My Weekend in Portland Ch. 15

Dying of hunger and thirst, we each gulped down a glass or two of water, then switched to wine while Denise called out for Chinese food. Then we argued over who would have to get dressed to meet the delivery boy. Ruth had to don her trench coat and pay the guy after losing a game of "rock/paper/scissors." She laid out the food, then had to drag me and Denise out of the bedroom. I had my head between the girl's slender legs, my tongue probing deeply in her pussy. Hey, I was hungry! We ate like wolves, then raced each other back to the bedroom. Ruth got there first, but got tangled up getting her coat off. Denise and I started without her, but she soon joined in.

The rest of that night and most of Sunday were the same -- great sex with two eager women and one rapidly tiring guy. I had to rest my dick for longer and longer periods, but my tongue and fingers represented me in the tournament of love. We even slept for several hours in the early morning.

Denise contentedly doubled her lifetime total of climaxes, then doubled that number again. Ruth never seemed to tire of making love to her, or me. I showed them how to scissor their legs together and rub pussies and Ruth LOVED that. Hey, what? I saw it in a documentary! Ruth delighted in being on top, dangling her breasts into Denise's willing mouth.

Although she clearly enjoyed kissing Ruth, and was fascinated by her large breasts, Denise never got into eating pussy. That didn't bother Ruth. Fortunately, I loved delving into Ruth's thick mat of hair to taste her buried treasure. I've always liked hairy pussy for some reason (Not that I don't love tonguing bare pussies, too!).

Denise surprised me around noon by giving me a blowjob that would have revived Elvis. She topped it off by sliding a slender, wet finger into my ass just as I started to shoot gobs of come into her mouth (Hey, that's MY trick!). That orgasm nearly put me into a coma.

Finally the time for my flight began to get close. I dressed and dashed over to Ruth's townhouse for my luggage. The girls talked about taking me to the airport and coming back on the light rail line. But when I returned to Denise's apartment she was in the living room wearing nothing but a tiny white bra. She had Ruth bent over an ottoman and was fucking her doggy-style with the strap-on. I laughed, gave them each a lingering kiss, and left. I heard Ruth begging Denise, "Harder! HARDER!" as I closed the door. A flight attendant had to wake me when we stopped at the gate in San Francisco.

Life went back to normal. I tried calling Ruth and Denise a couple of times, but nobody answered the phone at either place. A week passed, my bruises faded and my dick was no longer sore, then one evening the phone rang at home.

"What have you DONE to my sister!" a female voice hissed angrily in my ear.

"That depends on who your sister is," I retorted.

There was a moment of silence.

"This is Naomi K-------."

Ahhh. Ruth's sister.

"Your sister and I had sex," I said. "A LOT of sex. It was GREAT!"

"She's turned into some kind of PERVERT!" Naomi declared. "She stays somewhere every night, and only goes home to get ready for work. She told me about you, but won't tell me what she's doing NOW."

Ruth and Denise were making up for lost time, I guessed, and keeping it quiet. Smart girls. People can be cruel to those who step outside the usual path, even briefly.

"Don't worry, Naomi, she's not in any danger. I think your sister is just ... exploring something new. She'll get back to normal after awhile."

Naomi wasn't reassured. She angrily muttered something about "exploring" and slammed down the phone.

Another week passed and the phone rang again on Saturday afternoon while I was folding laundry and watching a game on television.

"Is this Mr. K-----?"

"Yep."

"This is Catherine Urbanski," she paused, " ... from Portland?"

I hesitated, racking my brain, then the light began to dawn.

"Officer Urbanski? Is that you?"

"Yes," she admitted lightly, "Officer Urbanski."

"Can I help you in some way, Officer Urbanski," I said, grinning into the phone.

"I think you can," she said. "I'm looking for a caucasian male, about 30 years of age, physically fit, hetero, sense of humor, not too ugly. He has to be somebody who's not a cop groupie, but not intimidated by cops or strong women."

"Weeeelll," I said, "I fit that description, Officer Urbanski. Were you considering coming to San Francisco to take me into custody?"

"I was hoping I could come down there, and we could take each other into custody," she laughed. "That is, unless your friend in Portland would object."

"No, no," I said. "Ruth and I are just old friends. Would next weekend fit your plans?"

"I was about to reserve a flight on Friday afternoon," she admitted, "AND a hotel reservation."

"I like a woman with a sense of adventure ... and caution," I said. "I'll buy us dinner Friday night and we can get acquainted. If you hate my guts, there's always Fisherman's Wharf and Chinatown."

"I was hoping you'd say that," she laughed, "most guys get scared off when they meet me ... professionally."

"I enjoyed meeting you, Catherine" I said truthfully, "but I didn't think you enjoyed meeting me."

"Call me Cathy," she laughed. "You're right, I was pissed. But my partner convinced me I was just too tired to see the humor. So I tried to look at things objectively and finally started laughing. Then I began to think about calling you."

I told her she had a great laugh and I was glad she called. Then I got her flight and hotel information and we said goodbye. I was still standing with my hand on the phone, thinking of Cathy Urbanski, when the doorbell rang.

I didn't immediately recognize the attractive, dark-haired young woman on my doorstep, but she looked familiar so I let her push past me into my apartment. I closed the door and followed her into the living room.

"Do you know who I am?" she said, turning to face me with an odd, tense expression on her face. She dropped her overnight bag and began to unfasten her coat.

I hesitated for a moment, "Naomi K-------?"

"Yes," she said, standing tall and defiantly throwing open her coat.

Except for her shoes, Naomi was nude, skin flushed, nipples pointing stiffly. Her long legs were visibly shaking.

She tried to speak, but couldn't.

"Don't worry," I soothed, opening my arms. "I know what to do."

(End of Chapter 15, end of My Weekend in Portland)