tagGroup SexDexterous Dexter 05

Dexterous Dexter 05

byHypoxia©

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life in San Cristobal de Las Casas is never boring.

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your las professoras must have been very happy with you, the way you studied your lessons," Maria said.

"Yes, there was one la professora, and she was happy, but only because we beat her up and tied her up."

"She sounds like my uncle Alejandro. He is a dog."

"Every dog has their day, or so I have been told."

"Oh, but dogs fucking in the street, that's just too much,"

"What, your Tio Alejandro fucked in the street like a wild mutt?"

"Just once. That was enough. Now Tia Maria keeps him tied up."

"Yes, and if he's been good, she lets us whip him till he cums."

"Wow, your family sure knows how to have fun!" I said admiringly.

Maria and Eva were sweet. I asked them to stay the night. We drifted off into dreamland, spooned together, listening to birds cooing.

---

After my desayuna typico (country breakfast) of eggs, cheese, beans, avocado, little handmade tortillas thrown by little hands, and the world's best coffee, total cost twenty cents, I rode over the mountains to Quetzaltenango a.k.a. Xela (SHAY-lah), the Chicago of Guatemala, though its air is more like Los Angeles.

I am not much impressed by Xela for culture and entertainment. But a few miles south of that city is the village of Zunil. Zunil is famous for its church, a psychedelic yellow miracle. You have probably seen its picture on posters and guidebooks.

I got back on the Pan-American Highway and rode over Alaska. That is what the highest point on the Pan-Am is called, the highway passing through maize cornfields at 11,000 feet. Beyond this Alaska, I crested the great caldera containing Lake Atitlan (AHT-itt-lawn), which looks much like Lake Tahoe except for the volcanoes and chicken busses and Mayans in colorful traditional garb.

Before dipping into Lake Atitlan, I rode north the few but time-consuming miles to Chichicastenango, site of the greatest indigenous market in the Americas. Chichi sits atop a peninsular mesa overlooking a great valley that sweeps up to Central America's highest mountain chain. The scenery is spectacular. Just ignore all the dead drunks scattered around the streets. Christians driving by manage to ignore them too.

The Chichi marketplace spreads across most of the city center, with vendor after vendor selling pretty much the same items of eye-dazzling beauty, the weavings and carvings and castings and pottery blurring into sameness after awhile. These folks need to learn marketing. Some sell antiquities, some real, most not. You will get the idea after being offered fifty-seven copies of something you have seen in a museum.

Chichi is two cities in one, with two city halls behind adjacent doorways, one each for Ladinos and Mayans. Two sets of cops, two court systems, divided ethnically.

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