasn't so hard. The key seemed to be to get several workers in front of me and between what one could understand that the others could not, plus some creative hand signals, more often than not I was able to get Cherish's meaning across.

I lived for those days when Cherish and I would go into town to do some shopping or banking, because I could hang back and look at her glorious ass and wondrous legs as she led me around.

As the days passed, I grew fond of several of the workers. Pedro and Juan were my faves, because of their indomitably positive attitude and sense of humor. Pedro was I'd guess about 19. Small in stature, he had a bright face. Obviously intelligent, he was eager to excel and make a good impression. I think he wanted to become a foreman. His teeth were big and a little crooked, but they were as white as could be. Juan was a chubby middle-aged man and probably the most expert picker and sorter of the bunch. Like Pedro, he was always ready to laugh, and no matter how much he laughed, it never slowed down the pace of his work.

Most of the other workers paid little attention to me except to stare from time to time. Unlike Cherish, who always seemed to be dressed to kill no matter how casual her clothes, my own clothes were somewhat baggy and drab, but as any woman knows, a nubile teen who's fit and healthy is attractive to most men. It's Mother Nature's plan even if the feminists and ultra-Christians think a man should lust after women his own age. You can't fight the genetic imperatives of millions of years with a belief or policy.

One day, I was in the barn at the end of the day putting some tools away and counting some crates. Cherish had gone inside to take a bath. Suddenly, I felt myself grabbed from behind and a big hand clamped over my mouth. "You yell I kill!" said a gruff voice into my ear. "Oh, fuck!" I thought. "I'm going to be raped!"

I had recently seen a TV show taught by a famous cop. It was how to survive a rape or abduction, and one thing he said made an impression on me: "Whatever he wants you to do, do the opposite or do something else. Why? Because if you cooperate, you're helping him carry out his plan. If he tells you to get into his car, fight getting into the car tooth and nail. If he tells you to be quiet, yell at the top of your lungs. If he tells you not to move, run like crazy!"

I tried to yell, but he was ready and my yell became a brief loud yelp as he turned me around and backhanded my face. I didn't pass out, but was dazed. I was laying on the ground and finally saw who my attacker was. It was a large man we had just hired that day. Cherish had commented that he would be let go because he spent too much time looking around and not enough working.

I could taste blood in my mouth and before I knew it he was on top of me. He worked my forearms behind my back, and between my weight and his, my upper body was immobilized. He was between my legs by then, so kicking would have been useless, and he wasn't going to come in for a kiss, I could see that, so biting was of no avail. He grasped a fistfull of my hair with one hand while the other undid my jeans. I felt his rough hand reach in and soon one of his thick fingers was pressing into my vagina.

I was prepared for the inevitable. I had turned my head so that I didn't have to look at this monster while he took me and so that he couldn't take any pleasure from the tears which were welling in my eyes. Somehow, by then, he had worked my jeans and undies down to my ankles and got his cock out. I let out another yelp and he punched me in the side of the head, telling me "No yelling, bitch!"

Just as I felt the tip of his cock pushing against my vagina, there was a loud, tinny sound and he fell off me, freeing my arms. As he got up, I pulled my jeans up. It was little Pedro who had heard one of my cries and had come to investigate. Half the other man's size, it appeared he was about to die. My attacker spoke Spanish so quickly I couldn't catch even one word. Clearly it was a threat, but little Pedro stood his ground.

Pedro replied equally rapidly in a string of words so quickly dispatched, wrapped in a Mexican dialect, and I'm sure so full of colloquialisms that all I caught was his reference to the other man as "Manuel."

Manuel was all over Pedro in a flash, grasping him by the throat and taking him to the floor of the barn. What could I do? Then I remembered that Pedro had hit Manuel with something. Looking around, I couldn't see it at first because it had fallen into a shadow. It was a shovel. I was about to delivery a huge whack on the man's head when the shovel was grabbed away from me.

It was Juan, who was able to get across "We will take care of this." He barked out Manuel's name so loud my ears rang. Manuel's head swung around and his manner changed. It was then I noticed that Juan wasn't alone. A half dozen of the other male workers were behind him. Pedro took his chance, extricated himself from Manuel's grip, and quickly scampered behind the band of men.

In an instant, the men were on Manuel, beating and kicking him furiously, and would have killed him had Cherish not arrived, hair wet and in a robe, a shotgun in hand. She discharged a shot into the air outside the door of the barn. This stopped all activity instantly.

"What the fuck is going on here?" she asked. I quickly gave her the rundown, that Manuel, the new guy, had attempted to rape me and that Pedro had stopped him, and that Manuel had attacked Pedro, and might have killed him, but then Juan and the other guys came along. Once she comprehended the situation she pulled me close and asked me if I was okay. She tactfully asked how far Manuel had got, and I explained that Pedro had come along just in time.

At this point, she understood well enough. Handing the shotgun to Juan she managed to convey something like "Shoot him if he tries to run." She took me to the house with her and she called the Sheriff's department. A pair of deputies came out, took Manuel into custody and took a statement from me. It even turned out that I didn't have to testify because Pedro, Juan, and the others had testified to what they had seen, and their independent testimony was damning enough. Pedro would testify to the attempted rape and the others would testify to Manuel's assault on Pedro.

After the police left, Pedro and Juan came into the kitchen to see how I was doing. I gave them both a big kiss on the cheek and a hug. They returned the hugs a bit gingerly and smiled broadly. They explained that they knew Manuel to be a baddy, so when they saw him head toward the barn, Pedro had told them he was going to see what Manuel was up to, and when he didn't come right back, that's when Juan and several of the others had decided to investigate themselves.

Cherish decided to take me and all the workers who had come to my aid out to dinner at a local bar and steakhouse. Cherish let me drink even though I was underage, and since I was relatively new to alcohol, between the two or three rum and cokes I drank and her attentions I gradually calmed down considerably and actually slept in the car on the way back.

When we got back to the farm, the workers went their way and Cherish and I sat down on the couch where for the past few evenings we had settled in for two or three hours of TV before going to bed.

We chatted a while and Cherish asked me some friendly questions about my family and life back in Ohio. After a while she said a few things that didn't make sense, about my mother's first baby. After a few such puzzling references, I finally told Cherish that I was my mother's oldest.

She looked at me blankly and said, "Oh, shit. You don't know. Fuck ME!"

Maybe her tongue was loosened by alcohol or maybe she had no idea she had let a cat out of the bag until it was too late, but at that point there was obviously no going back. I learned, and from a relative stranger no less, that my mother had had a baby girl who died shortly after birth. Obviously, she had heard this from my Aunt Maggie who probably should have told her never to breathe a word of it to me, or maybe she had been sworn to secrecy but long enough ago to have forgotten. Whatever the truth there, suddenly and irrevocably my image of my mother changed.

This new fact explained so much about why my mother was so fearful for the safety of me and my brother. It explained a certain sadness which I could never put a finger on, because it certainly had nothing to do with her marriage. Nowhere is there a truer or stronger love than that between my mom and dad. It also explained my father's devotion to her and why he had ultimately abandoned his career as a touring musician for music-related work that allowed him to be in town most of the time, with the sad-eyed girl of his dreams.

I learned one more startling and weird fact: the baby who had died was also named Jill. Did that make me Jill, Jr.? I wanted so much to know more, to know the whole story, but I knew I could not talk to my mom about it, or I'd get Aunt Maggie—and through her the truly innocent Cherish—into trouble. I didn't even want to talk to Aunt Maggie for fear of gettng Cherish into trouble. The only person I knew I could talk to about it was my dad.

I know another woman who lost a child and would talk to me about it. She recounted a relative who had been so insensitive to try to assuage her grief with a statement like, "What's the big deal? You can always have another one!" What she told me is that even before it's born, a mother forms a bond with her baby and to her it's her child even if she's never seen it as more than a vague shape in a sonogram. If the grief over a child a mother never even got to know is tremendous, imagine losing a child one has borne been bonding with for a few weeks or months.

Clearly, Cherish wanted a change of subject, so I asked her about her very unusual name. She laughed and explained that her mom was a child of the sixties and that her mom and dad counted the song Cherish as their song. It had even been played as their wedding dance at their wedding reception. I told her I wasn't familiar with the tune, so she sang a bar or two: "Cherish is a word I use to describe..." which is where I stopped her because the tune is so corny. We both had a good laugh over this.

I was allowed to sleep in the next morning as I discovered when I woke up at 10 a.m., a full three and a half hours later than I had been getting up. I bathed and dressed and primped myself a bit, grabbed a quick peanut butter toast and OJ and wandered out to find Cherish in the orchard. All I had to do was follow the vague sound of the workers as they laughed, for they invariably talked and joked as they worked, and I knew Cherish would be with them.

When I arrived on the scene all work stopped and a circle formed around me, all the workers concerned that I was okay and probably also concerned that I not hold it against them, my attacker having also been a Mexican worker. Truly, I had not. I'd felt nothing but friendship from all the other workers and when Manuel had arrived, I sensed that they really felt no love for him. The had sensed early on that he was a bad apple.

I gathered Pedro and Juan to me and gave them another big hug. Then I said, "Okay, let's get back to work!" I didn't want any more attention.

After the guys had started picking again, Cherish said, "I'm going into town about 12:30 to do some banking and shopping. Want to tag along?" I said sure and so in a couple hours we hopped into the Caddy and headed out toward the nearby town.

To my surprise, when we got to town she said, "I can do this on my own. How would you like a nice pair of western boots?" She knew I had admired the boots she and many of the Mexicans wore, some of them made of snake or lizard skin, some of them made of horse or cow hide with intricate patterns tooled into them. She told me to go to the Western store four or five blocks down and that she'd be along presently.

The shop wasn't hard to find since the large vertical sign consisted of a lanky cowpoke in a prototypical cowboy hat holding a coil of rope.

Larry's Duds & Tack hit me with a heavy smell of tanned leather as I walked through the door. A plethora of leather cowboy hats, boots, belts and saddlery explained the aroma, but there were also rack and shelves full of jeans, western shirts, and socks.

The biggest surprise, though, was when a young salesman approached me in full Western dress, attired in tight-fitting jeans, a two-toned western shirt cinched at the collar by a string tie, and a well-worn cowboy hat folded up on the sides Roy Rogers style. The only off note was that he was, well, black. Very black. Miles Davis black. Not Ice Cube black, and certainly not Lionel Richie black.

He sensed my surprise and laughed. "There were many black cowboys. To get away from slavery and, later, the turmoil of the civil war, and to take advantage of better opportunities than were to be had in the East, many of us took work out west.

I confessed, "I didn't know. Excuse me." He chuckled and said, "Don't worry about it: It's a good conversation starter for me. What can I do for you?"

I explained that my friend Cherish had offered to buy me a pair of boots and that I was there to find some I liked. He took off his hat and left it at the front counter. Walking me halfway back to the shoes and boots area, he guided me through my choices. Some of the boots were astonishingly gorgeous, and were priced accordingly. I saw many pairs of boots well into the hundreds and even a few over $1000. Sensing that I would never saddle Cherish with that sort of purchase even if she were willing to make it, he then showed me what I could get for $150 or less. The most basic options were a good $75 or more and the $75-$150 range seemed a good range to work within.

I learned that the boy's name was Bill and that he was the son of Larry, the owner, who had been a real cowboy in his youth, had gone into business with a couple friends, and had eventually bought out his partners to be the full owner. Bill was 17, had just graduated from the local high school with honors, and would be taking a pre-law program in Oregon in a couple months.

He was smart and fascinated to learn that my father was a jazz musician and that I had actually met, as a child, many of the jazz musicians he admired. This led to a long and spirited talk about music as I tried on a myriad of different boots.

At one point I heard a familiar voice say, "Hi, Bill. How're we doing?" It was Cherish, who obviously knew Bill quite well. We showed her the options and she told me what she thought of each. Finally I settled on a two-tone pair with some nice tooling and a bit taller heel than most. They were $125 and she told Bill to wrap 'em up.

At the checkout stand she said to Bill, "Why not join us for dinner after closing? My treat." He said he'd be happy to. So we agreed to meet him at The Pizza Barn. We killed the rest of the afternoon by window shopping and going to see a movie at a theater that ran only one movie at a time. It was a James Bond movie that was already out on video it was so old.

There are two kinds of food you generally can't find properly-executed in country towns, and I had learned this the hard way. If you're used to the kind of Chinese food you get in a good big city restaurant, forget it in a little town. If they were good Chinese cooks, they'd never get stuck in a tiny little town. If there's any Chinese at all, it's the old fashioned non-spicy kind, and there's a pretty good chance they have "chop suey" on the menu, which is a pseudo-Chinese American invention. No Szechuan or Hunan cuisine. In the rare instance they have "kung pao chicken" on the menu, it's probably mostly celery and water chestnuts.

The other kind is Italian. And I'm not talking about that Northern Italian crap, which my dad always says is actually Swiss food, because of its Tyrolean influence. I mean the stick-to-yer-ribs pasta with tomato sauce. It's invariably served with so-called "marinara sauce," which is the most basic sauce of all: just tomato paste, water, salt, and minimal spicing. I grew up where we could go into Cleveland for some great pasta in any of the numerous Italian places in the Murray Hill area, Cleveland's Little Italy. There I've had many fantastic Italian meals with rich, complex tomato sauces that were obviously hours and hours old, not a few minutes like a marinara.

Thai or Indian cuisine? Don't even think about it! Oh, and you can forget about French food as well.

The one exception as far as Italian food goes is pizza. You'll often get great pizza in little towns. Now, it's true that pizza in the U.S. isn't the same as pizza in Italy, where it's just a way to use leftover bread dough. American pizza is a production and pretty much an American invention, but I do believe it was invented by Italian Americans, and certainly I've had my best pizzas in Mama Santa's in the Murray Hill area.

Even so, The Pizza Barn made us a pair of very good pizzas. One with pepperoni and mushrooms and one with Italian sausage plus onions, green peppers, and black olives. There were no yuppy items on this menu: No barbecue chicken pizza and certainly no tofu pizza (yecchhhh!).

It was one of the most enjoyable dinners ever what with good food and great conversation. Actually, it was Cherish who held sway most of the time with tales from her travels in Latin America and Europe. One fact she amazed Bill and me with was that she had spent a few days exploring the Copper Canyon in Mexico, which is considerably bigger and even a bit deeper than The Grand Canyon. Bill and I were skeptical, but later on I checked and she's right, so now it's on my list of things I need to see before I die.

Dinner was winding up and Bill said, "Hey, I don't suppose you gals would like to go dancing?" Cherish spoke up saying, "I know you know I would love to, but I've been away from the farm far too long today already." She looked at me and said, "If you'll see she gets home, I think Jill might like to do some dancing." I was surprised, but said "Yeah."

Bill and I saw her back to her car. She took off, exceeding the speed limit almost instantly, and then Bill told me to come with him. He had a big old Ford sedan, a refugee from the 60's. We drove on out of town pretty much on Cherish's heels, except that we passed the turnoff to her farm and drove another 3 or 4 miles to the next small town where we parked near the local Grange Hall. We went in and it was then that I discovered that they weren't doing the kind of dancing I had been thinking about. They were doing line dancing to a country and western band.

Now, I'm not a big fan of country music. I don't dislike it intensely or anything. It's just that I find jazz much more complex and I like a rock beat better than a country beat. Rock guitarists have become so good they can be compared to the best jazz guitarists in terms of physical technique if not harmonic sophistication. A Joe Satriani or Steve Vai plays as dexterously and knows his way around his instrument as well as any jazz guitarist. But country music has progressed as well, and much the same might be said about top country pickers like Albert Lee or Vince Gill.

I've often noted the difference between rock chicks and country music chicks, how the rock chicks look so wasted and repulsive while the country chicks look so healthy and beautiful. Courtney Love vs. Shania Twain...need I say more? Well, the country girls in this Grange Hall all hot and healthy in that Shania Twain way.

Bill was obviously well-known here because a number of people waved to him and a number of guys came over to be introduced to me. Bill wasn't possessive and didn't act like he owned me, so I danced with a number of guys, all of them treating me well. I had lots of fun learning how to do their dances, and when the first band left to be replaced by a Mexican group, the fun was kicked up a notch or two. I've later learned that what they were playing is called "conjunto music." "Conjunto" means "border," and the music hails from the Tex-Mex borderland. It's a mix of Mexican pop and folk, American country and western, and (believe it or don't) German/Polish polka music. In fact, when I first heard it, I thought they were playing polka music due to the polka beat and the instrumentation of accordion, guitar, base and drum, which is exactly the instrumentation I'd observed being used in any number of Cleveland area polka bands.

When the last dance was announced, and after having been passed around among the guys many times, I sought out Bill and told him, "I saved the last dance for you."

Naturally, it was a slow tune. Hank Williams' plaintive "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." He held me close and I rested my head on his shoulder. He was in good shape with a classic hard body. I could literally feel his muscles moving under his skin even as we danced.

When it was over, I kissed his cheek and said, "I'd better get home."

He drove me back and took the turnoff to the farm, which took us through about a quarter mile of orchard. About halfway through I had him pull off to the side. I liked this guy a lot, and I wanted to let him know.

I think he understood why we were stopping because after a quick look at me, he moved over and started kissing me. I pushed him back and apologized. "Sorry, I was nearly raped yesterday. You're doing what I want you to do, I just need you to take it more slowly."

He said he was sorry and asked me a few questions, so I told him the story in nutshell. I then inched a little closer to him and took the initiative myself. He quite rightly sensed that I needed to feel in control and, as unaccustomed as I'm sure it was to him, he's the one who played the passive role.

At first it was hard to keep Manuel out of my mind, but Bill's soft and soothing voice, as he sighed and oohed and ahhed, calmed me considerably. Before I knew it I was kissing his dick not his lips.

All memories of my experience with Manuel evaporated for the next hour or so, and I know I can remember every single thing we did because I often replay them in my head when I need a really vivid masturbation fantasy. He had a great cock, as hard as could be and it leaned just a bit to the left. What finally brought me to orgasm, as I recall, was when he had me bent over a fender, feet slightly apart. I felt his dick behind me, in seek mode, looking for the vaginal opening. I stopped him momentarily by turning my hips. I lasciviously wetted my first two fingers and made sure he watched as I stuck them in my ass. At this stage of the game I new that guys liked anal fucking. What I didn't know yet was how much I could enjoy it.

I soon found out, though, and even though I was giving him my ass as a gift, after a few minutes, when I really thought about the fact that I was being fucked in my shithole, I felt so incredibly and wonderfully feral and dirty. After a few minutes, I realized he'd be coming soon, so I pushed him out of me, got onto my knees in front of him and proceeded to jack him off.

When he started ejaculating, I directed his sperm onto my cheek and lips, making sure to keep my mouth open, for by then I had come to like the slightly salty taste of sperm. And when he stopped squirting, I used his half-flaccid cock to wipe the jizz all over my cheeks. He helped me up and then, bless him, he kissed me, jizzy mouth and all. He kissed me deep and hard, too, and then held me tight to calm me down.

The chill of the night started setting in and so we both got dressed again. By chance, we had parked close to one of the intermittent water spigots to be found in the orchard. Bill found a fairly clean rag and took me to the spigot where after wetting the rag he wiped off my cheeks, as you might wipe the baby food off the cheeks of a one year old. And he looked at me like one might look at a baby, too. I felt cared for and protected.

The horror of the assault was dissipating quickly, and largely due to Bill's gentle and respectful way of loving me.

The house was dark when Bill dropped me off, but Cherish had been watching for me (and probably worrying, as adults do about youngsters in their charge). Bill got out and opened the door for me, which was an opportunity for one more kiss, and he took it. He said he'd like to see me again, and I told him of course he could. Back in the car, he drove off and I stood watching until not even the red glow of his taillights were in sight.

When I came in, I found Cherish on the other side of the door in her by now familiar robe. Even in the dim light I could tell she had a grin on her face. "You were watching us!" I said in mock horror. She laughed and said, "I guess you had a good time." "A very good time" was my reply. I gave her a big hug and said "Thank you." I'm not even sure I could put in words what to thank her for, but she had played a big role in my quick rehabilitation. She didn't even say "You're welcome," for she probably didn't even do what she did intentionally, but just by being who she was.

She did, however, hug me hard in return, and stroked my hair before sending me off to bed.

The expected rain never came. I stayed on a couple more days until the harvest was done, and Cherish drove me back to Seth and Maggie's ranch. I found Seth had improved quite a bit while I was gone and had started helping out with the chores, though he still needed some rest breaks. I can tell you, however, that eventually his recovery was complete and Maggie had her Marlboro man back.

Leslie and I continued our after chores rides and when the end of summer came, it was hard for both of us. I hear from her from time to time, and she sounds happy. She's going to become a veterinarian and already has a job assisting in a pet clinic in Chicago.

When I got home at the end of summer, I pressed my father to tell me about my dead sister, but it turns out here's little to tell. My mother came to term and the baby died shortly after birth due to a congenital heart defect. Shortly after experiencing the joy of having a baby, she awoke one morning to find her baby had died in the night. There was a post mortem which is where the congenital problem was found. And while my mom was of course absolved legally, according to my father she has always been bothered by what ifs, especially what if they had kept the baby in the same room as them or what if she had gone in to check on her. He said it was her decision to give me the same name as the child they had lost. He told me not to try to get my mom to talk about it, it's still painful after all these years, and it's something she's never been able to really come to terms with.

I told my dad that I was glad I knew, because it did explain why she worried so much about me and my brother to a degree I almost resented. I could resent it no more. I also told him how much I respected him for his decision give up his life as a touring musician in order to be with her more. He said he appreciated the sentiment, but I could see the topic made him wistful. He was probably thinking about the life he might have had as a well-known musician, had he pursued it. I know he'd been invited to tour many times, but had always declined. My mom got one of the good ones for a partner. One of the best.

Some stories end with a bang. This one ends with whimper. Or perhaps more of a sob. I found out a while ago that Bill, who had moved to Atlanta for an internship at one of the city's top law firms, was shot in an incident with racial overtones. Apparently some rednecks saw him as an "uppity nigga" and shot him dead as they drove by. It was late at night and while there were two witnesses close enough to hear the racial slur, they were too far away to get a license plate number or even much of a description of the car. Somebody got away with murder.

He had been married a few months prior, and I learned at his funeral that he had left behind a pregnant widow.

It's a shame: he would have made a wonderful father. Which makes me think about his own father, who had raised a bright, standup guy. A guy with a real future, who would have been a great husband and father, whose life had been snuffed out by some no-account white numbnuts.

You know, sometimes life just fucking sucks, but whenever Manuel's assault and Bill's fate pop into my mind and I start to get depressed, I think of Pedro and Juan and Cherish, and of course Maggie and Seth, and of course my father and mother to remind myself that overall I've been blessed.

I have gotten a couple Dear Jills, and one of them will end up being a sound clip sometime relatively soon. This one is far too long to deal with that way, so I'll just put it up for you to read. I hope you enjoy her story and, girls, I hope you take it to heart:

Hi Jill:

A friend of mine introduced me to your site over a year ago, and I have to admit—it is one of my favorite sites to go and read of your adventures. Before I discovered your site, I was in this horrifyingly sexless marriage where I only kept sane through masturbation (my daughter, who is now 23, gave me a vibrator for my 40th birthday—great kid!). I had always been curious about anal sex, but had no intention of going there with my now ex-husband.

So—long story short—during the course of the divorce 2 years ago, I ran into an old friend who I had not seen in 23 years (who I am actually marrying this coming March, and we were from Los Angeles, so running into each other 23 years later in Golden, Colorado was a real stretch) who prides himself on being an assman. I would have never even wanted to try to go the anal route with anyone else—now he can't keep his dick out of my ass, I love it so much. Also—anilingus—he loves to do it—I even have mastered doing it to him as well. Actually, I think that since we started fucking several months ago, we have discovered more positions than the Kama Sutra knew existed.

We have barely slowed down—still fucking numerous times a day. When we are not fucking, his face is planted securely between my legs—what can I say—the man has a magic tongue as well! (I tease him—telling him that any lesbian who enjoyed ten minutes with that tongue would be turned hetero for life.) A few weeks into the sexual part of the relationship, he brought in a bi-sexual friend of his so that I could have my pussy licked by another woman—and of course my licking hers, catering to my bisexual side—which had not been activated in many years...I really do like women too.

I really did find my perfect mate, who says that whenever I need a woman (although with his skills, I really don't any more), that it will be there for me...as long as he can watch and perhaps participate if the feeling is right...it wasn't the first time, he waited until she left before we literally fucked for close to two hours straight, after masturbating as he watched us girls pleasure each other.

So—I just wanted to say thank you for helping me get my curiosity up in the anal area. I never ever knew that anal could be so much fun. And since starting up with Duane, I had never imagined a more fulfilling sex life. In the course of this relationship, we have discovered that we are both multiple orgasmic—which gives you some idea of how much fun we have.

I have also discovered that I am a squirter—which, until your site, I never knew existed either. So—I guess you can give yourself kudos here...in so many ways! Actually, I felt better about myself and my own feelings after reading of your adventures. What can I say—now that I am out of a sexless marriage, and with someone who truly keeps me satisfied, I have truly become nympho as well...and what fun that is (as you well know).

Keep those awesome stories coming—I love them!

Marie

Kelsey and I went to a dance club after watching a play. There we met up with some writer friends I knew Kelsey would enjoy: Barry, a guy who's written a couple critically successful novels under a pen name; Sarah, a woman better known for her travel guides than for fiction; and Terri, a talented erotica writer with a penchant for stories about dominance and submission, bondage, and similar themes. Kelsey suggested that with all these writers around, it might be interesting to see a plot take shape. This sounded like fun, so we voted on a basic theme and took turns suggesting elaborations and wrinkles and turns the story might take until we had a plot pretty well fleshed out. While how the plot took shape would make a good story in itself, the three other writers told me, the junior writer in the coven, to see what I could do with the outline. This is what I've been working on the past four weeks or so. A reminder: I'm not in this story. So don't keep wondering when I'm going to appear. I won't.

Mommy drank and slept a lot and seldom paid any attention to Ariela at all, but Daddy was different. He was nice. He used to say, "Ariela, get me some coffee" or "Ariela, get me my pipe," and when she did, Daddy would hug her or pat her and say, "Good girl." And sometimes he'd hug her so tight she couldn't move.

Ariela still thinks a lot about Daddy.

When she grew up, Ariela found a job ideally suited to a smart girl with the kind of body that could bring a major construction project to a sudden, grinding halt. She promoted ethical pharmaceuticals to medical doctors—a career for which the greatest asset was a firm round bottom under a tight skirt, of which she had one of the former and many of the latter. That she also had an ample bust and a pair of long, shapely legs displayed by the shortest skirt business decorum would allow certainly placed her at no substantial disadvantage.

More than one sale had been clinched by sitting on the doctor's desk, giving him an uninterrupted view well up her inner thighs past the tops of her thigh-highs and far into the warm and humid darkness beyond.

Ariela made a lot of money.

To say that Ariela was an attractive woman would've been a ludicrous understatement. Women complained about her, yet most of them would also have eaten their young to look even vaguely as sexy. She was somewhere between a goddess and a wet dream.

Despite all that, Ariela wasn't entirely happy. She had an idea that something was missing from her life, but not a clue what it was. Romance? Adventure? No. She couldn't really put her finger on it. She'd date a guy, and things would be okay for a while, but then she'd reach a point where she couldn't stand him any longer. She didn't exactly know why.

Then, along came Ian.

Ariela dated Ian three times before having sex with him, but the fourth time—after attending a performance artist's show—she accepted Ian's invitation to return to his place for a nightcap.

The place bore every sign of the well-educated man: tasteful, bold contemporary art on the walls; hundreds of oversize art books on the shelves; potted plants with broad, sensual leaves; a huge, refrigerated walk-in wine cellar; and a kitchen with every imaginable kind of appliance and gadget—all of the highest quality.

After going to the kitchen together, Ariela helped Ian by preparing a cheese plate while he halved a baguette lengthwise and cut it into four-inch lengths. They then retired to his study, where he put on soft saxophone jazz and turned the lights way down low.

They talked as they snacked, and as she gradually succumbed to the spell of the wine and music, she found herself relaxing and submitting to his touches, which gradually became more frequent, familiar, and lingering.

Before she knew it, they both half-turned into an embrace that became a kiss. She could feel her feminine dampness increasing as his caresses moved from her arms and shoulders to her neck, thighs, and breasts.

She pushed him away gently and looked into his eyes. He looked into hers as well, and it seemed to her that he could see her very soul. He understood her somehow. He seemed to understand things about her that she didn't even understand herself. At the same time, he was almost unconsciously unbuttoning her blouse and exposing her firm breasts.

Meanwhile, her hand searched for and found his cock, which seemed to be straining for release. She freed it, and he slid forward on the couch so that his cock stood straight up like a fleshy post. She looked at it: It looked clean and streamlined and hard and incredibly beautiful. She was salivating.

"Suck it," he ordered gruffly.

No man had ever given ordered Ariela to perform a sexual act before—and certainly never so coarsely—so part of her rebelled at this behavior. But at the same time the idea of doing Ian's bidding and submitting to him was titillating. He's playing a game, she thought. Just this once I'll play along. Just this once, I'll do his bidding. Soon, her head was moving up and down on his cock, which she could feel stiffen now and again.

After two or three minutes, he silently filled her mouth. Ariela had sucked cock before, but had never had a load in her mouth. Indeed, the thought had always sickened her somewhat. But now that it had happened, she felt, in a way, baptized, and knew she would do it again.

It was the very next week after a gallery opening that Ariela first heard about The Club. She and Ian were walking through the "cultural sink"—the part of town that contained the topless bars, the bums, the homeless and dispossessed, when Ian first mentioned a place he said he went to almost every Friday.

"What's it called?"

"It has no real name. Just 'The Club.'"

"Where is it?"

"Always a different place. It's open only on Friday evenings. The Club rents an empty hall or warehouse or storefront for a week and spends several days setting up the stage and the bar and the seating, and..."

"The stage? Why? Is there a band or something?"

"No, but there's entertainment."

"What kind of entertainment?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"The only way to find out is to go." With this, Ian stopped in front of a shop with the imaginative name, Adult Books. It had a sign on the door that said, "No one under 18 admitted—ID required—no exceptions."

Ariela stopped dead. Never in her life had she thought of entering one of these places, although she'd always been curious about what was inside. It had always seemed wrong to her that they were a kind of unspoken male dominion.

He looked at her and asked, "Want to go inside?"

It was like Ian he could read her mind. "Sure," half so as not to seem a fraidy-cat and half out of almost irresistible curiosity.

Inside, the cashier did a slight double-take as he realized Ian was accompanied by a woman. Obviously, women were a rarity. The lighting was low, except for the walls where strip lighting was trained on the walls to illuminate magazines enclosed in clear plastic wrappers.

The covers were so starkly graphic that there was no doubt at all about the content. Almost every one seemed to specialize, too. They had almost unbelievably shocking names like, Girls Who Lick Assholes, Two Cocks in One Cunt, Anal Invasion, Teenage Pussy Pals, and Twink Twin Incest.

Ariela had always been aware of fetishes, but here were fetishes she could hardly believe existed had she not seen the magazines devoted to them. One was devoted entirely to pregnant women, another to lactating women, one to feet, and another to boy-girls with both penises and breasts (and sometimes with vaginas as well).

"Pick one out," said Ian. "I'll buy it for you."

Ariela looked at him. It was a kind of dare. By implication, he was also interested in finding out what interested her, which was exciting in itself. "Okay," she said. Would she buy something she could really masturbate to, or something based on what she wanted Ian to think she liked? She decided to go with the flow and look for something that excited her.

At last, she found one that showed a very fit older man dressed entirely in tight-fitting patent leather except for his eyes, his strangely scarred mouth, and his crotch, where a very large, stiff cock framed by white pubic hair stood at full attention. He stood, arms crossed, over a lovely, totally naked young woman about Ariela's age, who was tied up in a very torturous position with every detail of her cunt's external features on full display. Smaller pictures in the corners of the cover showed him fucking her, receiving fellatio from her, fucking her anally, and finally with a creamy load of cum streaming out of her asshole.

"I'll take this one," she said. Noting the price with disbelief, she exclaimed, "$30!?"

Ian said, "Price is no object. In fact, take another one. I want to see what turns you on." So, for what she justified to herself as artistic reasons, she picked up a magazine devoted to extreme bondage, explaining to Ian that she found the knots interesting.

Ian took the magazines to the counter, and although the cashier wrote something down, he didn't appear to ask for payment. Ariela wanted to ask him about this, but before she could, Ian said, "Follow me." She followed him down a long hall that had a row of doors on each side. One door was open and Ian walked in with Ariela right behind. It took her a moment to adjust to the low light, especially after Ian closed the door. She heard several coins drop into a machine and a TV screen flashed on, showing an attractive young couple having sex.

Ian took Ariela in his arms and they kissed with immediate passion as his hands explored her breasts and buttocks through the sheer fabric of her dress. At first, she just submitted to his attentions, but then her hands found and massaged his cock to firmness. Then, he bent over slightly and found her knee, his hand rising slowly till it rested on her mons. She thrust her pelvis forward and moved her pussy to the slow rhythm his hand had assumed.

Next, Ian let his hand slide under her panties, which he eased down till they were halfway down her thighs. "Turn around and bend over," he said, adding, "I want to fuck you."

Once again, Ariela obeyed an order from Ian, leaning onto the back of a wooden chair and watching the movie as Ian slid into her and then moved in and out—at first slowly, but then with increasing force and speed. His hands gripped her hip bones as the energy of his thrusts increased, bringing her to a quicker orgasm than she'd ever known before. She had a nearly irresistible impulse to cry out, which she somehow managed to stifle.

At last, as she bit her lip, she felt him pull out suddenly and deliver a splash of semen into the crack of her ass. She could feel his fist moving over his cock, squeezing the last of it out.

As they walked back to Ian's car, he was silent and Ariela was just taking in the odd sensation of her now very well-lubricated buttocks rubbing against each other. She also felt a lingering tingly sensation in her pelvis and thighs.

Ian remained quiet has he drove her home. Not that he seemed to be shunning her, for he seemed quite satisfied. Strangely, so did she. When she got out of the car at her apartment, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, "Next Friday we'll go to The Club, okay?"

"Sure."

It was on the way up the walk to her apartment's door that she realized she probably had a fairly substantial wet spot on her dress. Luckily, it was late by then, so no one saw.

Ariela obsessed more and more as each day went by without hearing from Ian. She was wondering if he'd forgotten her, wondering if he had someone else, wondering if he'd remember the date to go to The Club.

To relieve the pressure of waiting, she began to look at the pornography Ian had bought her. As with most women, visual stimulation didn't normally arouse her very much, with sex much more in the imagination than made objective in a picture. But she found these pictures so graphic and extreme in their content that she was fascinated. They stimulated her imagination to a degree she'd never known before. She kept retrieving the book, staring at a stimulating photo, only to put it away again. She would even open it to a particularly shocking page and look at it while she prepared dinner or folded laundry.

Before sleeping, she would take the magazine with her to bed, prop it up on a pillow next to her head, and masturbate. There was a silly little story in the book in which the man in leather was referred to as Herr Becker. The lover/victim of the piece was named Trudy. It began, "Herr Becker had discovered Trudy being a very bad girl. He had caught her pleasuring herself, despite her solemn promise to devote her sex life to him and him alone. Therefor, Herr Becker had two groundsmen tie Trudy up to receive her just deserts...."

The improbable story hardly mattered. It was the pictures that the book was really about. The girl Trudy was immobilized in a different position in each photo, and in most of the photos she was receiving Herr Becker's cock into one orifice or another. In some, in her mouth; in others, in her vagina; in others still, buried up to his balls in her rectum. In three of the pictures, Becker took release on her. There was one that showed a mass of semen on Trudy's back after anal sex, one that showed semen splashed on her belly and breasts after vaginal sex, and one that showed semen spilling out of her cock-filled mouth and down her cheek. This was the one that Ariela usually used when she had decided to end her misery with an orgasm.

Just as she'd feared, Ian didn't call Ariela until late Friday afternoon. While she was somewhat mad at him for waiting so long to call, she also knew that she could just as easily have called him.

When he picked her up at the appointed time, he was in one of his quiet moods, so after a while she took the initiative and talked. Despite her pleas, he continued to refuse to describe the upcoming entertainment.

They arrived at a dingy warehouse down by the river. It was surrounded by a tall cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. A pair of supersteroidal bouncers were manning the gate.

Ian got waved through without having to stop to identify himself. They knew him. Obviously, he was a regular.

More goons stood at the door, though they too waved Ian and Ariela through.

On entering, Ian took Ariela's coat and headed off to hang it up for her. It took a few seconds for Ariela's eyes to become accustomed to the low light, but when they did, she began to see other people standing in small groups of three, four, or more.

"Follow me," said Ian as he returned.

Ariela soon found herself at a bar. A big, handsome black man with an eyepatch stood behind the bar looking expectantly at her. "What will it be?" he finally asked.

"White wine," she replied.

He still looked at her expectantly.

At last, Ian said, "What white wine, Ariela? This is no cheap restaurant with a house white. Would you like a real Chablis? A real Sauternes? Maybe you'd like a German Spätlese?

"Our Vaudesir Chablis is a Grand Cru from a very good year," said the bartender. "I always get complements on it. How about that one?"

"Fine. Sounds okay to me," said Ariela, suddenly feeling a little stupid.

After she took it Ian said, "Savor it, that glass of wine is worth about $40."

She looked at him in shock, but he just smiled.

"Who pays for it?" she asked. "Is there a membership fee?"

"No. I'll tell you how it's paid for some other time. Right now, I can't. I'm not allowed to by The Club's rules. You have to undergo a kind of initiation first."

"Initiation? What kind?" asked Ariela.

Ian just shook his head. Again, he was secretive.

They wandered from group to group, spending a few minutes with each. All of the members were upright citizens—lawyers, accountants, professors, corporate managers. The members' guests were equally bright, too. Ariela sensed that most of the other guests were old hands, much like those Ian identified as members. As far as she could tell, she was the only neophyte.

She also felt that she had seen most of the people somewhere before, but she couldn't remember where.

Ariela was thinking that the wine she was drinking was pretty heady stuff when a soothing voice that seemed to come from everywhere said, "We're ready to begin tonight's program. Please be seated."

Ian took Ariela to a seat at one end of the second row. The pair of seats were apparently reserved for him, and the same appeared true for everyone else. They sat down and waited as electronic music began to come—once again—from seemingly everywhere.

Ariela sat down and looked at the stage, waiting for something to happen. She felt that people were staring at her.

Sitting straight up in her bed, Ariela realized that she had just had a very lurid dream. As she gathered her thoughts, she found she was clothed in her usual nightgown, though she could not remember having gone to bed. That was not all she couldn't remember, either.

It was 10:30 a.m.—well past her regular Saturday wake-up time.

As she made breakfast, she called Ian. He sounded sleepy as he answered the phone.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hello. It's Ariela."

"Good morning. How do you feel?"

"Okay, I guess. I'm embarrassed. I guess I got a little tipsy last night and slept through the show."

"You didn't miss the show," said Ian.

"Well, I don't remember it at all."

Ian laughed. "Well, you really enjoyed yourself. I could tell. We'll go again next week, and I'll make sure you're awake for the show, okay?"

"Okay."

"Great."

"Ian?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did we make love last night?"

"No. Not exactly."

"Not exactly...what's that mean?"

"It means what it means," he said. "Look, I'll pick you up the same time next week."

All week long, Ariela had variations on the same lurid dream. She wasn't sure if it qualified as a nightmare, but she always woke up in the midst of it, her heart pounding furiously. It was like the pornography Ian had bought for her, in a way, except that this time the man in leather was much younger, better conditioned, and much better-proportioned, though she could not make out his face.

Ariela was bound. Two women undressed her and used soft ropes to bind her into a contorted position. Strangely, rather than resisting them, she obeyed their every order and helped them.

After being bound, she was rolled through a curtain of some sort, whereupon she was presented to the man in black leather. She remembered—also only vaguely—that he had her in the mouth, the vagina, and the ass, with the two women tying and retying her into a variety of positions.

Ariela would have been ashamed to admit it, but she took some pleasure in the reverberations of these dreams, masturbating furiously before getting up each morning.

At last, Friday arrived and Ian once again picked Ariela up. She was eager to see Ian anyway, hoping the evening would end in lovemaking. She was tired of doing with her hands what Ian did so well with his cock. Besides, she wanted to do what he wanted. She wanted him to order her to do things and simply take her, as though she existed solely for his pleasure. That made it so much better for her. She wanted to be his.

This time the setting of the party was an abandoned theater, which had been cleaned up for the purposes of the Club.

Once past the goons and on the inside, Ariela once again had the strange feeling that she had seen most of the people before...but where?

At the bar, the bartender remembered her. "The Chablis again, miss?"

"I don't know if I should," she said turning to Ian. "I kind of passed out last time."

"That won't happen again," said Ian confidently. At last, Ariela relented and had another glass of the Chablis, but this time it didn't have the same effect at all. It was like drinking any other glass of wine.

All of these people who looked so familiar to her seemed to know her better than she knew them. They seemed to treat her with a great degree of familiarity and even respect. This time, they patted her on the back as they talked to her and were consciously trying to make her feel at home, as though she had somehow become one of them.

Once again, the voice said, "We're ready to begin tonight's program. Please be seated."

The music started, and after a few minutes a group of people got up and walked through a side door next to the stage. It appeared to be one woman and three men. Two women followed them in, and as Ariela got a glimpse of their faces, she felt a true sense of deja vu. She was sure she'd seen them before. Not vaguely sure, but absolutely. And suddenly, she knew where.

After the unease of the deja vu episode had worn off somewhat, Ariela turned to Ian and asked, "When is it going to start?"

"Any moment now," he promised.

Sure enough, the curtain rustled and the two women who seemed so familiar to Ariela rolled a bed out onto the proscenium. On the bed was the woman who had gotten up with the men. Ariela gasped as she realized that the woman was naked.

As the two women left, the three men—also naked—walked out onto the stage.

"What is it tonight?" asked an anonymous voice behind her.

"It's a bisexual group scene," another voice responded gruffly, in a tone indicating to the other person that it was time to be quiet and just watch.

Ariela began to realize that the people on the stage were going to have sex right in front of the audience. This was one possibility she hadn't anticipated.

The woman submitted to one of the men for vaginal sex, which he administered while kneeling between her legs, which were planted on the floor. Next, she took another man in the mouth as he supported himself on his hands and knees over her. After a few moments, the third man fucked the second one in the ass. Meanwhile, a photographer came out onto the stage, wandering around and taking pictures.

Combined with the music and the headiness induced by the alcohol, the scene was dizzying, though Ariela was in no danger of passing out.

It was then that Ariela noticed the distinguished man sitting next to her and, beyond him—mesmerized by the action on the stage—was a girl that Ariela also recognized. Ariela looked back at the gentleman's face and realized who he was, too.

This was when it all came together for her and she understood everything. She covered her mouth in shock. All at once, she knew why everyone looked familiar. She knew why they seemed to know her better than she knew them. Suddenly, in a flood of realization she knew all kinds of things.

After the men on the stage had ejaculated, they attended to the woman on the bed, caressing her thighs and breasts, one of them kissing her deeply as she masturbated to orgasm. When she finally came, the audience applauded enthusiastically to the closing of the curtain, and the soft, ubiquitous voice of the announcer said, "That's our show for tonight, folks. Please drive safely."

When Ian and Ariela arrived back at her apartment she said, "I think I've figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"The whole thing. How the Club is financed, for example. And how it operates."

Ian smiled, saying, "Okay, let's hear it."

"I think that the Club is funded by the porno shop."

"What makes you say that?"

"The guy in the shop didn't charge you, and yet the magazines were selling for $30 apiece! When you took two of them, it was just as if he'd given you $60—unless, of course, you had a financial interest in the shop, which I think must be the case. Pornography obviously has a huge mark-up—how much can it cost to print those magazines? A dollar each?"

"Less than that, actually," said Ian, "but so far, so good."

"At first, a lot of the people in the Club seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't place them. It came to me suddenly this evening when I saw the face of the young woman with the older man next to me. She was the girl in one of the porno magazines you bought for me. He was the man in leather. I remembered his scar. The people in the audience were also from the covers of the porno magazines."

"Good! Good!"

"I think you bring in one new member each week, you drug them with something that leaves them conscious but with no memory. You then fulfill their sexual fantasy—as determined by their magazine choice—for the benefit of the members and guests, and then you photograph the action. If I'm not mistaken, you use the photos to make more magazines, am I right?"

"Yes, that's pretty much it. Since your performance last Friday was the initiation I told you about, I was going to tell you about it tonight, but you're such a smart girl, you figured it out."

"So, am I a member now?"

"No, the members are the porno shop owners. But, you will always be welcome as a guest, and you will get royalties from the magazine. It's only —$.50 per book—but it adds up when you consider..."

"Consider what?" Ariela asked.

"That we have shops in the 20 largest cities in the United States—plus Amsterdam, Hamburg, Stockholm, and 39 other foreign cities."

Ariela thought for a moment. She was feeling an odd sensation realizing that men all over the world would see her having sex with Ian in leather and that she might be recognized on the street virtually anywhere in the world. She found this possibility incredibly exciting.

"I want to fuck you now," said Ian. "Get me something to tie you up with."

Ariela hesitated at first, for part of her still didn't like being told what to do. But at the same time she knew that he owned her, that she would do anything he told her to do, and that, quite frankly, she would probably enjoy it.

As she was rounding up some silken cords, scarves, and ties, she heard the rippling sound of Ian's leather and the high growl of his zippers, and she found her heart racing and her pelvis tingling and for some strange reason, she looked at the picture of Daddy on the dresser, and before taking what she'd gathered out to Ian, she stopped to give Daddy a kiss.