Ron's Journal 07

I've never been a worshipper of huge breasts. Udders don't turn me on. But Nicole's rack swayed me. And her.

Nicole came to me one afternoon for a back massage. I thoroughly massaged her sore back, shoulders, hips, thighs (front and back and sides), breasts, mons, and clit. Nicole's nipples and cunt deserved taste tests. She passed easily.

Nicole moaned like a haunted house when I mouthed those great firm real breasts. She came like a steam-engine when I slurped her clit, chanting "ug-ug-ug-ug". She screamed like a banshee when my cock brought her off. Just an innocent back massage, hey?
___

I was studying in my room one afternoon when Peg pushed past the doorway curtain.

"My back hurts, Ron. I need a rub. A real rub."

Peg stripped and lay on her belly on my bed, her feet towards the doorway, her face into a pillow. I stripped and straddled her butt and started working on her back. I moved around, faced the other way, straddled her butt again, and worked on her legs.

Barefoot and topless Nicole pushed past the doorway curtain, and opened her mouth, and shut it.

"Peg, would you like some more of this?" I asked, gesturing Nicole to come forward.

"Oh yeah, that would be... what? What?" Peg said as Nicole pulled off her bikini bottoms and straddled Peg's legs.

"Peg's ass needs some special care, really special care," I said as I slid toward Peg's head.

Nicole started kneading Peg's bubble butt deeply, all around, and down between Peg's thighs. I moved off the head of the mattress, knelt before Peg's pillow-propped face, and stuck my cock in her mouth.

Peg groaned on my cock as Nicole's hands worked into her cunt. Peg's hands grabbed my thighs and pulled me closer to her face. I tweaked my own nipples for further stimulation.

Michelle pushed past the doorway curtain and stopped dead. She surveyed the situation and smiled.

"Michelle, c'mon and help us," I said, "and Nicole, bring your cunt up here."

Nicole turned turtle, scooting forward back-down and tits-up, butt raised, supporting her body on her elbows and her braced legs, and stuck her pussy in my face. Michelle prudently closed and locked the sliding door, removed her tee and bra, slid between Peg's legs, and started eating Peg's pussy and anus from behind.

Peg seemed to go into sensory overload, moaning loudly, twitching moderately. She sucked my cock as if fellating a banana. Nicole was quivering as my mouth assaulted her pouting pussy. Michelle kept mouthing Peg from behind but reached over Nicole's shoulders to tweak her expansive nipples.

Sandwiched between three other bodies, Peg convulsed. Nicole thrashed and chugged and rolled off Peg. I pulled away from Peg's mouth. I had not cum yet. Michelle flipped Peg over and dove in to eat her out. The big sandwich had fallen apart.

Nicole stared at my still-stiff dick.

"I say, Ron, you look like you need some special care yourself."

Nicole pulled me onto my back next to Peg and impaled herself, sheathing my cock to the ultimate depths. I turned Peg's face to mine and kissed her. Michelle had her face in Peg's cunt, one hand at Peg's nipples, and one hand on Nicole's thigh. I had one hand on Peg's head and the other hand at Nicole's breasts.

We all moved together like a noisy fleshy Rube Goldberg machine.

After a few orgasms, we moved around. Nicole stripped the rest of Michelle's clothes off, laid her back, and ate her. I angled Peg on the mattress on her hands and knees so I could fuck her doggy-style while she and Michelle pleasured each other's breasts. A pleasant time was had by all.

Ah, the Big Sandwich. This was one of my greatest geometry exercises ever.
___

I found two lightly-dressed crop-haired girls, Greta and her friend Ilsa, standing on a street corner looking at a map. I rolled up on my bike, asked if they needed directions. They were German nationals, had come to town for a women's conference. We chatted as I walked them to their destination. I gave Greta my address.

Greta stopped by every few days. She came to visit Michelle more often than me but we always chatted. Greta usually arrived just as a girl was leaving my doorway. Greta would give me a crinkle-faced look and a head-shake. Was she impressed by my variety of visitors? Were my visitors impressed that I had a woman waiting outside my door when they left?

I joined a single's hiking club for weekend stomps into the coastal mountains with a variety of unattached people of all ages. Each hike was followed by a pizza-and-wine pigout and usually some couplings or triplings. The membership constantly shifted as singles became attached and new singles joined.

At one hike, I met Molly, and my life changed again, forever.

The group gathered one morning in a parking lot. I stood in my near-naked splendor, wearing just hiking shoes and cutoffs and a tank top, reading maps of our route and a botanical guide to the area.

A tall woman in denim shorts and a red blouse showing good legs and big tits approached me, chatted, and stayed with me during the hike. We walked slowly, discussing the botany and geology of the route, while all the other hikers seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.

Molly later told me that she was attracted because I was tall and good-looking, and because I could read.

"Hmmm, he has maps and guidebooks, so at least he's literate."

After the hike and the wine and pizza, Molly asked if I would like to see her place. I tossed my bike in the back of her old pickup truck and asked her to stop by my room so I could get my guitar and a jacket.

Molly drove to her cedar-paneled trailer in a park above the coastal cliffs. We lounged, drank more wine. I played guitar and sang. I kissed her mouth, and played some more. She opened her shirt. I kissed her breasts, and played some more. She lit candles and dragged me to her bed.

We were energetic, so energetic that we knocked a candle over and draperies caught fire. We splashed water on the flames before the trailer burnt down. That was the beginning of our hot relationship, lasting over thirty years now.

Molly was a big dark-haired Irish girl, over six feet tall, with a big Irish cop father even taller than I was. Her dad had also been a San Francisco bicycle courier in his youth, before WW2. He ran background checks on all her boyfriends. Somehow, I passed. Two decades later, I watched him die after a fall.

Molly was a computer programmer for the city, working in a downtown office. She often came to my room for noontime quickies. We would suck and fuck, then lay in bed reading geological maps. Her trailer park was near my room-to-school bike route, so I often stopped in for dinner or overnight stays. Her cat liked me. Yes, I passed the cat-scan test.

I was also involved with a couple other women from my Army Reserves unit, and with girls I charmed with my guitar, and sometimes with Michelle's visitors. I was a rather busy guy.

Sandra was head of nursing in my unit, an ER nurse in daily life. She stood over six feet tall, not much shorter than me, trim and athletic with straight auburn hair. She invited me to her place one night, then kicked me out of bed when a boyfriend came by around midnight. He left before dawn. I crawled back into her bed for sloppy thirds. I wasn't too proud for leftovers.

Sandra soon resigned from the Reserves and signed on as medical officer for a year-long round-the-world catamarin cruise. Lucky gal!

Trinh was the unit's wardmaster, responsible for setting up our field hospital. She was tall for a VietNamese, with slightly surgically enhanced breasts and a wicked sense of humor. She had me drive her jeep to field exercises, not always by the shortest route. We usually arrived a bit late and just slightly out of uniform.

Trinh had complete conscious control of her cunt muscles. She could move her strong cuntal ridges like fingers. Her vagina felt like a milking machine. (Yes, I tried one once.) And she cracked bad jokes as she squeezed me dry.

"Ron, how did you like that move? I call it the Alcatraz, because there's no escape."

I groaned as her grip tightened, like a strong fist.

"I watched the way you jerk off, how your fingers move. Here, does this feel like that?"

Her muscles jostled and damn, they felt like my hand.

"Yeah, I'm even better at jerking you than you are. My cunt can be your handy girl, OK?"

She could stretch my tongue into a long noodle too.
___

Juggling women can be complicated. At any moment, I might have any of various girls come through my doorway, often with Greta waiting outside, marveling at us. Somehow I avoided toxic simultaneous appearances, although I had near-collisions, and of course the Big Sandwich. No fatalities, whew.

Molly was especially wary of Peg and Marg. She had good reason to be. Molly had seen little Marg leave my house. She almost caught Marg sneaking out of her (Molly's) own place after a tryst. Molly and I socialized with Peg and Lars, went to their parties, crowded into their hot tub, shared a sauna. Peg and Lars had a convenient partnership, not a commitment. Yes, Molly was well aware of my closeness to Marg and especially to Peg.

As my second semester drew to an end, I had to make a tough decision. Should I transfer to university here? Should I work towards medical school and the Reserve's free ride? Molly was offered a job with a huge pay increase from a big computer shop north of San Francisco. Should I stay here, or move with Molly? Should I accept Peg's offer of a life together, with her family's money? Could I be a gigolo?

I felt physically closest to Peg, and mentally closest to Molly, except for her monogamous bias. I was not sure of my own ambitions.

My basic options were: 1) stay, free and single; 2) go, with Molly; 3) ride, with Peg.

Peg forced my decision.

We were in my bed on a night I had saved for her. We'd had tons of great sex. Peg rolled out of our third slurpy 69, scooted around, held me, kissed me, snuggled into my strong shoulder. She looked at me and spoke quietly.

"Ron, where will you go from here? Will you be with me? Will you be with Molly?"

I was a bit drunk and foolish. I stupidly spoke the truth.

"I don't know for sure. Molly and I seem to fit together well."

Peg snuggled closer and did not talk. We fell asleep.

That was not our last time together. Peg would come to my room, or I would ride to hers and Lars' place in the hills, and we would enjoy each other fully, but now with a pale curtain drawn between us. Neither of us said so, but she and I were both trying to change my mind. We failed.
___

Molly and I gave a farewell party for all her and my friends before her new employer moved our belongings to our new home, a farmhouse between the North Bay and the coast. We held the party in my rooming house's back yard. Beer and BBQ and hash and hugs abounded, and most partiers even remained clothed.

Peg and Lars gave us a special goodbye party. They hauled us to the hot pools at Esalan, in Big Sur. Ocean waves crashed below us. Naked people (mostly women) walked and lounged in the steam. The four of us sat together in a small pool, Peg opposite me, our toes in each other's crotches, rubbing. Our farewell fondles, hey?

Molly and I moved north and grew closer. We spent our weekends camping, on the coast or in the mountains. We lasted a full Saturday in a tent on a rocky headland, naked, high on psilocybin mushrooms, in a tantric yoga position, communicating telepathically and sexually.

We visited her folks at their Sierra Nevada Mountains cabin every few weeks. One night, after some especially energetic fuck-till-you-drop sex atop blankets spread over the thickly-carpeted floor of the cabin's den, we were panting and snuggling and murmuring.

"Hey, do you want to get married one of these days?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

I rolled over and crashed. Molly later told me that she couldn't get to sleep for hours, wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into. Her first husband had been a jerk.

Molly and I married under the oaks in the front yard of our freshly-painted farmhouse a few months later in Spring 1980. The local Unitarian marrying-and-burying guy officiated. Dad photographed. Mom passed out. Our do-it-yourself garden party drew friends and family from all over the continent: cousins, workmates, Army buddies, old lovers and their kids.

Jerry and Jim, the Viet vet potgrowers, brought a harvest. Peg and Lars gave us a spa pass. Close friends gave us a tinfoil pyramid containing Steve Martin 'Pharaoh' tee-shirts and tickets to the first KING TUT exhibition. Guests played horseshoes in the side yard. Some got totally pissed. More than a few slept on our floor that night.

That was the beginning, not the end. We never screwed anyone else. We came close. We had offers. But I guess we became too co-dependent.

Our closest encounter was with a short intense mouthy co-worker, Evelyn, whom we nicknamed Eager Beaver. Evelyn invited us to her central Berkeley home for a weekend, giving us the king bed in the guest room. We settled down and dowsed the lights. Evelyn scampered in and asked to join us.

We all looked at each other. I envisaged Evelyn energetically going down on both of us, and me pounding her. Then we envisaged her telling everybody at the office about the encounter. We cautiously declined.

Evelyn visited us many times for weekend layovers. She often got naked. We never quite got together.
___

I switched from medicine to computers -- less blood and shorter hours. I graduated from a North Bay college with a computer science degree, and was hired by Molly's employer. My bad heart forced me out of work a few years later. It will kill me soon. My hair was totally silver by the time I was 35. I am just as tall as I was, a bit heavier, and I am going blind and deaf.

Molly and I reunited with my beautiful adopted-out daughter in 2000. She married a celebrity chef. Our wedding was the best we have attended; theirs was next best, a formal masque in a gothic hall at Hallowe'en, with feasting provided by top Bay Area chefs. I wore a woven orange robe and a black feathered mask. We now have grandchildren. My genepool survives, despite the vasectomy.

We had good and bad times. I eventually quit drinking. Medicinal cannabis sustains me now.

We have traveled. We especially love driving through Mexico and Central America. We have ranged all over the Southwest and own a museum-quality collection of Native American crafts and arts. I have dozens of guitars and other stringed instruments, dozens of cameras, and not enough time to use them.

I have many regrets of my many fuckups in life -- but FUCK THAT! All my bad choices still led me to a great place. I very much enjoyed the vast majority of the girls (and a couple men) I have lusted over and loved. Would I change anything? No, because then I would not be me. Molly and I would not be where and what we are. We are happy.

I will not let myself be crushed by the bones of lives I never lived.

I have always loved drowning in pussy. I always will. Molly's pussy is still great fun. Her 38F tits ain't bad, either.

It's been a hell of a ride.

----- AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is the end of the main sequence of my uncle Ron's journal. I may edit and adapt and post more of Ron's stories if possible. Stay tuned. --Hypoxia