People in San Diego, California have an odd and unique view of the weather. If the temperatures go above 85 degrees for more than a day, they start anguishing that the world is going to die of heat exhaustion. On the other hand, if the temperatures drop below 50 degrees, they start to believe that the next Ice Age is upon them.
So, it was with considerable consternation that I barreled down the Pacific Highway and onto Harbor drive, with the temperatures hovering at 45 degrees. I was riding my scooter with the sidecar, and was dressed for the cold, in electrically warmed clothing. However, it had me looking like a Martian, newly landed from his/her/its spacecraft.
I was in town to try to do something for my elderly mother, the one who’d disowned and disinherited me a couple of years or so ago, in a Neo-Victorian, possibly demented, pique. I knew she was in money trouble, but I also knew that I had to act from behind-the scenes.
Especially since I’d received a couple of letters from her, telling me that I was reinstated in her will and that I was her Oochums-Smoochums Witto Baby Boy, who needed his Muh-Du to make all his decisions for him, and who had to see him right now, one last time, before she died.
This would have been—let’s see—the fourteenth ‘one-last-time’.
Thus, driving down the road (you ride a motorbike but you drive a sidecar rig), I was warm with electrically heated gear, but my thoughts were getting frantic.
The last breakfast I had, out in the desert, was grease-city Tex-Mex, and my bowels were letting me know that I had better attend to them ASAP. I thought I could make it to a residence inn over near Ocean Beach, but as I crossed Rosecrans and powered up Nimitz Boulevard, I knew I had to find something a lot closer.
So I blew up the road, and my bowels ended it for me in the little shopping center just to the south of the Point Loma high school. Shaking and going, “erk, erk” I shot passed a couple of Pacific Gas & Electric vans, got off my motorbike and shambled into the first open office I saw. I stumbled into the open door and asked, blindly, “please, oh please, can I use the bathroom … erk, erk!”
All I saw was a dark head of hair and a pale face, and one hand languidly pointing into the back storeroom. I dashed for the indicated direction, and found the toilet. It was set in a little closet-like area, with no windows.
I struggled out of my electric gloves, helmet, balaclava, riding jacket, armored over-pants, long underwear bottoms, boxer shorts and ‘gentlemen, be seated.’
Not wanting to give TMI (Too Much Information), about all I can say was that I was shitting as I fell toward the seat. It seemed as if my bowels had been saving up all the world’s foulness, because I shat and I shat and I shat.
I fumbled around and found the light-switch, which also activated the fan, hoping to clear the air of odor that could have peeled paint off the wall.
Suddenly, and without warning, the fan and the lights went off. I was left in total darkness, sitting there, immobilized by my bulky, armored clothing, and shitting my heart out. I groaned, and flushed, but still continued eliminating the waste of a thousand years. Then, in-between bursts of anal agony, I noticed that the toilet hadn’t refilled the tank.
My noises must have alerted whoever it was that had gestured me into this cave of olfactory horrors. I heard a delicate female curse, followed by a scraping and then a glow. A feminine form, dressed in a business suit and skirt, came into view with a lit candle. She very pointedly held her nose with one hand while she planted the candle’s base on the tiny sink in front of her.
“I can’t flush again, and I’ve just got to,” I whimpered.
She said, “the lights and water’s been turned off, just after you arrived.”
She put her finger in her mouth, which would have looked delightful, if I hadn’t been sitting in a pile of stiff clothes, half naked, and surrounded by the dung heap of the ages.
She snapped her fingers, and said, “Got it!” Then, to my wonderment, she coolly reached behind me and pulled the cover off the tank. Then she reached down, beside me and came up with a case of one-liter bottles of expensive spring water. One by one, she poured each of these down into the tank. This took about ten minutes.
She worked in silence, until I heard, “Hokay, now do the paperwork and flush.”
My savior walked away, giggling.
I performed the required documentation, and flushed, standing up … and then screamed and sat right back down again, as my traitor bowels let loose one last, prolonged blast of ‘brown gas’.
I groaned again, as my still-savior female person came back, and said, “Damnit, again?”
She hauled out the rest of the water, and re-filled the tank, saying, “This had better be your last blast, cause there isn’t any more water in the office.”
After I was sure that my bowels were totally emptied for the last time, I did the final paperwork, and bahis firmaları flushed. Then stooping, I re-dressed in the reverse sequence, but holding my armored riding jacket & helmet in my hand. I unstuck the candle from its place on the sink, and made my way back to the main office.
My savior was sitting there, face hung over a dimly-lit laptop terminal.
“Uh, hi,” I said, intelligently, adding, “thanks for rescuing me.”
She looked up and stared at me towering over her. She was like 4 foot 10 inches, Asian (I couldn’t tell from where), with shoulder-length black hair, sort of 30’s-ish and an expression of total frustration. She had two candles burning on her desk, and she was working hard at what seemed to be a long save onto a hard disk.
She said, “God-damned, motha-fuckin save, and I’m running out of battery power. Yeah, yer welcome. Sit down an’ shut up.”
Taking the offered chair, I sat in silence, watching her work frantically to extract all of what she thought was critical onto the computer’s memory. In the ghostly reflected light coming from the laptop’s monitor screen, about all I saw was an Asian face, concentrating on her work, and a business blouse and jacket.
Absently, she pushed a spare bottle of water at me, as she took a healthy slug from her own bottle. I drank mine slowly, as she cursed in two languages, and finally mousing the machine onto save and shut-down. Then she started trying to get the hard-drive out of the computer.
“Uh, why are you doing that? Why not just take the whole machine back to your car”
She looked up at me, started to curse in those two languages, and then, unexpectedly, giggled. She said, “Because I don’t have a car any more. It’s rainy-cold outside. I can’t carry everything and hold an umbrerra, I mean umbrella, too. I have to take the bus, which won’t run for another hour, and its two miles to my house. So I have to get this god-damned motha-fuckin’ drive outa here and put it in my pocket.”
I said, “I don’t want to impose, miss, but could I offer you a ride home? That way, you can take the whole machine.”
She answered, fairly reasonably, “I may be a pretty, divorced Chinese lady, but I can’t carry my papers and the computer, and still hang on to you on a motorbike.”
My turn to grin, as I informed her, “Mine is a motorbike with a sidecar. I’ve even got a spare helmet and a heavy blanket for you to wrap up in.”
She turned to me, and suddenly grinned, saying “Hookay. Let’s brow this joint.”
She shut down her machine, grabbed up a stuffed briefcase, and we both were out the door in a couple of minutes. I loaded her computer and briefcase in the toe of the sidecar (the trunk being full of my traveling gear), and I made a great show of putting on my balaclava, electric-heated vest, armored riding jacket, helmet and gloves. All this, while I was covertly watching her, as she struggled to get into the sidecar’s seat.
After a couple of attempts, she just said, “Ah, shit,” hiked her tight skirt up over her hips—and thus exposing a lot of pale thigh, and what I thought might be a flash of black panties—and stepped into the seat.
As I fastened the spare helmet on her chin and pulled the riding quilt-blanket around her, she looked up, grinned even wider and said, “Enjoy the show?”
I had to clearly say, around the muffling of the full-face helmet, “Busted!”
She giggled again.
We turned off onto Voltaire, and headed down toward Ocean Beach. I got completely lost, as she had me maneuver around side streets, now in full darkness with no moon. Eventually, I came to a cull-de-sac, and I was directed to pull into what looked like a covered car-port.
I backed and filled the suddenly clumsy machine, to fit into the covered passageway. Then I got off my machine, and stood next to her, still in my full armored gear, and offered her my hand, so that she could climb out.
“No way. You get all the gear off, first. Then you help.”
So it was back to her helmet. Then my gloves and then my helmet. I stripped down to my armored pants, long-john underwear and boots. Finally, I re-offered her my hand, which she took.
Completely unneeded, she pulled her skirt ‘way up around her waist, and stepped out of the sidecar, and on to the concrete walkway. Leaving her waist and lovely legs exposed, she said, “Betcha you still liked the leg-and-pussy show, from a pretty, divorced Chinese lady.”
I’m fairly eloquent at these times, so I just gasped, said “Erk” a couple of times, and tried to keep my jaw from bouncing on the concrete floor.
She dropped her skirt and it fell back to mid-calf length, as she turned, and gestured to me to follow. She said, “I’m Ti Pao. My house is just down this way.” We went down a short passageway, out into a sunken concrete area, and up to a doorway, into what I took to be a small house. She flipped a switch, and light flooded what became a bench-sided area. She sat down and started to pull off her business-shoe pumps. kaçak iddaa Looking up, she said, “What you doing, standing there? Take off boots. Take off pants an’ heavy jacket. You’re here in my house, and I make the rules here.” Then she giggled.
I sat down, to struggle out of my side-zip riding boots and then my armored jacket and pants. I’d slung the helmet into the toe of the sidecar, previously. Then I looked up, and saw my pretty divorced Chinese lady, named Ti Pao (that was what she said), pulling off her skirt and blouse, to stand in bra and panties.
I started to turn my eyes away, but she chided me, still giggling, “This is MY house. I can do what I want here. I like to be bare and show off. Almost never get to do it. You look at me. You like pretty divorced Chinese lady tits?”
This said, as she dropped her bra on a hook, peeled out of her panties in two steps, and stepped nudely into the rest of the house, her small, pale ass wiggling as she walked away.
I followed her in about five minutes, wearing only my long underwear. Unfortunately, my traitor dick chose this moment to start to grow, and so I entered her small living room at about protruding.
My pretty divorced Chinese lady was sitting in an overstuffed wing chair with low arms. I focused in on the low arms, because she thrown one leg over the left arm, and so was sitting nude, with her bare-shaved pussy exposed to my gaze. I gulped, and my traitor dick rose the rest of the way.
So, waving side to side, and bouncing with each small step, I walked over to her, and looked down at her. I said, “Yes, I like your pretty divorced Chinese lady’s tits very much. I like the pussy you’re showing me, too.”
“Good,” she said, “you keep looking. I like to show. Almost never get the chance.”
Suddenly veering off on a new tangent, my newly naked hostess asked, “Why you here, in town, begging for a place to shit?”
My head spinning, I answered, “I was coming in to try and help out my old mother, who doesn’t want to see or have anything to do with me, half the time. The other half of the time, she wants to treat me like I’m five years old. I got a bad breakfast in the desert, coming in to town. Yours was the only place open at all, when my bowels decided that enough was enough. If you’d said ‘no,’ I’d have dumped my load there in the gutter, in public, and maybe got arrested.”
I added, being very careful not to make any threatening moves, “Aren’t you afraid of being … well, being fucked by me?”
She giggled again, and patted a spot beside her on the large chair. “Sit here. I help you with your shit. But you offer me help, give me a ride, when you didn’t need to. I like you. That’s enough. I not afraid of big American cock. You not that kind. Sit down here.”
She added, pointedly looking down at my protruding cock, “I not afraid of that, either.”
I snuggled in beside my naked hostess, who put her arms around me, and gave me the first of many kisses.
I said, after a while, “I don’t understand. What’s with the ‘pretty divorced Chinese lady?’ Why me?”
I added, quickly, “Not that I mind …” which she stopped by simply kissing me again. My hands went around her shoulders, waist, and then her thighs. I was hard. My hand found her pussy, and in a moment, I found she was wet … very wet.
Her lips transferred to my ear, as she whispered, “Make love to me. Right now. No wait. Bedroom off to the left. Carry me there. Make love. No condom. Slow, then hard and fast. Do now.”
I picked her up, as she moved her lips back to mine and I found she had a live snake in her mouth. It was about ten small steps to the bedroom, and my exposed cock slid into her before I’d covered half the distance. I lowered her to the bed, on her back, as I put my weight into my first thrusts, and heard her demanding that I fuck her in English and something that I assumed had to be Chinese.
As I slowly thrust into her, she gasped out, “I came here and got married, right off the plane. That’s right, fuck me, deep. Go deep, I want. He was a jerk, and he had a little cock. Thirty seconds in and out. Ahhh, soooo good. That feels good. Harder, deeper. So I leave him and divorce. Not done in Chinese families. Whole family cut me off. I completely alone. Yes, yes, yes, soooo good, you feel so good inside. He kick me out with just my clothes, no money, nothin’. Now faster, just a bit, yesyesyes, that’s the way I like it. So I fuck for a living. Learn real estate. I fuck whole office, to get them to show me how to sell houses. Get to be good saleslady. Sell lots of houses. Even then, I still fuck office, cause I like sex a lot, an’ they like me. Faster, faster, don’t hold back. I on pill. Fuck me good, cum in me, faster, I cumming. Then real estate bottom drop out. I sell car for money. Then office close. I alone again. Yesyesyes, cumming, you getting hard, fuck me so deep I scream. Cumming now, FUCK ME!!”
I shot my load into her, the load that I’d been building up for a month or so kaçak bahis after my blind girl came west, and I screamed and yelled at my new lover. I think I called her a Chinese slut. I know she came, because she clutched me while I was cumming, and her pussy muscles grabbed at my hard shaft, and kept grabbing and pulsing into me, as she squealed out her orgasm in two languages.
As I fell back onto her side, exhausted, her pussy muscles grasped my softening cock, and she rolled partially on top of me, and finished her sexing story.
“So, I was trying to salvage my files, when in walked this big man in motorbike blue, so desperate to get to the bathroom. No problem, cause the office was abandoned, the lease overdue, and the gas, electricity and water all turned off. Then I heard you make pain noises, and I went back to help, carrying the emergency candle.”
She went on, “You sat there, in your shitty stink, and you apologized for it and for needing to flush again. I liked you instantly. So I helped you out with the water, and when you came out, you didn’t leave. Then you gave me a ride home, and I liked you even more. But finally, when I showed you my legs and panties, you only looked and didn’t try to force-fuck me. Right then, I knew I had to sex you.”
She finished, “I loved it. Every push of your mon-ster penis. I full of your jism. I love cream-pie. Yes, I know what cream-pie is. Stay with me tonight. Give me another cream-pie in the morning.”
“Uh, by the way …” I said intelligently.
“Yes, my deep-penetrating love-partner with mon-ster penis.”
“How come you’re so different from other Asian … uh, well, so … uh.” I could feel myself getting in to a swamp of words, as ethnic stereotypes could swarm up from such simple statements.
She rescued me, saying with a big grin, “You mean, why I’m such a Chinese sex slut, showing off my naked body and why I really enjoy having your big cock inside my body, shooting your jism into me as often as you can, an’ then talking about it.”
“Well, yeah, ’cause all the other Asian girls I’ve met are so, uh … so … you know …”
She grinned, and finished, “Prissy. Shy. Puritanical. Cold. Or who don’t think of sex nearly as important as money, a corporate job or political power.”
“Uh, well, yeah, all of that,” I got out.
She grinned over at me, as we were still on her bed, and said, “I dunno. I liked sex from the get go. Husband had my cherry. But he go so fast that I can’t cum, no matter how turned on I was. An’ he stick it in, no preparation, and then he grunt once, squirt once, then roll off and sleep. Shit! I not take it. So I walk out on him. Since it was arranged marriage, my family call me dead, and he and his family do too.”
“So,” she went on, “I be homeless and starve for couple days. Then I get up my courage, an’ I walk into Real Estate office, an’ I walk into office of boss, right past his assistant. Sit down, say I want to sell houses for him. Tell him I don’ have much Engrish, sorry, Eng-lish, still hard for me to say, and I say I clean office, pick up stuff, fuck everybody there all the time, work for food and place to sleep, then study Eng-lish and then be hot-shit pretty, divorced, Chinese saleslady.”
“Then I pass out, cause I not eat for couple of days, and fall over sideways.”
When I come to, I on the boss couch. My wet crows, I mean clothes, gone. I wear blanket. Before I can speak, real estate boss put bowl in my hand. Have rice, Chinese chicken thing, veggies. Iced tea in big glass. He say, ‘eat slow, take time.’
Blanket fall off when I eat, so I sit there half-naked. Boss man like that, but no make move to feel or fuck. I pointed at my tits and ask, ‘why not?’
He say, ‘all in good time.’ Office close early that day. All the young guys sent home, after boss man say who I am, and what I was going to do. Then he leave, after telling me how to use the refrigerator and microwave, and saying that my clothes would come back in the morning from the laundry, clean and dry.
That night, I sleep clean, warm and safe, on the office couch and with lots of food, cause he reave, I mean leave, me pizza in refrigerator. Next morning, I wake up, fix up office, and am sitting there in blanket when he get there. He have hot breakfast an’ another girl with him, who is speech teacher.”
“My crows, I mean clothes come back an’ I dress. I get speech lessons for 2 hours a day. Learn computers another two hours a day. Rest of time, I help in office, learn to file, make and serve coffee and get fucked by everybody in office. I get fucked by speech teacher girl, too. She rike, I mean like, fuck girls whire, I mean while, she waiting for Mrs. Degree.”
“I rearn, I mean learn—God Damned Engrish Rangrige—fast. After a couple weeks, one of the sales guys fix me up in a little room he say he own. It good, and he pick me up every day and take me back, too. He a real good fuck, even though he married, an’ we have lots fun. Later, after I be saleslady, I find out he own house behind room, and I buy from him. He give me real good price. I fuck him all over house, until he get divorced and leave for Brazil. Now it my house, and I still get to fuck all over the place.”