I was the maid of honor at a friend's wedding a couple of weekends ago. It was her second marriage. She was marrying a wealthy financial advisor, so the wedding and reception were very elegant. It was a black tie affair, so I rented a gown and wore my best jewelry.

Lucas, a hedge fund manager, and I met at the rehearsal party. He was the best man, daringly handsome with jet black hair and dark penetrating eyes. We were both divorced, single, and hit it off immediately. It was assumed by the wedding party that we would spend the night together. We did.

Lucas was a fine specimen of a man with walnut size balls and a long thick cock curved like a banana. It wasn't a radical bend, but he was bent. Slightly embarrassed, he told me he had a condition called Peyronie's disease, named after an eighteenth century French physician. It was like the curvature of the spine but a penile curvature.

We made glorious love that night like we had known each other for years. Maybe it was because I've always been partial to banana curved cocks. It took me back to my teenage years when I was first exploring my young tender body.

*********

There's a well worn idiom that says, "When the cats are away, the mice will play." That pretty much describes my situation as a teenager. Let's say my parents were the cats giving me the opportunity to play.

It began on a weekend with my parents out of town. I was pretty much confined to the house because I promised to baby-sit my younger brother. One night with only my little brother in the house and fast asleep, I started my exploration of self discovery.

I knew for a long time there was something between my legs that was very sensitive. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do but when touching myself down there, it felt so good. I licked my fingers and rubbed the little button that seemed to grow at the touch and gave me a certain pleasure that a girl doesn't get just from a boyfriend's kiss.

There was something else that was new. While I continued to pleasure myself, the insides of my girly opening became sopping wet. I wanted to find out if I had just pissed on the bed but when I put two fingers inside, the fluid was a much different, thicker and clear. My heart was pounding, and I began to feel guilty for doing a dirty thing. I stopped playing with myself being certain I might had done some kind of terrible damage to my body. I was afraid. Maybe my hair will fall out or I'd go blind.

The next morning, I felt fine. I was not about to descend into hell and my body wasn't turning purple. So, after my brother was in bed the next night, I started again. This time I added my hairbrush to get a feeling of how it felt to slip an object into my wet pussy. The brush felt okay. Maybe something thicker might give me a different feeling.

That curiosity took me into the kitchen returning to the bedroom with a banana. I wondered, Would it fit? Would it hurt? Would it go all the way in? Spreading my legs wide, the tip of the banana easily slipped past the folds of my pussy lips and inched in. I was so wet there was nearly no resistance but experiencing the new sensations made me cautious. Slowly I pressed the fruit further in, pulled it back, then back in again until I could only see the stem peeking out from between my legs. It felt so foreign but good in the way it filled me.

Nature and a girl's natural instincts seemed to be controlling me. I began fucking myself with the banana working myself into my first real orgasm. Looking down at myself with the banana lodged inside, I was alarmed at how everything down there looked so swollen. It looked as if I had contracted some kind of terrible disease. My concerns were overly pessimistic. I was fine and back to normal the next morning, wanting to do it all over again.

My parents would be away for only one more night when I tried it with other veggies. They all gave me the same pleasurable results although the banana was always my favorite. The thing is, I was very curious about what a boy's penis would do to me. Are they more like the banana, the cucumber or a carrot?

It was a turning point in my life. I had decided there was nothing to be afraid of, and it was time to move onto the real thing, a real cock to pleasure me. Before the year was over, I had sex with five different high school boys. Each time was good but different, however the first time was a little bit of a surprise. Unlike my earlier explorations with produce from the super market, a boy's cock offered so much more. They were warm and alive, darting in and out of me. They pulsed and throbbed, balls banged against my ass making sex so much more exciting and desirable than fruit. My curiosity seemed to have no limits. I wanted to find out what other boys were like.

From that point on, I was fascinated by the looks, shapes and sizes of each boy's dick. My vegetarian days were over. I was now a carnivore craving juicy read meat, very rare but hard, giving me orgasms that came easily and often. I suppose I got a reputation. I was the high school slut, but I didn't care.

All this time I had been careful. The boys wore protection or they didn't fuck me. The best I could offer them was head. I'd pull off the condom and let him finish with a blowjob. I loved the taste; they loved watching me gulp it down. But as time went by, I wanted to feel skin on skin and feel the flood of cum shooting inside me down below rather than down my throat. Unfortunately, that had to wait until my senior year when my mom put me on the pill.

Okay, there was one boy with a cock I adored. I let him fuck me bareback, but I trusted him to pull out. It was a gamble, and it paid off. He pumped into me with long powerful strokes. Every nerve ending inside me was more sensitive than what it was like with latex. My orgasms came more frequently ending with the strongest I'd ever had. He pulled out just in time, but that was so terribly disappointing, even tragic. I really wanted the final ending with him still inside.

When it happened the first time, my body shuddered with surprise feeling the boy spill his load, squishing with each of his final strokes. It was warm and creamy, a very nice erotic experience. The future looked bright as I anxiously anticipated more of the same.

My parents got on my case about having too many dates, avoiding my studies, and staying out late at night. They must have suspected that I was screwing most of them. Eventually, I was grounded for staying out almost until dawn having screwed two boys at a party. Well, one was at the party, the other was in his car. Being grounded just seemed to be such a stupid, corny, old school thing to do. My parents were just that way, old school.

*********

The night Lucas and I were together consummating our own relationship after my friend's wedding, he asked me about the tattoos I had on my breasts and one just above my pussy. Again it brought be back memories of my teenage years while I told him about growing up. "It began on one of the weekends when my parents left to see my grandparents," I explained.

**********

I was home alone except for looking after my younger brother. I had always wondered what my parents had stored away in the closet with those dusty old 35 millimeter slides. How old and creepy was that! They were stored in round black plastic trays. The pictures were so small I couldn't imagine how they viewed them.

A friend of mine was mechanically inclined and told me to look for a Kodak projector. Then he showed me how to use it by placing a tray on the top, making it turn, and beaming each picture on a screen that we found in a closet..

It was fascinating browsing through my parents' old photographs. You wouldn't call them great photography, and they certainly could have used Photoshop. Even though they were faded grainy pictures, the best part was seeing my parents when they were only a little older than me.

I got to laughing, seeing my mom with flowers in her hair at some rally. She wore a colorful tie dyed dress that I had once seen in her closet. It was swirling blue, yellow, orange, green and red in concentric circles. I could have sworn she wasn't wearing a bra.

Dad wore a t-shirt with a splash of color but no pattern. He was smoking and it didn't look like any cigarettes sold at the 7-Eleven. They looked like he could have rolled them, so I kept watching. There was one girl who was topless that looked like she was passing out. Some of the pictures made it look like people were camping.

Now I was curious. The slides had dates printed on them. Most were from 1967. I had to find out what my parents were doing in 1967. All I knew was they lived near San Francisco before they were married. They were married in 1969 but the pictures showed them together as if they were already married, so it was an easy guess that my dad was screwing my mom in those days. Maybe they weren't the old farts I took them to be.

Having some time between classes, I went to the Internet of those years, known as the library, to do research on San Francisco in 1967. Wow! My parents where hippies! They were part of the "Summer of Love" in the Haight Ashbury neighborhood. I couldn't stop reading about it and looking at pictures of kids freely expressing themselves. I decided to make it my junior theme.

I found out they were doing what every kid my age fantasizes about: leaving home, being free of parental rules, finding new friends, guitars, music, drinking, smoking pot, and "free love," meaning sex. It totally changed my opinion of my stodgy old parents. There was a change in my attitude as well. I wanted what they had. Now I was a new generation hippie, rebellious, a new me with tattoos and even having been suspended from school for smoking pot on school grounds. My dad liked to call me a feral cat, wild and uncontrollable. It's just lucky they didn't catch me blowing a guy in the school parking lot one afternoon.

My free spirit attitude continues to this day, and was not compatible with marriage. Carl, my ex, divorced me after three years. The divorce papers said on the grounds of "irreconcilable differences." He had a less than legal terminology for it. Carl said it was from fucking too many guys in hotel rooms behind his back. He had a point.

**********

So, my history played out as a single independent woman when I agreed to be the maid of honor at my friend's wedding. Lucas had suggested that I look him up if I ever was in California. That never seemed to be on my itinerary until he emailed me saying there would be a Summer of Love revival in two months in San Francisco. He said I should go. I could stay at his place an hour and a half north of Los Angeles.

I could have flown but I didn't. I took the train clear across the country from New Jersey to California. It seemed like an adventure, a longer adventure than I had imagined. I'm still a bit of a renegade, a maverick, that's what Lucas call me, but the road not taken sometimes brings with it consequences. In this case, boredom, a few moments of lovely scenery and an incident on the train reminded me of consequences. Sometimes, they're not so bad.

Stopping somewhere in Kansas on my way to California, I saw a young black soldier carrying his duffle bag and back pack onto the train between the adjacent car and mine. My god the guy was handsome, desirable. He was tall, muscular and his face was Hollywood ready. My heart skipped a beat when he sat on the seat across the aisle from me. He was at least ten years younger than me, but I had to meet him. I wanted him. I didn't have to wait long.

"Where ya headed, Princess?" he asked leaning into the aisle.

"How'd you know my name, soldier?" I quickly countered.

He rested his head on the backrest and said nothing for a few seconds obviously looking for a cleaver response. He turned to me smiling and said, "Isn't it obvious? There could be no other name for a woman as beautiful as you."

"Well, thank you soldier. My name is Kendra."

"Okay. I'm not 'soldier' like you called me. Folks at home call me Roach."

"Why's that, Roach?"

"We got a lot of 'em where I come from."

"Where's that?

"KC, ya know, Kansas City."

"Okay, Roach, I'm callin' you KC."

"My sergeant calls me that too. He hates roaches, and you really don't want your sergeant to hate you."

We both laughed.

He and I talked with each other for the next hour or two. He certainly had the gift of gab, and it wasn't long before he began moving the conversation to more personal topics. I knew he was working up to seducing me, as if I needed seducing, but wanted to hear his approach.

It wasn't until the next morning that he began his seduction in earnest. "Are you married, Kendra?"

"No, divorced."

"Kids?"

"None."

"What happened?"

I gave him the Reader's Digest version of adultery, just enough so I sounded respectable but available.

He said he was almost married out of high school but the Army got him first. Since then he has made it a point to be friends with a lot of women. He didn't say what he meant by "friends." I had a pretty good idea, though.

We had lunch and dinner together, and the train ride had taken on a new dimension. Time and miles were flying by. By the time we reached Albuquerque, we had become "friends" as he put it, and I invited him into my sleeper for a drink.

The first move is always awkward, but he made it as natural as putting on a pair of well worn gloves. In fact, when I felt his cock slide into me, I thought of just that, like fingers slipping into a favorite glove.

I had never had black cock before and wasn't disappointed. He was big, thick and long, just like my girlfriends had said in our integrated high school. KC had plenty of energy and enthusiasm as well. He groaned so loud when he came along with my orgasmic screams, someone knocked on the door. It was a porter asking if everyone was okay. We decided to tone it down from then on.

Who could possibly imagine a cross country train ride to be so exciting. We hardly left my sleeper bedroom except for trips to the dining car. He seemed to have a preference for anal. I didn't mind but his size stretched me like I'd never been stretched before. And giving him a blowjob was a stretch too.

Although I had been doing deep throat since high school, his dick was just too much for me. I probably got three quarters of him down, but not much more than that. He said not to be concerned. Only one girl he knew could take his full length, and she was someone he met in boot camp. "She was in basic training with me and seemed to get special treatment from the sergeant and drill instructors." I wasn't surprised.

In Flagstaff, there was a delay, something about track repairs, then a freight train that derailed. KC and I were the only passengers that didn't seem to mind. I couldn't believe how much stamina my soldier had. He could fuck with hardly a rest period in between. When we finally reached LA, it had been only three days since leaving home, but the last day and a half was like a fairy tale. I couldn't have asked for a better trip.

There was only one thing that happened that startled and upset me. When KC and I left the train, he was met by two MPs who handcuffed him and took him away in an army paddy wagon. One of the officers grabbed my arm and asked me if I was his girlfriend. I said we had just met on the train. He wasn't persuaded and asked me where I was from and where I was headed. I told him a friend was meeting me at the station. I was just visiting. The interrogation continued for another ten to twenty minutes before they let me go. Apparently, Roach or KC was AWOL and en route to be with his girlfriend in the San Fernando Valley. I stood there stunned. It seemed so unfair that a person could get arrested because of love.

Eventually a chauffeur walked up to me and said, "Are you Kendra here to meet Lucas?"

"Yes. I thought Lucas would be here."

"Lucas asked me to drive you to his home. It's a bit of a drive."

"How long?" I asked.

"It takes two hours on good days. With traffic, maybe three. There's always traffic," and he frowned helping me with my suitcase. The limo was only a block away and had all of the luxuries of home. He fixed me a drink, then I asked the driver his name.

"I'm James, miss."

"Of course. Every chauffeur is called James," I said with a laugh.

James smiled and said, "Well, miss, that's why I was hired. Mr. Lucas didn't want to be driven by a Pedro."

The long drive north gave me plenty of time to think about the last thirty-six hours. How ironic it seemed to meet someone you really like, then find out the rest of the story. I wondered if that will also be true with Lucas. Here I was in California to meet with Lucas, a man I hardly know.

**********

CONTINUED IN EPISODE 2