tagGroup SexDexterous Dexter 01

Dexterous Dexter 01


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

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


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


I was a bit perturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got trouble there, 'migo?"

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can't hurt to ask."


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well hell, we tried...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bottom girl dislodged her friend from her mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing gets wasted here," Wendy smiled.

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

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