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 edited these accounts 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 Alan told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series.
You should read Alan's prior episodes before continuing here.
******************** 5: I left my
heart
ass
cock in San Francisco
"I'm going nuts. I haven't fucked anyone but you for weeks now. I mean, you're OK, but I want more."
"I know what you mean. I love your pussy to death, but I sure miss variety, and not just whipped cream."
"Has this whole office been castrated? I flash some nice cleavage but they just look at their printouts."
"Their obsessions aren't our obsessions. And I think all the rain has grown lichen between their ears."
Seattle sucked.
Well, not totally. Just in comparison to the San Francisco Bay area. Too wet, too cold, too culturally isolated in the early 1980s. No Microsoft billionaires pumping cash into the scene, not yet. And too many sexually repressed workaholics, at least among the geeks and suits of the financial group that hired us. We didn't find many compatible connections outside the office either. Translation: not enough fuckbuddies.
Moira and I had been together for a few years. Her slim, athletic, bouncy Irish figure, just a little shorter than my 6"1', featured juicy anatomical delights, and real red hair in all the right places. We fit together very nicely, internally and externally, but we weren't exactly committed, not exclusively.
Our motto: Do nothing behind my back that you wouldn't do in front of me. Well, sometimes I fudged a bit.
My background was in torpedo warheads (for the US Navy). Moira's was in security systems. We were about equally techno-geeks. A couple years before, we had built a Heathkit home computer system, soldering and screwing components together. She built the printer. That was a non-trivial task.
We celebrated that project's completion with a small orgy, just our closest half-dozen friends. The computer monitor scrolled ASCII porn pix to inspire us. Hey, geek sex is still sex, right?
Jobs offering mucho dinero had us migrating up the Left Coast from balmy Santa Barbara to the active East Bay to frustrating Puget Sound. Seattle was just over the edge for us. When a Silicon Valley software shop offered us buckets of money for our financial programming expertise, we jumped. Sure, we can add banking features to the Gnosis product line, no problem!
The best part was, we didn't have to work around Sunnyvale. The pros running Gnosis realized that their financial wizards would do best in close proximity to other money pukes. Thus, we worked on Montgomery Street, San Francisco, near the headquarters of Transamerica, BankAmerica, Wells Fargo, and Crocker banks, the valley of the shadow of cash.
We bought a condo on the edge of Chinatown. Just a short walk to work. Very convenient. Fast foot-commute plus long lunch hours equal plenty of time for mid-day fucking, with friends.
I've mentioned our old cow-orkers. Xenia, the lean Greek woman with curly jet-black hair and nervous feet, and Sylvie, the spectacular black ('colored') girl who switched contact lenses to match her vivid clothes and body decorations, now worked nearby. They often joined us for lunchtime fun, sometimes together.
Sylvie's color today was safety-orange. Orange contacts, orange lipstick, orange beaded choker; orange finger- and toe-nails; orange circles painted on her ebony breasts and inviting navel, like targets; orange-dyed muff. Her breast paint was being washed away by my and Xenia's tongues as we slurped her tasty tatas.
I was in a half-69. Sylvie fisted my cock; her head turned to lick my nipples as I mouthed her aureoles. I had a clear view of Moira's and Xenia's ministrations. They were awfully fun to watch.
I saw Moira's talented tongue busy in Sylvie's slippery snatch. Sylvie's bodily twitches correlated with Moira's munching. When Moira looked up, her nose was orange too, almost like a circus clown. Some muff-dye had rubbed off, yes. I should have snapped a photo. Where's my Kodachrome?
Xenia lay beside Sylvie and Moira's linked bodies, her twitchy nearly-prehensile feet massaging Moira's beautiful butt. Moira really liked a good rubdown, especially while her face was buried in pussy.
One of Xenia's feet traced Moira's crack from the top down. Her toes moved to tickle and probe Moira's anus. Moira jumped and worked Sylvie's cunt even harder. Xenia and I intensified our efforts on Sylvie's tits. Sylvie thrashed and screamed, "oh shit oh shit oh shit!" Her clenching knees nearly pinched-off Moira's head after drowning her with secretions.
Sylvie soon rolled away gasping. Moira rolled over grinning wetly. I moved to kneel above Moira's chest and stick my cock in her mouth. Xenia slid down between Moira's legs and gave her a good tongue-lashing. I reached back to fondle Moira's breasts as her hands reached up to tweak my nipples.
Sylvie recovered. I looked at her. "You're not done yet, are you? Get your mouth over here!"
Sylvie got on her knees, straddled Moira's head, stuck her tits into my chest, and sucked my tongue down her throat. Moira's hands swiveled to cup Sylvie's breasts. I could tell when Sylvie's nipple got twisted -- that's when she bit me. It's amazing I still have a tongue left.
The timer beeped. Lunch break was over; time to go back to our jobs. Too bad. Well, we could so it again tomorrow. And Moira and I could (and would) have someone else over that night.
___
Some of our old friends were still in the area and still connecting with us. On some weekends, we lured short intense Judy from her Berkeley Hills home. Other weekends, we went sex-camping with Harley-riding Phil and Denise, the ex-nun. But we were also tied into a network of new friends, mostly other Financial District info-workers. More about them later.
Moira was the senior systems design engineer in our group. As such, she was summoned to the Gnosis home office in Sunnyvale every Monday for meetings more secure than teleconferencing would allow.
I usually spent my Monday lunchtimes non-sexually. Weather permitting, I often took a sandwich and my sketchpad to Portsmouth Square. I watched older Chinese guys playing cards, chess, go; watched locals do their Tai Chi exercises; watched the passing human scene; and I sketched what I saw. Active seeing means focusing on the moment, the concrete -- a good way to clear distant abstractions from the mind.
This Monday noon was sunny through a thin marine-layer haze, almost warm. I wore denims and a Greek cap. A Eurasian girl walked past my perch several times during my hour there. I sketched quick portraits of her from various POVs. Fairly tall, a great figure in her tight jeans and sweater, long black ponytail emerging under a black beret, various expressions masking her green eyes.
I cheated and did an imaginative sketch of her striding naked down the sidewalk, long black hair spread and flowing in the breeze, a dragon tattoo on her firm ass. And that's when she walked up behind me.
"Having fun with me, I see. Hey, how did you know I had a tattoo there? You been talking to my friends?"
"You just seemed like you *should* have that tattoo. And please introduce me to your friends. Tell them I'm Alan, and I live and work nearby, and I'm not harmless. Let them think you live dangerously."
"Well, if they'd even talk to you, they'd tell you that I'm Andrea, and that I'm vicious, so watch out. But first, you'd have to convince them to talk."
"Super! I love vicious models. Can I do a set of sketches of you with knives, whips, chains, bombs?"
"How about you sketch me as a sneering leather nun wearing nine-inch heels while I crack my horsewhip on your nasty ass?"
"Sounds good to me. My place is just around the corner. Bring your own accessories, or use my toys."
"Are you serious about this? You think I'd just throw myself at some starving artist I met on the street?"
"I'm not starving." I wrote my home numbers on the back of my business card. "Call me sometime."
Andrea eyed the card. "So you're a geek *and* an artist. The worst of both worlds. What if I call you and a woman answers?"
"Just offer to bring wine and a fresh tube of lube. You'll be more than welcome." I smiled innocently.
"I just might do that," she said, walking away. I admired and sketched her perky bouncing butt. She looked over her shoulder and winked at me, then disappeared into a crowd climbing to Grant Avenue.
Andrea didn't call that week. I shuffled her out of my consciousness.
___
The next Monday was warmer. I was dressed in black, my nylon Gnosis jacket open over my BYTE MY BAUD tee shirt. I was on my corner perch, sketching. Andrea snuck up behind me again.
"Have you undressed any other poor innocent girls lately? Do you sketch them with tattoos and weapons?"
"Only houseguests get to pose with the big guns. And none of our guests is very innocent. Are you?"
"No, I'm vicious, remember? I'm only innocent when I go to court, and I'm not in court very often."
"If you raped my poor ferret Reggie, and were charged with animal cruelty, would you still be innocent?"
"If I had the right lawyer, sure. But if Reggie enjoyed me, it wouldn't really be cruelty, would it?"
"Let's ask him." I pulled the little stuffed toy ferret from my bag and asked, "Reggie, would you like Andrea to rape you?" I wagged his fuzzy head up and down. "See, he's cool with it." I wiggled my little finger as a naked ferret dick. "Hey, you got him all excited. You've gotta do the honorable thing now."
"Yeah, what I've heard about nerds is true. You ARE all nuts. Do you play porno-ferret computer games?"
"I used to play them. Now I write them -- much more fun. And it's a nice break from financial software."
"You told me you lived nearby. Would you like to go play hide-the-ferret?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I said, taking her hand and leading her away.
Andrea gaped when she saw the condo's living room, probably because the walls and ceiling were seamlessly covered with mirrors. The big plush couches, upholstered in burgundy synthetics, made it a great space for partying. The swing hanging from the ceiling helped. So did the space heaters that steamed the place nicely.
"Holy shit, Alan, you don't need weapons here. This is enough to perforate my brain."
"That's why we use indirect lighting. Or maybe you'd like a blindfold?"
"I think I'd better keep my eyes on you the whole time I'm here," she said, pulling her sweater over her head. Her black sports bra immediately followed. She kicked off her sandals, then slid her jeans and panties off in one smooth motion. I gazed at her body as I quickly stripped down. Well-endowed but not overly so, a trim waist over inviting thighs and athletic legs, a neat black bush. Gloriously sexy.
"I'll keep my eyes peeled too." I said. My little head rose in appreciation.
Andrea turned to me and held her hand on my chest, arm extended, her eyes shooting green laser light into mine. She held my gaze for a long moment.
"I hope you don't think I'm some wanton slut. But good-looking guys who do art or music in public just make me wet. And I've been watching you on Mondays for quite a while. Why are you only there on Mondays?"
