Memoirs, Chapter Four free porn video

Emma was pregnant. I thought it was mine. Emma's pregnancy was the third shoe to drop after losing Molly, my girlfriend, and losing my job. Molly never found out about me and Emma. If she had, we would have parted much earlier.

Emma was one of the college girls I had photographed before Molly and I split. Molly dumped me because Deede couldn't keep her mouth shut about our little "dalliance," as Molly put it. Emma, however, did keep our secret and just wanted to feel whole again. Emma meant she wanted to feel sexually whole, and that is why I was photographing her nude. I remembered Emma because she was the one who combed her pussy hair before I took a close-up of her touching herself. Emma wanted the picture to look sexy but not raunchy. Seduction was part of her game. I was an easy mark. Before I left her, I inseminated her with a gusher of cum inside that perfectly groomed pussy.

I panicked when Emma told me she had missed her period and wanted an abortion. Two weeks later and after some deliberation, Emma said it wasn't mine after all. She had looked back at her calendar to check out her last period. She had a one night stand with some guy a week or two before me. Emma didn't even know his name. Apparently, I was second in line, and she was already pregnant when I fucked her.

Okay, what could I do about a job? I had few skills. I had been a photographer and a military cook, that's it. A photographic journal I had seen at the Armbruster Camera Store ran ads for professional photographers. One was especially interesting. A startup magazine called "Playboy" was looking for photographers with experience photographing nudes. I certainly had the résumé . The problem was the publication was in Chicago, and I wasn't ready to relocate to a big city like Chicago.

My mom suggested I go to culinary school. There was the Bloomington Cooking School in town, so I applied. Their semester had already begun but the school said because of my military experience, they would make an exception allowing me to enroll late. The teacher, Mrs. Norris, said she would help me catch up. That's how I found myself wearing a toque and white uniform.

The class size was small, eight students. They all were just out of high school making me the old man of the group. Two were boys, the rest were girls. The black girl, Troya, stood out from the rest. She was stunning. I made a mental note to be certain to get to know her better.

I was amazed at how real cooking was so different from military cooking. However, like in the army, I picked up the skills quickly. Mrs. Norris said I was a natural. In fact, in the fifth week of class, Mrs. Norris stopped me after class. She wanted to talk with me about something.

"Spencer, I'm having a dinner party this weekend at my house. It's one of those boring faculty parties. I thought you might like to show off your culinary skills and help me cook dinner. Normally my husband would assist me, but he is in France on a six month sabbatical. What do you think?"

Of course, I jumped at the chance. She gave me the list of ingredients and a detailed recipe. I was at her house two hours before the guests were scheduled to arrive. I wore my culinary uniform to look professional.

The table setting was immaculate. The kitchen had every implement a chef could require. Mrs. Norris pretty much left me alone to prepare the piece de resistance, the main course. She had already fixed the appetizers, salads and desserts. I was somewhat nervous, but having served hundreds of men in the army, I wasn't intimidated.

Everything turned out as planned, even better than good. Mrs. Norris pulled me out of the kitchen to introduce me to her guests. Everyone gave me an enthusiastic ovation. The dinner was a success, and I felt a level of ride that I had never felt as an army cook. All that was left was the cleanup.

Mrs. Norris attended to her guests while I labored in the kitchen cleaning pots and pans, plates and glasses. When I was nearly done wiping the last bowl, she said, "Let me help you with that. You know, Spencer, you were the star chef tonight." She gave me a warm hug to emphasize her admiration.

"Thanks Mrs. Norris. I enjoyed it. Has everyone left?"

"Yes, Derrick is always the last one to leave. To be honest, I think Derrick thinks if he stays long enough, I will invite him to stay the night."

"I can understand that. You are a beautiful woman, Mrs. Norris."

"You think so? Oh, you can call me Betty. And another thing, I overheard the others talking about you. They all think you're hot. Actually, so do I. Graham and Nathan are really enamored with you. You know their gay, right?

"I suspected, but I'm not interested. I like women."

"Do you like me?" she asked.

"Very much. You are a great teacher, Mrs. Norris."

"Betty, remember?

"Sure." I smiled, then said, "Betty, like in Betty Crocker."

"What I meant was, do you find me attractive?"

"Of course."

"Do you want me?"

I stared at her with an incomprehensible expression. "What do you mean, Betty?"

"Look, I know I'm old enough to be your mother, but I'm still pretty good in bed. Have you ever had sex with someone my age?

A smile served as my answer.

Of course," she said. "You were in the army. By the way, Spencer, I love that smile of yours.

Sensing the possibility that I could get some after dinner pussy, I said, "Betty, it was a few years ago, and the woman wasn't nearly as lovely as you."

Mrs. Norris seemed to have ignored that remark and went on as if she hadn't heard it. "You can decide for yourself if a mature woman can still satisfy a young hunk like yourself. Let's go upstairs and find out."

She took me to the master bedroom and helped me out of my chef's uniform. I was down to my underwear when she excused herself. Mrs. Norris came back to the bedroom wearing something interesting, to say the least. She wore an open bra lace negligee that barely covered her ass. Her panties were of the split crotch variety. To complete the ensemble, she wore a garter fastened to fishnet stockings. Although her breasts had a bit of a middle age droop, they were sexy in their own way.

"Do you like it, Spencer?"

"Delicious," I stammered. "Good enough to eat," I added.

"Well, we can get to that later. Let's see what's making that bulge in your shorts."

I stood there as she pulled down my briefs massaging my cock with her wet lips, then her tongue, then I was in her mouth. Her hands caressed my balls as I stood with my feet apart.

"My, this is a mouthful," and she emphasized the word 'is'. "Do you like getting a blow job?"

She didn't wait for an answer, and had me in her mouth before I could spit out a single word.

"Yum, you are so hard, Spencer. I'm getting so wet." It was Spencer this and Spencer that, then she went back to sucking my cock.

"Come to bed with me my star pupil, and show me more about good eating and your extraordinary talents. You know, my husband loves to fuck me wearing these crotchless panties. I hope you will like it too."

My teacher laid on her back spreading her legs for me to delight in an after dinner snack. I ate her out until she finally screamed, "Get that plump bratwurst inside me before I pass out." She opened her legs even wider waiting for me to stuff my sausage in her steaming honey pot.

I fucked her through the night never removing the outfit she wore. It was the only time all night long that I had spilled anything, and I spilled it in Betty's cunt. Mrs. Norris assured me she no longer could get pregnant and wanted to cook my creampies in her hot oven. So each time I came, it was deep inside her slippery "oven." She never could get enough of my "talents." The thing about Mrs. Norris is that she loved oral play and came easily. I left early the next morning exhausted. The next day, she greeted her apprentice chef as though nothing had happened; business as usual in the kitchen.

Troya and I had become soul mates. She was talented, bright and beautiful. When we were learning how to fry and inject Berliner Pfannkuchen with jam, I got so excited thinking about injecting Troya with my own brand of jelly, that I had strawberry jam all over my apron. I yearned for her body. 

Troya didn't seem interested until the final exam. We all were expected to bake an exceeding difficult soufflé. Making the slightest error and the whole thing would implode. Our grades were on the line. Troya invited me to her apartment to go over the ingredients and recipe, even have a trial run. She wanted to leave nothing to chance. The thing was, the trial run wasn't what I had expected.

When I got to her apartment, she said she had forgotten one of the ingredients, but we could go over the recipe. We sat on her couch reviewing each step. Troya sat uncharacteristically close wearing a very seductive perfume. After a few minutes pretending to study, she said, "Oh hell, Spencer, I asked you here to have little fun. Then she kissed me. I jumped on her faster than you could say, " soufflé ."

Our hands were all over each other. It had all the makings of two people in heat, and we found all the right places to satisfy each other. I opened her blouse and unhooked her bra leaving two chocolate mounds to devour. Our kisses were deep and hard. She had her hand between my legs. I took her to the bedroom where we finally left the last piece of clothing on the floor.

When I went down on her, Troya's bristly pussy hair made my nose red like Rudolph's. For her part, she also was no stranger to giving oral sex. Her tongue was sensuous. Troya gave my cock the same delicious attention she might give an ice cream cone melting over its edges. She had a terrific uninhibited appetite for my cock and balls. I licked her erect clit and was in awe of the egg white like ooze trickling past her pussy lips. Troya was so hot, so wet, so aroused and so ready to be fucked. I accommodated her.

Troya said she had never had white cock before. I told her I had never had black pussy. She asked how I liked it. I said, "What's there not to like?"

I asked her if she liked it. She said, "Well, you're not as long as my boyfriend, but you sure have the thickness to make up for it."

"Do you still date the guy?" I asked.

"Of course," she answered. "He was right where you are last night."

I responded with, "Okay, I get it," and fucked her again.

Both of our soufflés were beautiful examples of French cooking. Others in the class were not so lucky. Graham wept like a little girl when his soufflé flopped. For me, my first class was a triple success. I went on to win top honors before graduating. I quickly found a job at a local upscale restaurant serving important clientele as an assistant chef. My timing was perfect. After only six months on the job, the top chef moved onto a new restaurant in Chicago. They named me to fill his position.

Usually in my situation, they hire a chef with a three month contract. Depending on customer satisfaction, you either get a year long contract or are asked to move on. I worked hard to gain the trust and admiration of the owners and was rewarded with a full year lease as top chef. At twenty-five, almost twenty-six, I was pleased with my progress.

The years rolled by. Before I knew it, I was thirty. Lots had happened in those intervening four and a half years since being hired as top chef. With the help of some friends and my parents, I opened my own restaurant. It was a sports restaurant targeted at the college crowd. The food was far from gourmet. It didn't have to be. All that was required was having kegs of beer and offering plenty of junk food. We didn't call it that. We dressed it up to sound more sporty, like "The Hoosier Burger" and "Hoops Hotdog." 

Pizza was popular, and that's where my culinary expertise came into play. I invented the "Playoff Pizza." In time, people came from all over Indiana to check it out. The more people that tried it, the more popular our restaurant became, so I was able to open two more restaurants in the area. The money rolled in. I bought one of the better homes in Bloomington. Who would have thought that a guy with little more than a high school education could become the richest eligible bachelor in town.

My situation came with drawbacks. I was always busy with little time to date women. The stress from running three restaurants was beginning to show. I was irritable and had trouble sleeping. My dad said I needed time away from the hospitality business. He suggested a vacation. I said it couldn't be done. He suggested hiring managers for each restaurant to help take the pressure off. I took his advice.

Once the managers were in place, my job was managing the managers. After awhile, they became more independent, and I took some time away from business. My dad had been right, and I began to relax.

I had gotten word about my old army unit. Somehow, Jack worked his way out of going to Korea. He stayed on the base as a sergeant in charge of new recruits. It worked out well for him. Apparently, Brandy had found several other women, both married and divorced, who enjoyed the company of young military men. They organized a "home away from home" arrangement for the soldiers that included, what they called, "Wives with benefits." It also helped to grease Jack's pockets and subsidize Brandy's monthly income. I almost wished I was still in the army.

One spring day a package arrived in the mail. Inside was a "Playboy" magazine. "My God," I thought. "This is the same publication at which I almost applied as a photographer."

There was a note. It said, "Check out the centerfold." I looked inside and was greeted by a lovely girl with really big tits. I went back to the note. "Spencer, do you recognize me? My girlfriends suggested I send the pictures you took to the magazine. Someone contacted me and invited me to Chicago. Now I'm the May Playmate of the Month and in color! I also have a job in the Playboy Club. You ought to come to Chicago and visit. Thanks, you got me started. Love, Molly."

Oh my God, who would have guessed that my Leica could be put to such good use. After all these years, I probably still have that "Playboy" packed in a trunk somewhere along with the camera. Anyway, it motivated me to go on a vacation, not to Chicago, but to somewhere far from the Midwest.

Besides ogling over Molly's airbrushed pictures in "Playboy," I also read ads for vacations. Some were adult resorts and some were for singles. I did some research and found one that even offered a "clothing optional" beach on a small island in the Caribbean. It sounded like the perfect getaway. I imagined gorgeous nude girls running all over the beach. At least that's what the advertisement seemed to suggest.

I called the number listed and made reservations for the day after Christmas when it is cold in Indiana and warm in the Caribbean. The resort picked me up at the airport and took my luggage to a suite with a large picture window overlooking the ocean. I settled in for a week of contentment.

After continuously working an eighteen hour day, seven days a week, I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know how to relax.

Dinner that first night was a seafood buffet. The food was good. I met an older couple from the Netherlands. They love the nudist lifestyle, and had been to the resort many times. They were curious about me. I told them about my restaurants and how I got into the business. One topic lead to another, and we talked about the freedom of being naked. "You'll enjoy it once you get used to it," they promised.

It had been a long day so I turned in early. At sunrise some of the early birds were already on the beach. Most were wrapped in beach towels to keep warm, but when the sun's warm rays heated the white sandy beach, the towels were left on deck chairs. Breakfast was served in thatched roof cabanas attracting more and more people as the day went on. I noticed that some, but not all, resort guests were naked. Some women were topless with thongs to cover their more private parts. A few of the men did the same. The first thing I did that morning was to go to a shop in the main building and buy a swim thong. That was how I eased into the nude bathing lifestyle.

I kept to myself enjoying those tropical drinks with little paper umbrellas. The first observation I came away with is that nude beaches are over-rated. Most people look better wearing clothes. There were very few people with sexy appealing bodies. There were no nude nyphettes prancing on the beach.

At dinner, most people were dressed. There were the hardcore nudists that simply had an aversion to clothes at every occasion. We all had reserved seats at the table where I met several couples. Again, the conversation started with, "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" One man at the table asked if anyone had met swingers this week. That lead to a discussion on the pros and cons of swinging. One middle age couple said it frees the soul and is a better high than tripping on weed. Another couple said they wanted to try it, but the woman was resistant. 

All of a sudden there was a full scale discussion on existentialism. I had no idea what they were talking about and tuned them out. I read once that there's a fine line between being a good listener and not giving a rat's patoot. I was on the rat's side.

I went to the bar and had several drinks. There was a young woman sitting alone at a table on the patio. She was one of the few guests about my age. I thought of introducing myself, but wasn't sure if she was waiting for a partner. Instead, I exchanged small talk with some of the people at the bar. Everyone was friendly. They were amazingly open about their bodies and sexual desires. For the most part, again I listened. 

The sun seemed to always shine on this Caribbean island. The next day was sunny and bright. People were playing beach volleyball or reading a book and of course, swimming. The girl I had seen the night before was reading a book with no one else nearby. She wore a string bikini that covered the essentials, but easily displayed a beautifully shaped body. I kept my eye on her looking for her better half, that is, someone that came to the resort with her.

In the late afternoon, I purposely walked past her and said, "Hi." She barely looked up from her book and didn't acknowledge me. It was if I was a fly that she dismissed with the swipe of a hand. I now had something to keep me busy. My challenge was this girl. Before the week was over, I was determined to at least have her speak to me.

After dinner that night, she was alone at her place on the patio wearing a light summer print dress. The temperature was still very warm from the day's blistering temperatures. I imagined she wore nothing under the dress. I sat at the table beside her.

She looked up and said, "That seat is taken."

I pretended to look around to find its owner, then flashed a smile moving to the next seat. She said, "That one too."

"Hi, my name is Spencer." She didn't look up and remained silent. "Spencer from Indiana."

"Yes?" she said as if waiting for my pickup line.

"I own three restaurants."

"Why?"

"To feed people, of course."

"Of course," she repeated.

"Can I get you a drink?" I asked.

"I don't drink. Have a nice evening Mr. Spencer."

"It's Spencer Dogmeyer."

"Have a nice evening Spencer Dogmeyer."

Again she abruptly dismissed me like an irritating bug buzzing around her face. At least I had broken the ice and got her to speak. I left her alone and returned to the bar.

She was a creature of habit. The next day she sat in the sun with a book wearing the same string bikini. She illustrated the fact that wearing clothes can be sexier than no clothes. Anyway, I had a plan. I went to the thatched roof cabana and bought her a drink. I sat it on the little table next to her chair.

"I told you I don't drink, Mr. Spencer."

"Just call me Spencer, and it's called a 'Friendship' drink. It is non-alcoholic, but has special vitamins making strangers into friends."

"I don't want a friend."

"I want to be your friend."

"Why?"

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Because you look like you could use one."

"Not really," she said with a tinge of sarcasm.

"Enjoy your drink," I said and left her alone. This time she watched as I took a dip in the ocean.

Dinner time was like Happy Hour at my restaurants. It was as much to socialize as to eat. I met people from all over, Europe, Asia, Canada, and of course the United States. People had many stories to tell and many lifestyles to live. I met lesbian couples and gay men; married couples that were swingers and straight couples that were on vacation trying out a nudist resort for the first time. There were some single folks with a travel partner and there was me. I was really the odd man out. This vacation was relaxing, too relaxing. I had made a mistake in choosing this for my getaway vacation.

I sat at the bar after dinner talking restaurant talk with the manager. We were comparing notes when I spotted the girl in the print summer dress. Again I slipped into a seat across from her. "Is the drink working?" I asked.

"What drink?"

"The 'Friendship' drink."

"Oh, that. I enjoyed it. Thanks. It was so hot today; I ordered another one. You know what Spencer? They didn't know anything about a 'Friendship' drink."

"Sorry. I thought that was what they called it. So what are you doing here all alone?"

"The same as you, to chill out."

"This isn't exactly the place to get chilled," I said with a grin. It was the first time I had seen her smile.

"I need some space. That's why I've been rude to you."

"I'll be honest," I said. "I don't mind. We get a lot of rude customers at the restaurant. Anyway it gave me something to do."

"What do you mean?"

"It gave me an opportunity to make a new friend. Can we be friends?"

"Maybe. Like I said, I need my space."

We chatted for the next half hour when she excused herself and said goodnight. I learned her name was Ursula, and she had been special education teacher in Minnesota.

She was back at her usual place on the beach the next day. I brought her another 'Friendship' drink, and we talked about the weather in Minnesota. There was a huge snowstorm on the day she left, and she was lucky to get a flight out. I told her about an Indiana storm that closed our restaurants for a week. "We couldn't get the food and ran out of beer the second day. No beer, no customers, it is as simple as that," I said. I asked her to join me in a volleyball game. She didn't play sports. "How about a swim?" I asked.

"Maybe later," she said.

We didn't swim that day, but we did the next day. We even had lunch together. She was beginning to open up and talk about herself. Ursula had run into some bad luck recently and had to get away. This nude beach vacation wasn't her idea. She failed to read the fine print, the part about "clothing optional." She had packed a conservative one piece Minnesota swimsuit that wouldn't work in the Caribbean, so she bought her string bikini at the resort. I told her I had done the same.

She asked, "Why don't you just go au naturel like most people?"

"Why don't you?

She blushed, and said she wasn't ready to take that step.

We had dinner together that night. Ursula explained how she had been "down sized" at school and lost her job. To make things worse, her fiancé had backed out a week before their wedding. She found out later that his significant other was a man. Her fiancé was gay. She was devastated. She had to get far far away and that is how she ended up in the Caribbean .

I told her it was easy for me to identify with her situation. That's when I mentioned how I lost my job at the Ambruster Camera Store, lost my girlfriend, and almost was an unintended father. She laughed about the unintended father comment. Ursula slowly began to trust me. It looked like we were turning the page in our relationship.

"Okay," I said to her the next afternoon. "Let's so something really daring."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Let's go nude."

"Oh no. I couldn't."

"Look, I'll take off this thong and you take off your top. I've been wanting to take off this damn thing since I bought it. The thing makes me itch."

"I don't think so, but you go ahead."

I slipped off the thong and threw it on the sand. She looked away in embarrassment and said, "Okay, maybe I can take off my top but not my bottoms."

I didn't look away. Looking her straight in the eye, I said, "You are so lovely, Ursula. You should have done that earlier." She blushed again.

After awhile, I knew she was checking out my package. My greatest fear was getting an erection when we were together. Luckily, it didn't happen at first.

She wore the same print dress at dinner, and we talked about how it felt to be nude in public. She said it was embarrassing at first, then exhilarating. "There's a certain freedom I've never experienced before," she said.

"I suppose that's what the folks were discussing the other night at the dinner table," I told her.

"What was that?" she asked.

" Existentialism. Someone asked if anyone had met swingers here. Then they got to discussing existentialism. I had no idea what they were talking about."

"Swingers or existentialism?"

"Existentialism."

"Are there swingers here at the resort?" she asked.

"I don't know. I never found out."

"Do you think people do that here?"

I gave her an expression that said, "Maybe."

That was about as far as we got on the subject of sex. This night Ursula had an after dinner drink with me. It was one of those sweet tropical drinks. I don't think she knew there was rum in it. She had a second, then a third. Around midnight, she had lost her inhibitions and was talking freely about how she loved teaching and that as the newest faculty member, she got riffed (reduction in faculty) first. 

She talked about her ex, and her dreams. Ursula wanted so badly to be a mother and have a family. She wanted three kids, two boys and a girl. She had it all planned and spoke as if the kids could be mail ordered. The problem was that she was already twenty-eight, had no boyfriend and no job. "Her clock was ticking," as she put it.

Ursula wasn't at breakfast the following morning. I didn't see her until noon.

"What did you put in that drink, Spencer?" she demanded. "I've got a splitting headache."

"I really can't say, but I think it might have had some rum in it. It looked like you enjoyed it."

"I did until this morning." She had her hair pulled back and wore no top. I was completely nude hoping she would do the same.

"Let me get you a 'Friendship' drink. That will help."

We ate lunch at a private cabana and talked about the island and the people we had met. I gingerly approached the notion of her going nude. She said, "Maybe, when I get up the nerve."

After lunch we went for a swim. We were waist deep in the ocean and I said, "Now's the time."

"The time for what?"

"The time to lose that thong."

"Oh no, not now."

"I grabbed her around the waist and pulled it down."

"Spencer, you didn't. You are just a dirty old man." The thing is, she stepped out of it and left it on the ocean bottom.

That's when my nightmare began. I got a full hard erection that she couldn't help noticing. She said nothing. I tried to stay in the water until it softened, but it refused to behave.

Finally she said, "I'm beginning to look like a prune," and she ran out of the water to grab a towel. I followed hoping no one on the beach noticed before wrapping the towel around my lower half. She laughed.

I asked, "What's so funny?"

She said, "Here I'm so worried about being naked in front of other naked people, and you get that hard-on and are more worried than I am."

"You noticed."

"Of course I noticed. It's not something a girl doesn't notice. You shouldn't be embarrassed, Spencer. I've seen it before and lots of men here walk around with an erection. You certainly aren't the first and won't be the last."

I just sat for awhile saying nothing. At long last, I was back to normal, and we both removed our towels. "Hey," I suggested, "Let's go skinny dipping after dinner." That's exactly what we did but not until the sun had set and the moon was up. 

Her perfect body matched the perfect setting. Now I had a new goal. I wanted to learn what a Swedish girl from Minnesota's pussy was like. I wanted Ursula.

A full moon reflected on the ripples of the ocean as we walked into the Caribbean waters. I took her hand. She didn't refuse. When were waist deep, I kissed her for the first time. Ursula responded with a warm deep kiss. I was becoming aroused, and I hoped she was as well. My hard cock rested just below her belly button.

She only said, "Spencer, you're getting stiff again."

"I can't control myself, Ursula. You are so damn sexy."

She was more than sexy. Her tits were perfectly formed, not too big, not too small, but just right. Her nipples were a lovely shade of pink, and she had shaved her pussy to fit the thong she had worn. All of that was enough to get a man hard, but her face with thick lips and a cute "celestial" nose drove me crazy.

I kissed her again and turned her around cupping her breasts. She took two deep breaths, then said, "Let's not move so fast. We are only friends, but there will be no benefits."

The moonlight swim was tantalizing but ultimately disappointing. I thought I could fuck her right on the beach that night. It didn't happen. My release was in the hands of an overly horny male.

The next day was more of the same, sunbathing, a dip in the ocean, lunch, drinks in a cabana and dinner together. I told her about her beauty. I said she had the body of a mermaid without the fins. I said she had the face of an angel. I plied her with every honest compliment possible. She only said I was ruggedly handsome and had a nice body. Ursula was stingy with her compliments.

I didn't sleep with her that night either. The week was getting late. There would be New Years Eve party the next night. The resort gave out favors that were to enhance naked bodies for those wishing to show up nude. I asked Ursula if she was going to dress up for the party. She said, "Of course, it's New Years"

She was absolutely gorgeous that night. She wore barrettes in her hair like a little girl. She had a long flowered lei that partially covered her breasts. Around her waist was a belt with beads dangling in front of her ass and pussy. All I wore was a bright red harness with a cock ring that adorned my balls and cock. She said it was, "Well, revealing."

We danced and drank Champagne. We ate shrimp and lobster. We drank more Champagne and danced some more. She was giddy happy. I was ready to take her home with me when the midnight bell sounded. We kissed and kissed and kissed again. They were not just romantic kisses. They were deep wet sexual kisses. She said, "We need to ring in the new year properly."

I understood. We walked together to my suite. There were few clothes to remove when we rolled into bed. I was hard as a rock. She was as wet as the Caribbean ocean. There was no foreplay. She came four times before I flooded her love tunnel with a river of cum. Ursula said she had fantasized about a night like this and wanted to stay the night. We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more. By five in the morning, I had squeezed out the last dribble of sperm, and we both fell into a deep slumber.

It wasn't until ten the next morning that we were awake. She kissed me, and said she could not have imagined a vacation turning out better than this one. Ursula said her flight to Minneapolis left at five that evening. I had one more day on the island, but wanted to keep in touch with her. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and exchanged body fluids one more time.

I didn't need an airplane to take me home. I was walking on air! Cupid must have slipped into our room when Ursula and I were together. I felt a type of love that is only found in poetry. The first thing I did at home was to phone Ursula. We made arrangements for me to visit her in Minnesota. After that, she stayed a week with me at my place in Bloomington. Six months after we met on the Caribbean island, we were married. She was now, Mrs. Ursula Dogmeyer.

Is it a story or an autobiography? Well, most stories are a little of both. This is no different. It is the sexual memoirs of one, Spencer Dogmeyer, who lived to a ripe old age of eighty-five. He is gone now, but his legacy and sexual escapades exist here in several stages from his youth to becoming an elderly man. This is the fourth of several chapters of what he wrote just before he died.