CHAPTER ONE–BACK HISTORY
I successfully defeated police arrest for a DUI. My secret weapon? My mouth, and my pussy, yep, my sore asshole! Most of you guys would call me a whore, but you’d be jealous of my skills when it comes to beating a DUI arrest, or maybe not.
My name is Wallenda. I was named after that family of high wire artists, the tightrope walkers from the circus, the ones who were always falling down. I think my Mom got pregnant the night with one of her boyfriends, which one I’m not sure, the night the Wallenda’s came to town.
I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’ve been sexually active for a long while. I grew up in Idaho, where the farmers grow corn and have dicks as big as corn cobs. My Dad disappeared sometime in the paleolithic after arguing with Mom. Mom had a bevy of guys who lived with us off and on until Mom remarried when I was in my late teens. Morris Yanovichi was a patient man, he waited until I was 18 before he started molesting me. He said he was waiting for my tits to stop growing.
So, from the time I was a double D, I had to put up with my stepfather’s intrusions. I’d come home from a date, half crocked or high on weed. He was a strong fucker. While Mom was snoring, Yanovichi would slip into my bedroom and try to fuck me. He couldn’t keep his hands off my titties. Sometimes I was able to put him off with a hand job. Other times I was too spacey to resist. That was when he’d get what he wanted.
If I refused to suck his cock, he’d grab me by my ponytail and jerk off onto my scalp. I’ll admit his cum load was an excellent hair conditioner. Mom would say how great my hair looked in the morning. I didn’t tell her why, it would have broken her heart. Finally, I decided I had to move on.
On my 20th birthday, I made my move. I dropped out of Junior College and ran away from home with a guy I met in a sport’s bar. He came by my place at 5am with his old jeep, and I snuck out the door. Gary and I drove out to his Uncle’s farm in Oregon. We stayed there for a few months. Of course, we pitched in with the farm work to help out. His Uncle Abner was quiet, except for his cheap cigars, he left us alone.
What broke the bank was an argument Gary and I had. One night when Gary was out late one night drinking with his farm boy buddies Uncle Abner slipped into my bed. Thinking it was Gary, I didn’t resist, but when that fucking rapist started calling me a dirty cunt, I realized who’d had me. Worse, he smelled terrible, like a stale cigar. Of course, Gary, the loyal nephew, didn’t believe Uncle Abner had raped me.
“Even if he fucked you, it’s cause you are always going around half-naked, it’s your fault, you made him do it. You are too horny for any one guy to satisfy.”
That last nasty line was my exit cue. I’d found a hippy newspaper at the summer festival in town a few weeks before the Abner incident. There was an article about a hippie farm commune called the “Love Life Commune,” where holistic life and new age lifestyle were practiced. I figured I’d give it a try.
I took money out of a tobacco jar where Abner kept his change hidden and set out with my small suitcase for the highway, intent on hitchhiking to Utah to see what the Commune was all about. I got lucky. Two college kids, Mormons, Brother Adam, and Brother Joseph, saw me by the side of the road in my short skirt and tight scoop-necked red sweater and slowed their noisy Ford pickup truck to a stop for me. I got in between the two of them. They seemed pretty nice and didn’t bother me, although one of them, Joseph, kept looking sideways at my tits and getting a hard-on. Boys will be boys. I said nothing.
It was a lovely drive that would take most of the day. When we stopped at noon, I offered to buy them lunch at a hamburger place. I paid for it mostly with quarters. The rest of the drive we listened to Bible tapes. The boys were kind enough to drop me off outside the gate to the Commune. There was a big sign right there just off the highway decorated with some green floral design. When I got out of the car, I leaned into the window to thank them. I didn’t realize I was showing off my cleavage. Brother Joseph popped another boner. I reached in and gave his dick a quick squeeze.
That prompted Brother Joseph’s offer to carry my bag past the front gate. Before we got there, he started fooling around, grabbing my tits, so I pulled him behind a big oak tree. My intention was to give him a fast blow job to calm him down. He had on these white boxers with crazy symbols on them, but once we pulled them to his knees and his thick dick was out in the sunshine, I got to work.
That Mormon must have been storing up his seed for a long time because I almost choked trying to swallow it all. Having paid my dues for the long drive, I paused.
“Would you do Adam?” he asked.
“I’m like the one a day vitamin, I don’t do two guys in one day,” I said.
Brother Joseph patted me warmly on my head but didn’t kiss me goodbye. Some guys are strange that way after you’ve sucked their cock, they’re not into bakırköy üniversiteli escort puckering up like maybe you’ll taste bad. Anyway, to each his own. Joseph said, “Goodby,” and ran back to the old Ford pickup truck. It backfired a few times as they headed off to Salt Lake City.
CHAPTER TWO — THE COMMUNE
I carried my bag the rest of the way down the path to the office. It was empty, so I waited a while. I noticed a ringer screwed onto a two by four, so I hit the buzzer. A tall guy with a plaid shirt came running in. He looked a little like Howard Stern except his beak had been clipped.
“Sorry to keep ya wait-in, my name is Jerry.”
“Hi Jerry, I come to see the Commune.”
“Here,” here he said, “Take a Kleenex, you got some white stuff on your face.”
I wiped that slug of the Mormon’s cum off my cheek without comment as the young man filled out a form that checked me in as a temporary visitor. Jerry explained that as a “temp,” I could get a look at what life on a Commune was like before deciding if I wanted to seek admission as a full member.
Jerry was kinda cute. He had dark curly hair and some strange sort of black cowboy hat with a big button that said J for J.
“What’s that button mean?” I asked.
“Oh that, stands for Jerry for Jesus.”
“That’s nice, so you like living here at the Commune?”
“Sure,” he said, “you gotta chip in and work for your supper, but there are other benefits. The people here are super friendly.”
I found out later that what Jerry meant by “super friendly” was that they practiced a loose Christian religion that had an attitude that encouraged casual sex among members. Around an evening campfire, weather permitting, members would smoke homegrown pot and cuddle.
“Where are you from Jerr, you don’t sound like you’re from these parts?”
“You got a good ear, Wallenda, I was born and raised in Williamsburg in Brooklyn, but I like it here a whole lot better.”
I did look around for the next few days, and I gotta say the place impressed me. I decided to try to qualify to become a member. I learned I would have to pass a two-part interview, both medical and psychological.
First, there was a medical exam. A chubby black nurse had to check me for any STDs. I undressed. She took swabs of my throat and vagina. Then a man came in wearing a white coat. I assumed he was a doctor. I was still on the GYN table naked except for a paper sheet.
When he started carefully checking my breasts for any lumps, he asked how large they were.
“38 double D’s,” I said. He nodded and squeezed my nipples for any discharge. He carefully examined my vagina for any infectious warts. He seemed to spend a lot of time probing and measuring. I thought he was getting off on it when he said,
“If you get married, your big breasts are gonna make some boy happy?”
Then he told me to turn over. While palpitating my buttocks, he reached between my legs and grabbed my vulva with his two fingers and probed until my clit swelled up. I was surprised he wasn’t wearing gloves. Then he inserted some measuring device between my butt cheeks.
“Hold still,” he said.
The nurse came in and swabbed my asshole.
I asked the nurse why the swab was necessary. She responded, “If you did anal with a sick guy, your butt could be infected.”
He then squirted some lube in my butt and used some cold metal instrument that he inserted in my rectum and measured me.
“Kinda narrow but a good 8 1/2 inches deep.” The nurse wrote it down.
I’d never been butt fucked up to that point, so I guessed I passed the test.
Why was my ass hole being surveyed? The doctor said it had to do with a nutrition study he was working on with the national health council.
The Doc left the room but returned wearing a plaid jacket. He introduced himself as Dr. Hans Gruber, a Certified Psychologist. This was the same guy who had just checked me for warts. Now began the second part of the process, a psychological interview.
I laid there quasi nude, still wearing a paper surgical outfit. At the same time, the Doc asked many questions about my family, growing up, drug usage, and very personal information about my sexual experiences. Of course, I told him about the molestations. He said they had councilors who’d work with me. One of the girls had tipped me off, that if I wanted to join the Commune, I should blow or fuck the guy interviewing me. It was called “a test of faith.”
The “test” came after all the questions when Gruber unzipped his pants. He wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“It is important that you understand human male anatomy,” he said.
Gruber then got up in my face with his hard-on. He asked me to hold his penis in my hand. As Guber got erect, he gently put his large hand behind my head, pushing my face closer to his throbbing dick while sliding his finger between my lips to open my mouth. I did what he expected and sucked his cock. What else could I do? His cock bakırköy bdsm escort was not too large, and his cum load was minimal. I had no other place to go.
As I finished sucking his cock, he encouraged me repeatedly to swallow his load, but I just couldn’t. When I spit it out, he made some notation on his pad. I was afraid I’d failed, but no, Gruber told me I passed. He added, “I’ll call you back to practice swallowing.”
I was called in several times during my time at the Commune to practice until Guber was satisfied. When I explained my difficulty, Gruber said,
“If you put a penis deep in your throat, the semen will go straight down your throat, and you won’t even know you’ve swallowed.”
He was right. During our practice sessions, I didn’t even taste the semen, if it didn’t touch my tongue. When I felt it, I really didn’t mind the flavor. Every guy’s cum has its own unique taste. When you’ve blown a guy that sees you taste and swallow, his eyes begin to shine. Eventually, I mastered the technique to meet Guber’s satisfaction.
At these call back sessions, Guber would check to see if my ass hole had enlarged. He would put a dark mask on my eyes, tell me to turn over, butt side up. Using a soft measuring probe, it didn’t hurt at all. I guess by that time, my ass had expanded into being public property on the farm. Anal sex had become second nature at the campfire orgies where if you were being fucked by one guy, another would make it a threesome with his dick right up my kazoo. The last few times Guber measured my butt hole, I realized he was probing me with his bare cock. He was smiling and seemed so happy with his deception that I said nothing and played dumb as he called out the numbers, “9 1/2 deep, 2 1/2 inches wide.”
By now, I figured that The Love Life Institute should be called the Free Love Institute. Dr. Hans Gruber distributed birth control pills every morning with orange juice. When I asked,
“Why no condoms?”
Gruber remarked, “Guys don’t like them.”
Free love seemed to be the answer to our existence. What was the question? The question was, “Wanna fuck?” What were the consequences? UTI’s were common.
The Commune was in the northeast Timpanogos Mountains in the Wasatch Range. Living on the Commune wasn’t all fun and games. To remain an active member of the Commune, each member had to spend 5 to 6 hours a day tending to the agricultural crop, marijuana plants.
The secret entrance to the field was through an old mining tunnel that took you 50 feet below the surface and then wound slowly back up. When you popped out of the darkness, the bright sun and verdant green almost knocked you over—also the strong skunky odor of the crop. The hemp acreage was hidden in a lush valley fed by glacial streams. It was as if Jesus himself had provided for us, said Jerry. The row after row of plants was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
After working in the hot sun for hours, you sure got a thirst. Fortunately,
someone had hooked up a few solar panels and car batteries that kept an old fridge used as a water cooler at an icy temperature. After working in the sun for hours, that cooler sure came in handy. I never knew spring water could taste so good.
Almost every day, the members, numbering more girls than boys, would work to harvest the hemp. We packed it and prepared it for shipping or delivery. Supposedly the pot was earmarked for people who needed medical marijuana.
Of course, as agricultural workers, we had to sample our produce before going back through the tunnel. We’d smoke some of it at the end of the workday if none of the senior members were present. It seemed like pretty strong stuff, hybrid Sativa, not the med-pain-killing variety. At night we’d have campfire sing-alongs, and that was when they’d give out free joints. These joints were so intoxicating I’d passed out more than once, waking up in the middle of a campfire orgy. I couldn’t remember what had happened, so I asked one of the girls who’d watched. She said it looked like I was in a trance. While I was sucking one guy’s cock while on all fours, different guys were taking turns jamming their dicks into my pussy. She said she watched as I was fucked at least six times, not counting the butt fucks. Being the new girl on the block, every guy wanted a piece of me.
I stayed on and ended up spending six incredible months at the Commune, but all that rough sex had its effect.
The Doc had arranged for me to go through several rape counseling sessions with therapists. Usually, the “therapists” were older commune members who practiced a treatment called “friendly sex.” The idea was to remove any remaining rape trauma from the past by erasing them through positive sexual relations. These older members spent a great deal of time talking and gently touching before we had intercourse. This treatment seemed to help. I stopped having rape nightmares.
I also attended several “swallow sessions,” and in the end, I was able to perform satisfactorily bakırköy elit escort with patients that the Doc chose for me to practice on. At the end of those sessions, I would also be measured. The doctor said my butt hole had enlarged nicely as a result of the campfire sessions. He congratulated me on having improved, saying I would not suffer constipation or digestive problems in later life. That seemed like a good trade-off, but I did have a sore butt hole.
After six months of repeated weekly orgies, I began to realize my vagina was too sore to continue. I needed a break. I felt mentally healed as a result of the rape therapy sessions and felt ready to pursue a useful, healthy life. My friend Leslie Dunning was going home for two weeks to visit with her parents in Los Angeles. The Commune had good relations with the member’s parents because they encouraged brief trips back home. Most cults run into problems because they try to isolate the members from their families. Of course, we were told not to discuss the sex orgies that went on.
That’s how I got to Los Angeles, where I stayed with the Dunnings. Before leaving, I told them I was going off to see my Dad, but that a lame excuse. I wasn’t even sure who the bugger was. Instead, I looked for a job, a new place to stay, and started my new life. I don’t know if LA was the best place to search for normalcy, but it seemed an excellent place to get started. I seemed to be a hit with the male population who would wave and stop for me on my morning jogs along the Sunset Strip.
CHAPTER THREE — THE MARIJUANA DISPENSARY
Since I knew so much about marijuana, it was easy to get a job in a marijuana dispensary. I walked into a Green Cross store and asked Mitch, the frontman, if they were hiring. He sent me to the backroom to talk with Dominic. We hit it off right away. When I told him where I learned about weed, he said he knew about the farm and had bought pot from the Utah commune off the books.
“Is that place as wild as I’ve heard,” Dom asked me?
“It’s all you’ve heard and then some,” I responded.
“Only in America,” Dom said under his breath.
I started work on Monday morning at the dispensary. It was like a retail store with a big green cross on the front window.
We were not the Red Cross. We were the Green Cross. Unlike the many social aids the Red Cross practiced, we just sold pot and collected money. Even though the buds were in glass closed containers, the place smelled pretty intense once you got inside.
I was assigned to sort the buds by size and subspecies. The Sativa buds were one shape, and Indica buds were another. Hybrid cannabis varied in size. There were also ruderalis hybrids. That species thrives in harsh weather and has become popular with the tremendous diversification of cannabis hybrids.
By the time a few months had passed, I had become a trusted member of the dispensary family. My boss and co-worker were now my best friends. Dom, Mitch, and I would often light up at the end of the day and relax after the iron gates were locked.
As in most sexual activities, once you lower the barriers and become lax, behavior moves quickly to completion. One act leads to another. We were all stoned on Saturday night. I was sitting on Mitch’s lap when he put his hand under my skirt. He pushed aside my thong and began fingering my pussy. It felt so good I let him continue. The result was that I got very horny. Even though I was stoned, I could feel Mitch’s finger pushing his erect cock inside me, taking the place of his fast-moving fingers. While Mitch slowly fucked me, Dom, seeing what was going on, walked over, and pulled out his dick. As spacey as I was, I pulled him closer and started to blow him. “What are friends for,” Wasn’t that Whitney’s song, or was it? Before the threesome concluded, I had the proverbial “big gulp” and a very wet pussy.
The week after that, what had been a sort of one-night stand became a habit. We were all high again. Group sex became an integral part of our toking. When Mitch seemed to fall asleep, it seemed only fair to let Dom, who was wide awake playing with his cock, fuck me on the Lazy-Boy recliner. These little parties once started, as you might have expected, continued. The result was that the three of us bonded like peanut butter and jelly. I didn’t mind the sex and enjoyed letting both of them fuck me. After all, why do girls have pussies? Use it or lose it, they say. Both guys were gentle and had good sized cocks, why let a good erection go to waste?
It turned out having sex together was a good thing. It didn’t interfere with the job. We were all serious and business-like from 9 to 6, and I never asked for favors. The only bonus was that the guys would often buy me lunch. Of course, the after-work bong hits or joints were on the house, as was my pussy. It was just me and these two guys, kind of a worker’s ménage à trios.
So there I was, stinking of cannabis. Weed tends to work its way into your clothes, your hair, and every pore of your skin. If you’ve been smoking the super intoxicating hybrid Sativa, it takes a few hours to come down. Once that time had passed, I felt sober enough to drive home. Figuring I’d be washing up and showering, only a ten-minute drive out Los Feliz Boulevard. I just left the dispensary without washing up. When the fresh air hit my crotch, I realized I’d leaked the guy’s sperm all over my panties.