That’s My Girl

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Merhaba sex hikayeleri okuyucuları, derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.okuyup keyif almak ve sırılsıklam olmak işte tüm mesele bu.


Author’s note: This tale is fictional. All sexual acts involve humans of age 18+. The story moves slowly; it is not a stroker. Contents include incest and blues music. No cheating loving wives here, sorry. Tags: romance, father-daughter, inadvertent, adoption, group sex, tragedy, mature, sisters, step-sisters, San Francisco. Views expressed are not necessarily the author’s. Details may be incorrect. Enjoy!

***** THAT’S MY GIRL *****

“Some people tell me,
Worried blues ain’t bad,
But they’re the meanest feeling, baby,
I’ve ever had…”

I sang the verse, then ground the steel slide up the neck of my cheap heavy Chinese-made dobro for a nice wailing sound, seconded by the blues harp racked at my mouth.

I stood on a busy street corner. The wide brick-and-concrete stairway behind me rose into Ghirardelli Square, a mellow old brickwork waterfront chocolate factory redone as a fancy shopping-dining complex.

My music echoing off the walled stairs was muffled by a news helicopter soaring over Alcatraz Island and aiming for the Golden Gate. Tourists and vendors across the street in Aquatic Park could not hear me. Darn.

I blew another chorus on the C-harp, then paused for a swig of Gatorade, and moved on to the next song. I rasped:

“I’m a back door man,
Yeah, I’m a back door man,
The men don’t know,
But the little girls understand…”

Passersby dropped coins or bills or joints into my open guitar case. I nodded my thanks and kept playing. A troupe of tourists rolled past on Segways and pointed at me. Fake cable cars drove by. Kids played on the Aquatic Park meadow. Late afternoon shadows nearly reached my street corner. Northern clouds drifted to drape the stately slopes of Mount Tamalpais.

My next song was pretty easy — jive on the C-harp in fifth position, then sing:

“If the river was whiskey, And I was a diving duck, Y’know I’d dive right to the bottom, And I would not give a fuck…”

Over my music and the street sounds, I heard the klik-klik of high heels tapping down the concrete steps. I turned and smiled as Jenna Ives neared me.

Jenna’s tailored dark-grey skirt-suit nicely displayed some of her strong lithe legs and enticing curves. She set down her briefcase and leaned against the stairway wall listening to me.

I started the next song, sliding low on the bass strings, growling with the low G-harp in second position, a long moaning intro, then the verse:

“Sometimes I think, Mama, That you just too sweet to die, And other times I think, I think, That you oughta be buried alive…”

Oh yeah, gritty and grim. And about time to call it a day.

I noted the approaching evening chill. Enough, already. I loudly finished my set and packed my harmonicas and guitar — and the contributions, of course. Jenna scooped up her briefcase and stepped to my side. Her fingers lightly strummed on my shoulder.

“Nice playing as usual, Randy. So how’s your day going?”

“Not bad. Made a few bucks, got a few laughs, a few smiles, and nobody threw nasty crap at me.” I crinkled my eyes as I peered into her olive face. “And now you’re here, so everything is just about perfect.”

Jenna laughed and shook her head. Her long dark curls swirled like liquid night.

“Yo, Mister Slick! You’ve been practicing that smooth delivery for a while, I bet.” Her dark eyes sparkled warmly. She touched my faded-denim-clad shoulder again.

“You’re looking a little thin, Ran. You been eating well? How would you like a nice dinner?” She tilted her head toward the classy seafood restaurant at the top of the inviting stairway.

“Well, thanks Jen, but that place is a bit pricey. I’ll be fine with a couple of Carlos’ fish tacos.” I nodded at a food cart across the street in Aquatic Park.

“Look, I’m the business manager here. The house can afford to spot you a meal, no problem. C’mon guy, no excuses! Anyway, I want to talk to you.”

“How can I refuse the request of a lovely young lady?” I uncrinked my long lanky frame and hoisted my guitar case. “Lead on, Jenna.”

“So you can ogle my shapely ass? Nope, come along with me.” She took my free hand. “And thanks for the ‘young lady’ compliment. I’m probably older than you.”

“No way! I thought you were about thirty. You’re pretty damn well-preserved for a lady in her fifties!”

“What?!? No, I’m not even forty. You say you’re over fifty? I don’t believe it!”

“Wanna check my ID? I just stay in shape. Clean living, y’know?” And gym work. Lots of gym work.

***** The entrance lights reflected off my shaved head as we invaded the imposing restaurant. I parked my guitar in the cloakroom and hummed to myself. Jenna led me to a table at the huge plate-glass window overlooking San Francisco Bay.

I pulled out a chair for her. She sat. When I started to sit across from her, she grabbed my arm and plunked me down right beside her. I felt her determination.

Jenna squeezed my shoulder, biceps, side, and thigh.

“You bursa escort sure are tall! And you’re in shape, all right. Fat is a shape too, but that’s not you, Randy.” She squeezed my jeans-covered thigh again. She left her hand resting there.

Our waiter was Chet, a long lean blond kid with a goatee and an attitude. “Hiya boss, what’s your pleasure? Besides the obvious,” he smirked. Jenna did not answer; she just looked at me.

I glanced at the menu.

“How about bringing a pile of appetizers? Anything that isn’t too fried. And do you have Anchor Steam on draft? I’d like a mug, thanks.”

“Appetizers will be fine, Chet, and I’ll have a glass of the ’99 Rochioli chardonnay, lightly chilled.” Jenna turned her attention back to me like a spotlight.

“So what’s your story, Randy? I’ve seen you playing the corner on weekends for quite a while. How did you get there, and what else are you up to?”

“My story? The short version: I started out as a child and it’s been all downhill from there.” I smiled and sipped the dark spicy beer Chet had just delivered.

Jenna slapped my thigh. “Cut the crap, Mister Randall Ronk.”

I sighed. “OK, I was born and spent my childhood around San Diego and the border, but I really grew up here in The City. I started playing this corner around thirty years ago, back when I was a bike courier. I got married, and divorced, and I made many dumb mistakes. I was in the Army a while, then I went to school, got some work, did well, and quit early. Now I’m a busker again. My time is my own.”

I sipped the brew again. “And what’s your story, beautiful?”

“Not yet, big guy. I want some details. You have family? What was your work?”

Another sigh. “My folks died not long ago. I have some distant relatives scattered around. As for work, I wrote a bit of computer stuff that paid well, so I take it easy now. I just try to have a little fun, meet people, get them to throw money at me to stop singing, that sort of thing.”

I didn’t mention the software I had developed that sat in just about every PC in the world, and the continuing revenues from that and other warez I’d written.

“I hitchhiked around a lot when I was young. I’ve spent time just about everywhere between Nome, Newfoundland, and Nicaragua. I make music wherever I go — it’s a nice social lubricant and aphrodisiac. My biggest lesson in life has been to learn when to shut up, to just close my mouth and listen instead of blathering.

“And if a gorgeous gal wants my company enough to feed me, I won’t complain.” I grinned and patted her bare knee, exposed when her skirt slid up. “Your turn.”

Jenna had a nice knee. She took a sip of her light wine.

“I was born back east but was orphaned young, and adopted. My folks were flying home to Lebanon. Their plane crashed. I grew up in the woods in north Idaho with a big family of adopted kids. There was a neo-Nazi compound just down the road. I couldn’t wait to get away. I went to college in Seattle. I’ve been in restaurant management ever since. I ended up here. I like it here in The City. Beats the shit out of Spokane.”

My heart skipped when she mentioned adoption. I controlled myself, acted casual.

“You have any personal life, Jenna? Anything worth talking about?”

“Oh, you mean like marriages and divorces? A couple of those, sure, and I’m past that for now. Except maybe for some animal magnetism. Do you feel magnetized?” She rubbed my thigh again, longer, slower.

“I’m just one big magnetic monopole, gorgeous.” My mug of Anchor Steam was nearly empty now. Chet brought another ale, and the first appetizers, and another smirk.

We enjoyed feeding fishy bits to each other. Sensuously. Yum.

We chatted about our personal predilections. We found we had similar tastes in music (ethnic and jazz), art (non-abstract), politics (liberal), spirituality (subdued), travel (low key), outdoors activities (remote and skyclad), and games (backgammon). We differed on pets: she liked cats while I’d had snakes.

“That’s just *too* stereotypically Freudian, isn’t it, folks?” asked eavesdropping Chet. “The woman goes for, er, pussies, and the man prefers live phallic symbols. Maybe you guys are both closet cases? My analyst would have a ball with you two!”

Jenna growled at him. “Watch your smart mouth, Chet. If you weren’t my big brother’s kid, I’d have to fire you for that!”

“Then I’d just have to move in with you, Aunty Jen. Got an extra bed?”

“Keep that up and you’ll be back washing dishes. Get out of here!”

We were all stifling laughs as Chet sashayed away. Jenna and I exchanged rolling eyeballs, then went back to our discussion.

“How about kids?” Jenna asked. “I never had any. And you?”

My heart skittered again. I tried to keep my expression calm, but something must have leaked out.

Jenna peered into my hazel eyes. “Did I say anything wrong?”

Yet another sigh. “No, you’re okay, fine. I just don’t talk about this much. bursa escort bayan I got married here. We were too young, too wrong. We had a daughter. We realized we were terrible parents, and weren’t getting any better. We put her up for adoption. They said she went to a rich family up in Marin County. I never heard about her again. And we divorced after that. Nothing to hold us together.”

This might have been a mood-killer, but Jenna wrapped her arms around me. “Damn, that must be real hard. Do you ever…?”

“Yeah, all the time. Maybe that’s one reason I’m back in The City, back here on this corner, playing. Maybe she’ll be able to find me here, if she’s curious. I just don’t know if she’s curious, or alive, or what.”

I did not mention that I had hired honest investigators who had not been able to crack the sealed adoption records. Damn.

Jenna squeezed me tighter.

“Randy, let’s get out of here. Will you come with me?”

I felt her touch, her warmth, her fingerprints on my arm. Her human contact.

“Yes, I’d like that,” I said. I closed the door on compartmentalized memories.

Jenna held my hand as we moved to the restaurant entry.

“Where are we going?” I asked, grabbing my guitar.

“My flat is just across the Square. It’s a perk of the job. Is that OK with you?”

“Sure thing. Just let me get my bike.”

***** We walked hand-in-hand down the concrete steps. My dented old Trek mountain bike was still securely chained to an only slightly vandalized tree. I bungeed the guitar to the bike’s rack and started pushing. We climbed the hill to the next corner and around to a delivery entry of the old brickwork candy factory. We rode the service elevator up to the residence level.

Jenna opened her door. We pulled our shoes off and hung our coats.

Jenna’s apartment was small but stunning, with a wide northern window overlooking the Square, the Golden Gate, the Bay, and the hills beyond. The rough brick walls were hung with weavings. I recognized Zapotec bird rugs and Navaho eye-dazzlers, Thai tapestries, Melanesian woven bark hangings, Amish quilts, and other fabric art. Nice stuff.

Jenna noticed my attention. “They’re all easy to roll up and move with.”

“Do you move often?” I asked. She put an arm around my waist.

“Not lately, but I don’t want to be tied down by heavy possessions.”

She pulled me closer and kissed me. “But I sometimes don’t mind being tied up.”

“That can probably be arranged,” I smiled.

Nobody was tied up the first time. That came later, heh heh.

***** We sat awhile on her couch, and embraced, and necked. We touched each other softly. We were unhurried, patient. And after a lifetime of kisses, Jenna held my head and nuzzled me.

“You’re staying the night.” She told me this; not a question. “Yes,” I said.

“Come and undress me,” she ordered, taking my hand and leading me to her bedroom.

We stood together, and methodically stripped each other.

Our shoes and coats were already off. We unbuttoned each other without haste, she working top-down, me bottom-up. Shirts slid away, revealing my red tank top and worked-for muscles, and her thin pale blue bra and sharp clavicle.

I unhooked the bra and released her lovely full breasts’ dark silver-dollar aeroles and pencil-eraser nipples. She peeled my tank top over my head, then rubbed my arms and chest. I returned the gestures. Thumbs brushed nipples, which hardened. Our eyes stayed locked.

I unfastened her skirt; it puddled at her feet. She released my belt and zipper; my jeans obeyed the laws of gravity. She spread her legs enough for me to pull down her dampened blue thong. She relieved me of my now-strained red briefs.

Wearing only socks, we regarded ourselves. We touched and felt our bodies, and gazed upon our nakedness, and drew ourselves together for full-body contact, wandering-hands contact, fully human contact. We murmured.

We lay down on the bed. Our tongues and fingers explored each other. Our mouths shared breaths and tastes and soul — ‘soul’ means ‘breath’. And we glowed.

Jenna felt my cock with her fingers, and laved my cock with her mouth. I felt her vulva with my fingers, and probed her cunt with my tongue. We glowed even more.

Jenna stretched back, spread her legs, and said, “Take me. Love me. Fuck me.”

I slid between her glorious thighs, and kissed her wonderful breasts, and held her eyes with mine, and moved my cock into her. We exclaimed “Oh!” together.

Yes, we made love. Then we fucked. Then we made love again. Then we showered, and fucked again — in the shower, me standing, her bent over and screaming against the flow. Then we washed each other for real, and crawled into her bed, and slept.

I awoke in the wee dark hours with Jenna’s warm mouth engulfing my stiff cock. I enjoyed the attention for a few minutes, then gently tapped her forehead.

“That’s great, beautiful, but nothing much will happen till I empty my escort bursa bladder.”

I crawled off to pee. She followed me, and drained herself. We slipped back into bed, embraced, and slept.

We woke again with the sunrise. Jenna explored my body with her hands and found my scars. She looked into my face with silent inquiry. I shrugged.

“Just some Army stuff. Nothing worth talking about.”

Jenna frowned, then slid down and swallowed my cock again. I pulled her atop me and positioned her pussy over my face. We 69’d to our great mutual satisfaction. My fourth squirty cum in ten hours — not bad for a fifty-year-old honky!

She came many times then, quite loudly, so I won, heh heh.

My cropped steel-grey moustache and her neatly-trimmed mahogany bush were both soaked with sloppy juices by then. We headed back into the shower for cleaning and hugging and a bit more slurping. Fun fun fun.

We finally dragged out of the spray, dried off, and draped ourselves in clean bathrobes.

I fingered my fresh fabric and peered at Jenna. “Ready for guests, were we?”

“I hoped for a while to get you here,” she smiled. “Be prepared, right?”

We had known each other for several months but just as passing acquaintances, I thought. Last night was our first long conversation. And more. I wondered what drew her to me. Ah well, worry about that later.

I heard Jenna on the phone in another room. A rap at the door a few minutes later: Chet, with a breakfast tray and a surly expression.

“What am I, Aunty Jen, your personal servent boy? You’ll have to pay me more! Or fire me. No, that’s right, slaves can’t be fired, they have to be sold.”

“You’d better pray I don’t send you back to Idaho, kid. There’s no Culinary Institute in the north woods. You’d have lotsa fun frying rabid rabbits and boiling pine-needle tea.”

Chet huffed off. We attacked our breakfast. Her French-pressed Honduran coffee was great. So was she.

“Ran, I have to go down to the office for about an hour, but I can be free for the rest of the day. Do you have any plans or can I kidnap you?”

“Abduct me for as long as you like, gorgeous. But maybe I should go home and get some fresh clothes. Good thing I always pack clean skivvies in my guitar case.”

We kissed, and dressed, and kissed again.

***** I force-pedaled my battered bike up the few steep blocks south to my Russian Hill-top digs. I changed into pale Columbia outdoor casuals, tan Eastland day hikers, and a crisp blue Nautica windbreaker, no hat. I stuffed Lee Oskar harmonicas, extra clothes, and a Vaio mini-laptop into my day pack, and strode briskly back downhill to Ghirardelli Square.

The restaurant had not yet opened for lunch but Chet mock-grumpily allowed me in anyway. I sat at last night’s table. I sipped mineral water, beheld the Bay under a clear bright sky, fingered my Ganesh medallion, and pondered Jenna’s secret. I knew she had a secret. I wondered how to unlock it.

I wondered if she would unlock mine.

Jenna joined me. She was also dressed casually, in a pastel blouse and mid-thigh black skirt and gray New Balance walkers. She looked ravishing. Damn, what legs!

I dreamed briefly about those legs. Then I re-focused.

Jenna eyed me up and down. “Hey old man, you *do* clean up pretty nice. Aren’t you blues singers supposed to always be wearing cheap suits or greasy overalls?”

“That’s just for the day job. I don’t usually wear a tux while playing bottleneck guitar.” I flicked imaginary dust motes from my lapel. “So, what’s your plan?”

Lovely Levantine Jenna snuggled against me.

“Well, I thought maybe we could take a drive up the coast. Or go see the Andy Warhol exhibit at the DeYoung Museum. Or just go back to bed and screw like weasels till all our hair falls out. Your choice.”

I chose the last option. No, I had not exactly lacked female companionship lately. I was irregularly seeing a few fine women off-and-on (in-and-out) and had some occasional torrid one-nighters, not completely satisfying. But nobody had attracted or attacked me like Jenna for some years. So we stayed in and around her bed, and fucked and sucked and slurped all day, interspersed with talk and more talk. And yet more slurping. Mmmm…

Turns out, we both had pretty talented tongues, or at least well-trained. We each admired the other’s enthusiastic efforts. We synchronized quite well.

And we *did* get to the DeYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park one afternoon. I admire Warhol’s contrived insanity. Jenna was not quite captivated. Different strokes…

We wandered the rest of the museum too. One small room was filled with a decent private collection of southwestern Native American ceramics and basketry. We both recognized and discussed the artistry, heritage, and techniques. Turned out, we were both pot-heads (pottery lovers).

Then we returned to her flat and made smoky snaky love, seemingly all night long. Did I mention 69’s? Wow, I love mutual oral-genital!

The scenario:

My tongue tasting her womanly essence, probing her delightful depths, licking her slit and strumming her clit till she screams and her juices flow onto and into me, drowning me, and again.

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