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(This author does not compose stroke stories. This author does recount true-life events in a fictional format.)
Monterey California, 1969. August had turned the perpetually green California hills to a rusty brown. Chugging up the P.G cutoff in my wheezing VW bus, I had just enough money in my pocket for a half a tank of gas and a bottle of wine – staples for a college-age kid living in that awkward place between home and an upstairs apartment I was hoping to rent in the Fall.
Cherokee and I had talked about getting a place together some day, but we talked about a lot of things – homesteading out in the wilderness, growing our own food. Listening to Cherokee talk was like listening to Joan Baez sing. There was such purity and earnestness in her voice, how could I not fall in love with her? But at twenty, what do we know about love?
I would soon find out.
Standing out on the lawn of her folk’s split-level ranch, Cherokee was sporting a new beaded headband and those tight bellbottom jeans she’d sewed on her mom’s Singer sewing machine. Sure it was a holdover from her high school hippie days, inserting a swatch of bright material into the seam at the bottom of her pants-leg to fashion a gaudy bellbottom, but they looked great on her. The pants gave her the allusion of curvaceousness belying her barely filled-out nineteen year-old late-bloomer status.
“Hi babe” I grinned, jerking the door handle of my pea-green pussy wagon. She flounced in, the musky aura of patchouli oil enveloping me in its heavy scent. Every time I smelled patchouli, it took me back to the first time I felt Cherokee’s clammy tits. We were parked on a dirt stretch beside Highway One just north of Big Sur. The sun was going down. Her inky black hair tickled my face as I nibbled on her neck. When my hand slithered up inside the front of her T-shirt and found her soft breast, she let out a whimper that almost made me cum in my pants.
Now, six months later, we were still stuck in pre-sex mode, at least until she was “ready” as she called it, to take the next step in our blossoming relationship. As she leaned in for a peck on the cheek, I had no clue as to how we were progressing in our march towards consummation. I reached for her, but she slithered away like a cat, settling back into her side of the bench seat.
“Bobby?” she asked earnestly, afraid to look me in the eye, “remember when we talked about birth control a couple of months ago?”
“I guess so,” I said, knowing full well every detail of that particular conversation. She had been pondering the possibility of taking birth control pills. It was in the context of the “no kids for me” discussion, one of the few things we were in total agreement on.
“Well,” she said, pausing dramatically, “I’ve been through one cycle with the pill, and I think I’m ready for… you know…?”
My heart jumped into my throat. Ready for sex? After 10 months of dry humping and going home with an aching dick? Praise Timothy Leary!
“Now?” I asked, my mind racing. But where would we park? The beach would be crowded on a Saturday, likewise the parking lots at Cannery Row. I imagined a quick drive south of Carmel, taking the old coast road, which is pretty much surrounded by nothing but wilderness, save for the odd ranch or the redwood cabins down along Bixby Creek.
“Not now,” she giggled, her eyes catching the light like a Renaissance painting from her art appreciation class. “After the Love-In.”
We were heading over to New Monterey for the first Love-In to hit the Peninsula. It was to take place in a wooded park with a vast grassy lawn for the concert goers to spread out their blankets. There would be hippie bands playing all day, and vendors selling tie-dye T-shirts and Filmore posters, and there would be a great coming together of positive vibes.
“That’s why I brought my bag,” she continued, holding up her colorful American Indian souvenir overnight bag she’d picked up on a trip to Arizona. “I told my mom I was staying at Marlene’s tonight, so you and I could… you know.”
“Cool,” I said, wondering where we were supposed to go to do ‘you know.’ As if she could read my mind, she whispered:
“I’ve got money for a motel.”
The money thing had always been a sticking point in our relationship. She came from money, all I could do was dream of money. But she assured me, over and over, that it was my heart she wanted, not my financial potential, and I bought it.
“We could always get the motel now,” I offered, “and then go to the Love-In a little later.”
She slapped me playfully. “You pervert. And make me miss the Black Arm Band? You know how I adore that band. Their songs are so literate, so profound…”
Silly me. How could I have forgotten about her infatuation with music? It was all she talked about. In fact, many times I wondered what kind of a future we could possibly have with each other if all she wanted to do was ruminate on the meaning of the latest Bob Dylan song, while all I wanted to do was clean the spark plugs on my cherished VW.
“I forgot about casino oyna the Black Arm Band,” I said, when in reality I didn’t have a clue who they were. I was just starting to learn that feigning interest in Cherokee’s passing fancies was a good way to get closer to her. I was also learning that getting closer to Cherokee had other benefits, peeking down the front of her peasant blouse being one of them. Sure, I’d held her tits in my hands, but I’d still never actually seen them. Talk about repressed? It sucks being a twenty year-old virgin, dating an old-fashioned girl who won’t fuck until she’s damn well ready.
“About the Love-In,” she said, reaching over and laying her hand on my thigh. “What if someone slips LSD into our Seven Up?”
I had to smile to myself at Cherokee’s innocence. How she could embrace the hippie lifestyle while remaining drug free was a mystery to me, but I wasn’t about to complain. Being with her was better than any grass I’d ever tried, and I had no problem giving up psychedelics if the reward was sex. Cherokee was a goddess to me, her long swimmer’s legs, her skinny waist, her ass like a runner’s, firm and peachy, her tits like apples with little points on them. I knew I was lucky to be her boyfriend, even if she did make me wait this long for the payoff.
“Nobody’s going to put LSD in our Seven Up unless we let them, right?”
“I guess so,” she mumbled, scrunching up her nose in that adorable way. It was a moment I’ll never forget, because I almost said it – those three little words women are dying to hear. But I thought I should save those three little words until after we’d made love, just to make the occasion more meaningful.
The site for the Love-In was already jam packed with cars. We parked in the dusty overflow lot, the music weaving through the pine trees like audible sunbeams. Cherokee took my hand, and my heart swelled with pride. My first true love, my destiny, my little hippie girl with her apple tits bobbing under her white peasant blouse. I was the luckiest guy at the Love-In, or so it seemed.
Before we even reached the crowd, the smell of pot was everywhere. Hippies and hippie wannabes wandered about, some blowing bubbles, some holding sticks of incense, some obviously already tripping on peyote or mescaline or perhaps the dreaded purple acid that had just hit the Peninsula. The saucer eyes of the afflicted were a dead giveaway, as were their plodding steps as they tiptoed through the throng, lost in their own little world of hobbits and fairy dust.
“Oh my God” Cherokee gasped, as a bearded stoner trailed his finger across her bare shoulders. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“I’ll protect you,” I said, pulling her closer, which afforded me a fleeting glimpse of her little pink nipple.
“I don’t know,” she whined, looking around at the decadent scene. “Maybe this isn’t…”
“Hey Bro!” a booming voice blared from behind us. I turned, and Jake descended upon us like a flash flood, obliterating everything in its path. Jake was from Carmel Valley, part redneck, part guru – a strange combination for the late sixties. Two years ago he was a high school varsity football star until the guy he was tackling suffered permanent spinal damage and ended up in a wheel chair. Jake quit the team, and from that moment on, he rose to legendary status as a conscientious objector to the war, as well as a grower of some of the best sinsemilla on the west coast.
“Jake, you know Cherokee, right?”
Jake gave us a skeptical stare. Then the proverbial light went on and he grinned. “Alice!” he said, snapping his fingers, “Alice Whitten!”
Cherokee blushed, scuffing her tan moccasin in the dirt. I always thought it was kind of silly for her to be going by her made up hippie name, but it wasn’t something we talked about. I figured eventually she’d grow out of it.
“So it’s Cherokee now?” he grinned, reaching out to shake her hand. “Good choice. It has a nice ring to it.”
She looked up at him, my phony little Indian princess, and smiled weakly. “I remember you from football.”
“Yeah, those were the days, eh?”
I tried not to notice him checking out her cleavage, but it was impossible to ignore. He was good at it though, pointing to this person or that in the crowd, and when she’d glance in their direction he’d catch an eye full. And all I did was stand there. What could I do? There was only one way to deal with Jake, and that was to stay on his good side. Those who didn’t usually regretted it.
“Come on,” Jake commanded, clapping his heavy arm across my shoulders, “let’s go backstage.”
“Backstage?” Cherokee blurted, her eyes wide. “Cool!”
We sauntered through the throng like royalty, the little people making way as we marched towards the stage, except I felt like I was marching to the gallows. Jake was between Cherokee and I, with the perfect angle to peek down her blouse, and I was powerless to stop him. As we rounded the front of the stage, a security guy who obviously knew Jake opened the gate for us.
“Thanks, dude,” Jake said, slapping the guy on the back. The guy canlı casino looked over his shoulder at us like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times, and I wondered what kind of history he had with Jake. Actually, I stopped wondering about it, since that seemed like the best way to keep from getting totally intimidated by the fucked up situation I’d gotten myself into.
At least a dozen groupies greeted us, or rather greeted Jake, who, no doubt, had traded some of his excellent weed for who knows what from these little sluts over the last couple of years. The girls were dressed in various stages of almost illegal, with one wearing blue jean overalls with nothing on underneath, and several with cutoffs ripped clear up the sides, revealing no tan line, or panties, for that matter. Cherokee looked positively puritanical in comparison, but at the same time, she had an air of class about her these other girls could only dream of.
Cherokee just stood there, watching the singer of the Black Arm Band as if he was God dispensing the secrets of the universe. I knew if I didn’t make my move soon, it would be too late. I grabbed her hand, ready to whisk her away, when suddenly the music was over and the lead singer was jogging off stage, his purple scarf trailing behind him.
“Dude!” the singer blurted, grabbing Jake’s hand.
“Dude” Jake replied, clapping him on the back. “Check it out.” He glanced at Cherokee, who jerked to attention, as is she was trying to pass inspection.
“Nice!” the singer said, taking a step toward my quivering girlfriend. “I’m Jerod.” He reached for her and when their hands touched, I could actually see Cherokee’s knees buckle.
“Cherokee,” she stammered, as he pulled her to his chest. Then they were embracing, his hand trailing down her back and onto the top of her ass. Jake’s face crinkled into an evil grin as he leaned in and whispered in Jerod’s ear. Then the two of them were looking at me.
“So she’s with you, eh?” Jerod asked, with a hint of amusement in his voice.
I nodded, trying to think of something clever to say, but I was drawing a blank.
Jerod cast his eyes on the overall-clad groupie girl. “Amanda, you’re with skinny dude. What’s your name again, skinny dude?”
“Harold,” I stammered, as the overall-clad girl hooked her arm around mine.
“Hi Harold,” she said, staring up at me, “I’m Amanda.” She inched closer, her freckled tit on the verge of popping out the side of her overalls. “You gonna party with us?”
I nodded, speechless, as Jake and Jerod headed around the back of the stage, with Cherokee between them. I followed, distracted by the jiggle of Amanda’s tan tits, but determined to remain true to the love of my life. To say I was heartsick might have been a little over the top, but I was confused. How could this be happening? How could…
“Is she your girlfriend?” Amanda asked, her hand snaking up under the back of my T-shirt.
“Sort of,” I said, suddenly aware of her delicate fingers on my skin.
“Jerod’s my boyfriend, but we have an open relationship. Do you and your girlfriend have an open relationship?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, sneaking a peak at her stiff nipple, which had finally escaped from its denim prison.
“We are all one,” she said in a confident tone, nonchalantly tucking her renegade tit back where it belonged. “Love is everything. Love will save the world. Are you ready to save the world?”
“I guess so,” I said, painfully aware of the fact that love was indeed beginning to grow inside the front of my jeans, in spite of the fact that my girlfriend was in the process of being hijacked by a dope dealer and a hippie lead singer.
“Cool,” Amanda mumbled, squishing her jiggling tit up against my arm.
We rounded the front of a hand-painted purple and blue school bus and followed Jake, Jerod and Cherokee up the steps. The three of them were already deep in conversation about songwriting and lyrics and such, the kinds of things she couldn’t talk to me about. Would it kill me to read a Bob Dylan lyric with her and comment on it? I made a mental note to do just that.
The inside of the bus was decked out in typical hippie fashion; beads hanging everywhere, candles, incense sticks, a God’s-Eye filling one window, the other windows draped with paisley-print curtains. Behind the driver’s seat there was a beat up old leather couch where Amanda flopped down, dragging me with her. We watched in silence as Jerod, Jake, and Cherokee disappeared behind a tapestry curtain divider that separated the rear half of the bus from the front.
“Jerod’s a genius,” Amanda said into midair, twirling a lock of her dishwater blonde hair. “His songs are the pure essence of life, and when we make love, it’s like his musical genius is flowing into me, turning me into an instrument vibrating with the tone of life. Have you ever felt that when making love?”
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“He’s really good with his hands,” she said, casually taking my hand and holding it in her lap. “You have musician’s hands. Do you play an instrument?”
“I kaçak casino play the record player,” I said, marveling at how gentle her touch was. As she stroked and fondled my fingers, I could feel my cock swelling. With renewed interest I noticed her understated beauty; her freckled nose, her cherub cheeks, her ample tits aching to escape from her overalls. She would indeed look great dressed like a woman, instead of a farmer from the Midwest.
“You know what I like about wearing these overalls?” she asked, snaking my hand out of her lap.
“The ventilation?” I stammered, as she guided my hand into the open slit on the side.
“Easy access,” she grinned, as she shoved my hand down inside the front of her overalls, past her soft tummy and into the forest between her legs. My fingers fluttered through her fluffy bush and onto her tender folds. “Right there,” she moaned, closing her eyes. She thrust her head back, let out a quiet gasp, and her left tit popped out again.
To say I was nervous would have been an understatement. My first foray into the world of women’s intimate parts was not going as planned, but at least it was going. I was so engrossed in my new task, I barely even noticed the smell of hashish wafting from the other side of the curtain. Then I heard it, Cherokee’s muffled whimper. I froze. She whimpered again, louder.
“Don’t stop,” Amanda hissed, jamming my hand tighter against her mound.
“Yes!” Cherokee cried, from behind the curtain. “Yes! Oh God, that feels so good.”
I was a mass of conflicting emotions; jealousy, arousal, confusion. That’s when Amanda frantically unhooked the straps of her overalls and shoved them clear down to her knees. I stared in disbelief as her naked body filled my vision. Her fluffy tuft of a bush, her tits splayed out towards the sides, the musky aroma wafting up from between her legs, it was so overwhelming, I forgot all about Cherokee, at least for those few brief minutes.
“I need you inside me,” she commanded, pulling one leg out of her overalls so she could spread her legs wide. Staring at her hairy slit, it wasn’t at all how I imagined a women would look like down there. It wasn’t a smooth pair of puffy bumps like the pictures on that set of playing cards from Las Vegas, it was a mass of flaps and folds, reminding me more of a turkey neck than a place to stick my dick.
“Come on,” she moaned, her index finger massaging the very top of her slimy opening, “I’m so close.”
I whipped my jeans down and kneeled between her legs. While prying her slit open with one hand, she guided my cock inside with the other, and then clamped her legs around my waist. The feel of finally being inside a woman was oddly reminiscent of a bowl of tapioca putting, but thicker. Of course, it was also wonderful, and cosmic, and intensely personal, as if I was sharing with her the very essence of my being. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to hold her in my arms for all eternity. But most of all, I wanted to squirt.
Perhaps sensing my urgent need, she clamped her legs tighter around my waist, making it impossible for me to thrust more than a paltry inch or two. “Oh yeah,” she moaned, as her finger went faster. Gaining confidence in my sexual prowess, I grabbed her tits, marveling at their heft and pliability. She was definitely packing more than Cherokee was, but in all honesty, I preferred the familiar feel of Cherokee’s innocent breasts. Pinching Cherokee’s tits elicited a much stronger response. All I got out of Amanda was labored panting and clenched teeth.
Then it hit, the first orgasm I ever gave a women. Well, technically, I suppose Amanda was giving herself the orgasm and all I was doing was helping, but that didn’t stop me from celebrating the moment with a few quick thrusts between her legs. What amazed me was the way her pussy lips could clamp down on my dick and then let go, and I wondered if all women could do that, or if this was something specific to Amanda’s physique.
I knew women didn’t like a guy to cum too quick, so I held back, watching her flop and vibrate on the couch. It was like she was being electrocuted, but in a good way. The way her mouth hung open, hinting at a smile, the way she glared at me, grinding her mound against my pelvis, the way her woman smell enveloped me in a warm mist, it was all very sensual and arousing, and the more she went at it, the closer I got to losing it.
Finally, her vise grip cunt relaxed and she settled down into a slow series of undulations “Are you going to cum now, baby?” she asked, gazing at me dreamily.
Before I had time to answer, we heard a booming voice coming from outside the bus.
“Police Department. I need to talk to the owner or operator of this vehicle.”
“Shit,” Amanda blurted, shoving my dick out of her slick pussy and sitting bolt upright. The feel of my dick popping out of her snapper cunt drove me right over the edge, and as she hopped up off the couch, a gob of semen erupted from my cock and splatted onto the floor. Oblivious to the volcanic nature of my sex organ, she headed for the front of the bus, leaving me to my own devices. Desperate to finish shooting, I grabbed my dick and frantically pumped out the last couple of spurts, while simultaneously fishing my jeans up from around my ankles.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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