Ron Taylor

Wife in the middle

CHAPTER ONE

There had been times when Caron actually wondered if she'd be able to make it. She felt like one of those Vietnam POWs, returned home after years in a prison cage, faced with a totally new world that had been created during her absence.

Or was that being a little extreme? I do have a tendency toward dramatics, she thought reprovingly. And I haven't been away. I've been here all the time. Just trying to cope. Well, the trying is over.

She looked out the window. Paul's car was pulling into the driveway. Caron smiled, reached under the bar for a bottle. When he came through the front door she had his drink already prepared, just the way he liked it – lots of bourbon and a few drops of water, poured over two ice cubes. Beside it, her own campari and soda.

"Hi," she said, "you did want a drink, didn't you?" And then she moved around the bar and glided into his arms and for a long time neither of them even thought about a cool drink. His tongue was in her mouth and he held her by the smooth rounded cheeks of her ass, pulling her body tightly against his own, so tightly she could feel every pulsation of excitement as it began to stiffen his prick inside his pants. Caron sighed and wrapped one leg around him. She was wearing a beach robe, with her favorite string bikini underneath, and the fabric was tight across her high set crotch. Each time she moved against Paul, his pecker stiffened a little more and exerted a sweet prodding stimulation against her crotch. We may, she told herself, forget about the drinks altogether. She peeled back his coat as she kissed him, rubbed her hands up and down his ribs. He had a good body, but why shouldn't he? He was only a child – twenty-five, in his first year of law practice. She'd be thirty next August and she felt delightfully like the older woman in a Colette novel, bringing the joys of sensuality to a blossoming youth. It wasn't exactly the case, but she liked to imagine that it was. Every little delight helped.

Paul was fully hard when she peeled her mouth loose and stepped back. She licked her lips, as if she were savoring the taste of him, and then her eyes dropped down to his bulging hard-on. "Mmmmmm," she said, "that looks a lot tastier than the drink I fixed myself." Her hand moved in, covered his straining erection, and she squeezed him happily. He covered her hand with his own, helped her squeeze. She liked him.

"Let's go out on the patio," Caron suggested.

She'd been born Karen, married Karen, but her name seemed so plain and ordinary. When she opened the antique shop and gallery, she told the sign painter to try it as "Caron", and she liked it. Someday soon she'd change it legally. No great difficulty in that. But since she'd been married is Karen, she had to be divorced as Karen too. The complexities! She picked up the drinks and her open robe flapping, she led Paul through the living room, into the den, out onto the patio. The smell of salt water was sweet to her nostrils and to constant inrush of waves made a pleasant dreamy sound down the beach. She liked to sit down here and she liked to sit out here with Paul.

They took chairs. "Where's Sheila?" he asked, swilling the liquor in his glass.

Caron smiled. "She went out painting after lunch, said she wouldn't be home till near sundown. Something about the light at the cove?" She leaned over, put her hand on Paul's knee. His finger straightened out, began to walk up the inside of his thigh. The front of his pants was still distended from the mass and weight of his erection. When he got hard, he didn't go soft until he'd had his pleasure. And I mine, she added mentally. That was the nicest part of it. "So," Caron added, "if you'd like to do something naughty to me, I guess there won't be anyone around to rescue me from your vile little demands. In other words, the coast is dear, darling."

"To us," he smiled, lifting his glass. Caron clinked with him and they sipped, eyeing one another over the rims. The aroma of his mouth was still strong on her lips. She was hardly aware of die liquor or of the ice cube that kissed her tongue. She looked across the table, and the soft warm breeze floated in from the sea, moist and fresh and salty. Gulls were singing as they floated low over the incoming waves, splashing in and out of the highest whitecaps.

She swirled the drink in her glass and listened to the ice cube tinkle against the sides. "It seems as if I've been waiting forever," she said wistfully. "In fact, I think I have. Why does it have to take such a long time, anyway? Seven years? Maybe that was okay in the days when you needed three months to cross the Atlantic, when getting from New York to San Francisco took the better part of a year in a covered wagon, but my God, this is 1977! The son of a bitch walked out on me seven years ago and it seems to me that I should have been able to tie a coffin around his neck long before this."

"It's a hallowed tradition in Anglo-American jurisprudence. With no concrete evidence, no corpus delicti, you can't have a person declared legally dead for seven years. You could have gotten a divorce after two years, on grounds of desertion, but…"

"Oh, let's not talk about him! Anyway, if I'd just gotten the divorce and gone my merry way five years ago, I'd never have met you, would I?"

"Sometimes the hallowed traditions pay off," Paul said, putting down his glass. He held out his hand and Caron stood up. Her body was aflame with desire and her fingers trembled. She wanted to touch him. Everywhere. To draw his body into her embrace and never let go.

She dropped the beach robe as she moved toward him. Her body was golden, clad only in the string bikini that bared her almost completely and left her tantalizingly half-revealed. She had the shape for string bikinis. A riders body, slim and lissome, firm and taut from exercise and swimming, bronzed by the sun. All her parts were in good working order. Small high breasts whose nipples were hard and obvious, straining against the tiny triangles of cloth which covered their pointy ends. A narrow waist encircled by a tiny gold chain, 24 karat but a mockery beside the gold sheen of her flesh. Tight high ass whose cheeks were almost completely bared by the skimpiness of her bikini bottom. Long slinky legs and, between them, at the apex of her thighs, a fleshy prominent puff of cunt vividly modeled in the tight clinging nylon. Most women never look this good in their entire lives, Caron reminded herself, and I'm almost thirty years old. I'm not getting older. I'm getting better.

And how much of that was due to Paul? Well, a lot. She'd really flowered since meeting him. Before Paul she'd been in imminent danger of turning into a boozy, flabby woman, but he'd brought in the sunshine, reminded her that she still had a life to live. Caron Archer slinked her long hot body against Paul's and she wrapped her arms around him in a death grip, lifting her face for the kiss they had only dress-rehearsed in the house.

His mouth came down on hers hot, wet irresistible. She played it coy for a moment, keeping her lips tightly sealed despite the urge of his prodding tongue, but her skin crawled with lust she couldn't pretend for another moment. Caron opened her mouth and his tongue thrust inside her. She began to suck passionately, as his hands slid down her back and came to rest on the half naked cheeks of her ass.

Rest? That wasn't the word. He couldn't keep his fingers still when they were touching her, and right now his fingers were just as hot as her skin. He squeezed her, he pawed her, toyed with her firm buttocks, and she rocked about on her itchy feet, grinding him with her crotch. She worked on him impatiently, shedding the jacket from his shoulders, Paul letting go of her ass long enough for the coat to drop. And then he was caressing her again, stroking, feeling.

His cock stiffened even more inside his pants. Caron mouthed his tongue eagerly, sucking hard, and it seemed that each time she sucked, his pecker twitched against her dancing body. "Mmmmm, yeah," she purred huskily, and then her tongue was in his mouth, plunging.

How many men had there been in the last seven years? She couldn't begin to remember. There had been none at all the first eight or ten months. She hadn't even felt the urge. Sex had not been the high point of her marriage. She hadn't enjoyed it, had accepted it only because it was expected of her. But then, Lou didn't seem to have much of a libido either. He was clumsy and fast and if he found her unresponsive, he never bothered to mention it. Of course, he had also packed a bag and walked out the door one night while she was asleep, and he'd never come back. But she had remained faithful, no matter how cruelly he had abandoned her.

But with all those months and not a phone call, not even a fucking postcard, her anger had begun to simmer and boil inside Caron. She celebrated the first anniversary of his desertion by aging to a bar. She got drunk that night, really drunk, for the first time in her life, and she went to a motel with a man whose name she'd never learned, whose face was a dim alcoholic blur in her memory. The next morning she awoke, alone in the motel room, the bed a disaster area, her body exhausted and her pussy raw from a savage workout. The feeling was fantastic. Caron Archer was twenty-three years old and she had never felt anything like it before. She did it again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Bars. Men. Motels. Night clerks began to nod familiarly when she staggered into their offices and asked for a room and a bucket of ice.

It went on for over a year. And then she turned to the opposite direction. The excesses began to sicken her, and she grew even more sick when she realized that she had no idea how many men she'd been with, where she'd gone, what she'd done. Vague flashes of memory came back to her, and they were worse than not remembering. Once she'd gone to a deserted spot on the beach with eight men. They all fucked her. In the mouth, in the asshole, in the pussy. She lay on a cum-stained blanket writhing and moaning, her body jerking as cock after cock slammed into her, and obscenities trickled from her mouth along with the spillage of jizz. "Fuck me," she had moaned again and again, "Fuck me and fuck me and fuck me… I can fuck anything… I can fuck everybody… my whole body is a cunt… fuck all of me…"

For a long time she lived on the island, going out only in the daytime, only when it was absolutely essential. She didn't touch liquor, didn't talk to anyone, spent all her time reading. And masturbating. Furiously. Incessantly. With the same passion she had once hunted men.

She went through a health food and yoga period, growing her own organic vegetables even sublimating the urge to masturbate. At that time she was living on the remnants of her small inheritance. When Lou deserted her, he didn't take his money with him, but the son of a bitch had neglected to make it easy for Caron to get her hands on the cash.

So Caron tried her hand at writing. She'd won some short story and essay contests in high school and in college. Under a pen name she sold eight paperback Gothics and earned the grand total of twenty-six thousand dollars. Using it carefully, she was able to get by.

Gradually she started to reach out again. The area population was fairly transient, people moving in and out regularly. She'd gotten herself a reputation a few years ago, but almost no one was around who remembered that Caron Archer had once been the motel queen of the middle Atlantic coast. She had affairs, refined affairs, conducted with restraint. Nothing serious. Not until Paul came along.

She met him innocently enough. The elderly lawyer in charge of the Archer file retired last year and his place was taken by a younger man, fresh out of law school, newly arrived in town. It had been months since the breakup of Caron's last entanglement. She'd opened the gallery and it was doing very well, especially during the tourist season. She was nearing thirty, feeling a little old for the pulse of romance to be throbbing in her veins, but Paul took her to dinner one evening in order to discuss her rather unusual predicament, and they wound up in bed. Ii was so natural, so automatic, so – satisfying. Sometimes, Caron thought, it seems as if we've never gotten out of that bed. She stirred against him then, felt the responsive shudder of his rigid dong, and her tits tingled inside their little triangular bra cups.

Well, it was all working out. Finally. In three more weeks she would have the inestimable pleasure of hearing her Goddamned husband pronounced and officially dead by a judge of county court, and as Lou's widow, she would finally inherit all his tied-up estate. And, she could cap the day by becoming Mrs. Paul Drake. It was definitely a day to look forward to.

Or did she want to get married again? Maybe it would be better just to live together. They were virtually doing that now. Of course, some of the overt aspects had had to be toned down, with Caron's sister down for a visit, but she still saw Paul every day and they managed to get theirs with little trouble. Play it safe, Caron, she told herself. You've already gotten a second chance at life. You might not get a third.

His cock was hot and stiff in his pants and she realized that she didn't care if she had him as his wife or as his woman. She wanted him, and she wanted him right now.

Breathing heavily, she pulled her lips free. She was hot with lust and her hands shook as she fought the tight little bra loose from her tits. She ran the backs of her fingers across her stiff, aching nipples, and it felt so good. Caron closed her eyes and moaned, rocking back and forth on her feet.

Paul's hands came up, in, replaced hers. He squeezed her tits forcefully, yet with the gentleness she found so attractive in him, and Caron thrust her boobs into his hands, still moaning, still rocking. "Oh," she whispered, "it feels good, it feels so Goddamned goooooooooodddddd…"

He leaned in, pushed aside the long falls of her sun kissed brunette hair, baring her smooth golden shoulders. The tip of his wet tongue brushed the taut skin of her neck, slid up to lick her earlobe, then ranged down again. His hands flexed on her tits and the nipples, were burning coals against his pliant palms. Caron gasped and shivered, as if she had suddenly grown very cold. But she wasn't. She was hotter than the sun which blazed like a red glowing ball in the westward sky. She was hotter than the fires of hell, where her unlamented husband Louis was almost certainly being fried to a crisp at this very moment. Her hand slid down Paul's front and she was holding him possessively by the outlined bulge of his erect dick, the erection her body's silky touch had stirred to vibrant life. She worked him with her fist, making sure he didn't get soft now, and she was rewarded.

She danced away from him, skipping to the edge of the patio where windblown sand impinged on the tiles. He moved toward her, and she laughed, untying the string which held up the bottom part of her bikini. It slithered down her legs, left her totally naked, totally ready. She reached down, smoothing that part, pushing hairs aside to show him the rich, almost purple cleft of her slit. Her finger stroked up and down the well-defined slice, one green-painted nail slipping inside ever so slightly. Paul made a husky choking sound deep in his throat and he came toward her, fast, unbuttoning his shirt as be walked. Caron stepped onto the sand, into the sunlight past the patio roof, and her body seemed to glow on invitation. He threw off his shirt, reached quickly for the belt of his trousers. There was a snap and a zip and he let his pants fall. He moved again, toward Caron, the ruby head of his cock thrusting out through the slit of his boxer shorts. Another step, and his whole stiff prick poked forth, wobbling as he moved. Caron laughed and started to run, naked, down the beach, toward the foamy incoming tide. Hers long hair streamed like a banner behind her and she stretched out her arms as if she were welcoming the kiss of the cool blue sea.

She looked back over her shoulder. Paul was following, stumbling as he let his shorts drop and kicked them loose. She threw herself into the ocean, right into the force of an incoming wave, and she nestled in the foamy shallows as she waited for him. She panted with lust and she kept stroking her hot wet tits and their stiff, poking nipples. "Hurry," she said languidly. "Hurry before I melt."

He joined her at the waters edge, his arms surrounding her like a spider web. "Right here," she announced. "Fuck me in the surf. Just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY."

"They didn't even take off their bathing suits," he pointed out as Caron got her fist around his stiff, hungry cock.

"Then they must have been uncomfortable as hell," Caron laughed. She lay down on the sands, a target for the incoming waves which washed blue and foamy across her. Her legs were spread and she touched herself between them, fingering her eager slice.

He looked back up the beach. For Sheila? Oh, damn it! Caron thought. Sheila was busy with her painting. God love the girl, at least she had a hobby, even if she didn't have much else to call a life. Twenty-six years old, going on twenty-seven, pretty as could be, and she'd never even been in love, never known even the peculiar thrill that heartbreak could leave in its softening aftermath. "Don't worry about Sheila," Caron advised, and she reached for his cock, where it pointed up from the patch of hair between his legs. His prick was smooth and hard, like the rest of his body. She liked that. And, God, what it could do to her! Caron pulled on his dick and he slid down atop her. She spread her legs to accommodate him, and they fought in the foamy waves, both of them battling toward the same end. The very point, of him touched her juicy cunt lips, parted them, and then he came down hard, burying himself in her churning depths.

"Aaaaaaagggghhhhhhhhhh!" Caron squealed, her arms and legs flapping in the water. "Oh, God, Jesus, do itttttt!" He's only just started, she thought, and I feel like I'm ready to come! What other man had ever done that much for me?

Lou certainly hadn't. Sex with him was a dim, dreary memory, one she called to mind as infrequently as possible. When he crawled upon her in bed, it was for a perfunctory fuck. She made the right noises, the right moves under him, but he had a tendency to stroke hard and fast, pumping till he came, then rolling off her, weary. Maybe, she thought as Paul began to pound her hard in the surf – maybe getting abandoned was the best thing that ever happened to my marriage!

She'd been cold when she was Lou's wife, but now she could almost climax just by remembering Paul's cock and the cute way his knob reddened and swelled up and coated over with a thin film of moisture when she was really turning him on. And that turned her on. Oh, God, did it ever! She was turned on now, and she didn't have to remember or pretend or fantasize. Her ass was making little hollows in the wet sand under her, and not even the constant inflow of cool waves rushing over the intertwined couple could chill or dampen the fires in her pussy. The only thing that could quench Caron's lust was the injection of Paul's seven-inch rod, and she was getting a full dose of it right now. He sank deeper and she began to moan, writhing under him.

She gasped as he touched a responsive place inside her. "Oh, God, do it again – in-out, in-out, in-out, fuck me fast, fuck me hard! It makes me jelly inside! Do it darling, do it again, do it again, oh, do it do it do it do it."

He did it. His cock sawed into her juicing cunt and she bucked in delight at each fast, sure stroke. Not even the Atlantic Ocean itself was as wet as the inside of Caron's cunt right now, and the waves seemed to sizzle and steam as they broke and foamed over Caron and Paul's hot, mingled bodies. She lifted one leg high into the air, kicking like a prima ballerina, and then she brought that leg down and tied it around Paul's thighs in a knot. He had a good body, a man's body, a body to be tied to. A hair under six feet, which made him not quite three inches taller than Caron. No flab, no puffy white flesh – she fucked him on the beach so often he was nearly as brown as she was. He worked out regularly, and not just with Caron. He was smooth, a patch of hair across his broad chest, thickest around his nipples, where, she loved to nuzzle and burrow, tickling her lips on his curly hairs. Thicker around his sopping mat of pubic hair rubbing against her body now, each time he plunged deep and held on, allowing her to feel the full weight and majesty of his prick inside her. The taste of sea and sand filled her head and she loved it, too. When he was officially dead, maybe they'd set up housekeeping here on the island. Their own private playground. Sheila would be going home to Connecticut after the ceremony; she'd only come down to lend moral support, and she was a darling for thinking about Caron, but sometimes she did get in the way. Just a little. And never so much that she'd mention it or even hint at it. She saw her sister so little as it was. But with Sheila gone home, Indian Head Island just might become Orgy Island, an orgy for two players.

Oh, God, the way he filled her! Not just her pussy, her entire being! She only wanted to be with him, to be fucking him and loving him and drowning him in the melted butter of her orgasmic soul. He was all she thought of.

He fucked faster, till her cunt was afire with lust, and she was clutching him with arms, legs, pussy muscles, pulling him deep into the craving core of her body. The tip of his cock brushed repeatedly at the mouth of her womb, and she felt the uteral opening expand, as if it wished to suck him totally home.

A giant wave came rolling in, almost drowning them in water as they were already near drowned in lust. Paul sputtered, and his cock strokes fell off. Caron was sputtering too, her nose full of water. "Let's move out of harm's way," he suggested, pointing to the dry sand just beyond them. Caron nodded.

His cock slid out of her greasy snatch, and immediately she felt empty and abandoned. But not for long! She hustled out of the water, crawling on hands and knees up the beach, spitting out salt water as she moved. And Paul was behind her, his hands busy on her ass. He got one of his fingers between her legs, started massaging the itchy slice of her cooze. She didn't feel so empty, not when his finger wiggled into her hole and started to explore her interior. She made a happy, whimpering cry, and fell onto her belly, legs spraddled.

Paul got his hand under her stomach, lifted ha so that her ass jutted up into the air, and then he came in from behind, his prong straight, hard, and horny! He stuffed it into Caron and began to fuck the living shit out of her. She pound her knees and her hard hot titties into the sand and her ass wiggled from side to side as she absorbed the hot fevered thrustings of his tool.

"God Christ!" she moaned, "don't stop!! Give it to me!! Give it all to meeeeee!" Ships at sea could have picked up that hot wailing cry but she didn't give a good Goddamn. She was being fucked and, baby, that was where it was at!

The angle from which he entered her was absolutely divinely perfect. The underside of his dick, the thick hard vein of his urethra, was able to slide like sandpaper in the vicinity of her throbbing clitoris. Caron's head began to swim.

Sheila, she thought. Why can't she find herself a man like Paul? God, she's going to be thirty in a few more years! It seems so Goddamned fucking unfair that I should have everything and she has nothing except her paint brushes and her canvas. Maybe, she thought, maybe Paul knows someone who'd be right for my little sister.

The thought was intriguing, and it sent little twitches of interest running through Caron. Had Sheila ever been with a man? But hadn't everyone been screwed at least once? Sheila couldn't be a virgin. Not today, not in 1977, not at twenty-six. But she'd never even been serious about a man. Had she sublimated all her natural longings, all her womanly passions to paints and canvases?

Sheila seemed happy and contented enough, but how could she be, living along, spending all her time alone? Didn't she ever feel the need? Didn't she even get horny? The pangs of her own horny desire were flooding Caron and she wasn't sure if she even cared. I can't live Sheila's life, she thought. I'm having a hell of a time living my own.

"Yes! Yes!!!!" she shrieked, feeling the first come spasms ripple through her cunt. The quickening of her heartbeat, the heaviness of breath, the muscular contractions deep in her snatch – there was nothing like it. She wondered now if she could ever live without that feeling. But she'd never experienced a sexual orgasm till she was twenty-three years old, a full year after her husband had walked out on her.

The bloody hell with her husband! In a couple more weeks she'd be done with him forever! It would be as if he'd never existed in the first place. She'd be a free woman, free to live her own life as she pleased, and that life would definitely include Paul Drake, oh, yes, God, definitelyyyyyyyyyy…

His cock plunged into her snapping twat and she writhed madly with each stroke he gave her. Caron's clit was throbbing and raw, and her juices were already fluid inside her. He squished as he penetrated, squished in her cummy goo and she could feel the vibrations throughout her body, rocking her, bouncing her, sending her higher and higher. God bless the child, she thought, God bless the child that's got her own.

The best comes were always like this. A fast yummy one, hitting like a summer thunderstorm, cracks of lightning, thunder rolling in her head, her pussy going absolutely mad, full of cock and turning cartwheels. And then the second one hit, right on the heels of the first, before Caron had had time to catch her breath.

It blasted up through her belly and she moaned onto the hot sand, grinding her chin onto the beach until she could taste it in her mouth. Her tits were afire on her chest, hotter even than the sunburned sand, and the little grains of it felt like a zillion tiny fingers pawing her stiff nipples, rasping them like sandpaper.

"Fuck me, darling, fuck me," she wailed, and Paul seemed only too happy to do just that. His cock slammed into, her with all the speed and ferocity she craved. He was big and thick now, filled with the lust that roared inside his body and his cock hungered for the sweetness of Caron's twat. He stuffed her as deeply as he could, and the head of his cock rammed countless times against the tip of her womb. She writhed each time he flailed her there, but she loved it, as she loved everything he did to her, and he fucked her all the harder, lifting his head and shoulders, bracing his knees against the sand. He grabbed the cheeks of her ass and started to feed it in and out with gathering force and power.

Her churning cunt ate it up and his head grew giddy. He couldn't keep this up forever. His nuts ached – they felt as big as watermelons and he knew that he had a lot of jism to spill. Maybe one fuck wouldn't clear his tubes of all the cum lust had brewed inside him. Her snatch tightened on him, sucking like a wet toothless mouth, gumming his cock in greedy hot swallows. He closed his eyes and thrust hard, then began to fill her with his hot spurting seed. She was having her third orgasm and it had been better than this for both of them, but who cared? This was great and he was giving her as good as she gave him. Paul tensed, stabbed deep, and he could feel the mouth of her uterus opening up to drink his cum.

His balls emptied, and her pussy convulsed around him one final lurching time. Softness crept upon him, but not real softness. He was still inside Caron's sticky hole, and he was half-hard, pressed against her, loins to butt, as he panted in the aftermath of release. He stoked her hot sweaty ass, and he groaned a little. His balls still felt full, and his prick wouldn't go down. What could you expect? He hadn't fucked Caron since night before last. It would be nice when her sister went home and they had the place to themselves.

Beneath him, Caron's cunt contracted again, a little tightening of muscles that wiggled all along his prick, and he knew she was still hot for more. He was stiffening again inside her and he had to fuck her at least once more.

"Let's go up to the house," he suggested hoarsely. "Before you get sand where it won't do either of us any good."

He leaned back and his rampant cock eased from her, glistening with the coated mixture of their juices. It was a stiff, thrust-out cock, and the sunlight gleamed upon it, made the creamy cum-gobs look like silver decorations. Caron turned over, sighing and purring. She worked her thighs together. Cum was beginning, to leak from her pussy. She licked her lips as she stared at Paul's hard dong, and then she sat up, fisting him eagerly. "Let's," she said. "Oh, let's!"

CHAPTER TWO

"Want a beer?" Caron asked as they entered the house through the glass doors that opened onto the patio. "I have some beer in the fridge." She leaned against the door frame, her tits out thrust, thighs close together. The sticky cunt was oozing down her legs and it felt good. She dropped her bikini and robe onto the floor, closed her eyes dreamily, then reached down and began to stroke herself. There was sand on her fingers and it felt raspy, but not unpleasant against the tingling tender lips of her snatch. She could smell sex. It was a stronger aroma than the salty tang of the sea.

Paul dropped his own clothes onto the floor and moved toward her. The sticky-moist tip of his dick bumped her belly, halfway between bellybutton and pubic hedge. She looked up. His face was flushed and he was breathing very hard. She didn't have to ask again. Beer was the last thing on his mind. She locked one of her hands with one of his. She kissed him, and they sidestepped the rest of the way into the house, their bare sandy toes sinking into the deep pile carpeting. "I want you again, Mrs. Archer," he said, lips humming vibrantly against Caron's.

"Don't call me Mrs. Archer," she said, leaning back and making a fist with her free hand. She raised it menacingly before his face.

"What shall I call you, then?"

Caron laughed slyly. "You can call me a cocksucker, if you want to," she announced, and by then they were in the den and she was gilding gently to the floor, relaxing onto her knees.

His cock thrust out before her face, but not for long. Caron started to lick him from nuts to tip with long gliding stokes of a practiced, delighted tongue. She felt his prick shiver in her fingers. She kissed him with deep, satisfied smacks, then tell to licking again. Her tongue was agile and clever. Everyplace she licked him was the right place, for that particular moment, for that particular effect. She was quite satisfied with herself. Slowly, she drew her head back, then came down, lips slightly parted. The head of his prick eased between her lips, past her teeth, and she began to suck with soft, gentle pulls. The taste of his cum, and of hers was strong on Paul Drake's dick, and she lapped it lovingly, relishing the taste. No wonder he loved to get his tongue into her cunt, she thought, no wonder if she had such a sweet tangy taste! And who could blame her for loving the moment when his cock exploded in her mouth and she was full, totally full, of his rich, tart sperm?

As she sucked, Caron tried to remember the first time she'd ever eaten a cock. In college. Yes. Not long before she lost her virginity. Christ! What a memory! It was all coming back, clear as crystal. Some boy she'd been dating, someone horny for her body, someone she had been hesitant about surrendering to. "You could suck it," he'd suggested. "I mean, if you won't do anything else, the least you could do is blow me." Slurping on Paul's cock, Caron giggled mentally. The boy had ejaculated in her mouth after promising he wouldn't, and it had been the foulest, most disgusting thing that had ever happened to her. She'd resolved the same night to go ahead and give up her cherry, because fucking couldn't be half, as sickening as that!

She'd never really enjoyed it, not till the last year or two. Lou had only talked her into it a few times, and she'd never allowed him to go all the way in her mouth. Same with most of the other men she'd been with. Barring, of course, the ones during her year of bar hopping. She couldn't remember what had happened some of those nights. She'd probably eaten her share of jism and lost the memory in some boozy haze. It was something she'd never have done sober. And then there was a guy named Ken, her last real fling before Paul, and one night they'd both been mellow on wine and grass, and somehow it just happened. One moment she was sitting there toking a reefer and feeling groovy, and the next moment she was lying across the couch with her head in Ken's lap and his prick in her mouth. Toking a different kind of joint, she thought at the time. He came in her mouth and it didn't taste bad at all. Before they broke up, she'd turned into some kind of cocksucker. One who really loved her work. And right now it was paying off, with Paul's hard penis in her mouth, slipping deeper with each breath she took, gliding across the velvety carpet of her tongue, making for the upper part of her throat. No problem. She could take him that deeply. Seven inches of rod in her mouth looked like an amazing feat, but it wasn't so difficult.

She and Ken had gone up into Delaware and caught a drive-in showing of DEEP THROAT, giggling in the darkness and playing with one another. It was the first and only porno film Caron had ever seen. Linda Lovelace had been inspiring, and with a little help from Ken, Caron had begun to catch on. Surprisingly enough, or not so surprisingly, Alfred, her gay store manager, was also a lot of help. He was a faggot, cocksucking was his game. He shared a few of his pointers with his boss. She'd even gone down on him a couple of times, both of them giggling like schoolchildren playing doctor. All in the interest of education, of course.

She took a little more of Paul into her mouth and she sucked, wolfishly, giving him a joy ride with tongue and lips and cheeks, bathing him in her frothy, fluid saliva, welcoming him home with every talent and ingenuity she had to offer.

She sucked a little harder, a, little, more passionately, as he slipped into her, and his hands came up onto her head, steering her. She didn't need guidance. There was something especially sweet and precious about his cock. God knew she loved to eat him! And if he spurted thick hot cum into her mouth – so much the better! In fact, she'd have sucked him to orgasm right now, drunk gladly every spurting gush of his jizz, if her pussy hadn't been aching for a special kind of attention too, itching and aching and driving her almost crazy with desire. Not even the fuck on the beach had satisfied her. She'd known as dearly as Paul that it was only round one.

But she wanted to suck, too. Why couldn't a man have two cocks? One to put in his darling's pussy, the other for her to suckle contentedly. That way she could enjoy the best of all possible worlds, enjoy it fully and completely every time she made love. Neither of her, holes would feel the gnawing pang of neglect and emptiness.

Caron sidled a little closer, moving till her pussy lay atop of Paul's foot. She stroked his leg, pawed and petted him until his toes began to wiggle and, when they did, one of them began to brush back and forth over the itchy lips of her cleft. She made a deep satisfied purr around his pecker, rearranged herself a little more, then moaned throatily as his big toe worked its way into her twat. Caron flexed her thighs to increase the cuntal pressure around his toe, and she sucked faster and harder.

He moved his foot, pushed deep with his toe, and she almost bit him. Giggling, she released his cock. "There's a better way to do this," Paul pointed out, and he did the toe number again. Caron lay back, sighing, her hands folded beneath her heaving tits. The nipples were red and stiff, long enough to hang flags from, and her fingers stole up to touch and tease them with wicked knowing caresses. Paul sank to his knees beside her on the thick carpeting, and his hands came down on her tits, kneading and massaging. "That feels good," she purred, "don't stop, don't ever stop."

"I'll have to stop," he replied, "because I have something a lot better in mind. If it's okay with you, Mrs. Archer."

"Wait a mm," she said, hopping up. She ran across the room, opened a cabinet drawer, came back with a framed 8 by 10 color photo in her hand. "I think he deserves a chance to watch," she said, setting the picture upright on the floor.

"My God," Paul said. "How can I keep, a hard-on with your husband staring at us?"

"Look at the man," she said. "Can you honest to God imagine me married to him? Thinking he was a real catch?"

Paul laughed. There was something owlishly solemn about Lou's face in the photo. The crooked tooth showed, for he was trying to smile, and the thinness of his hair, the pastiness of his complexion, were obvious. "That is what I'm replacing," Paul said, and he shook his head.

"C'mere," Caron husked, "and show off a little for him. I only wish he was sitting there instead of his fucking picture." She slinked her arm around Paul's neck and kissed him as fervently as she'd sucked his dick. His tongue shot into her mouth and she sucked it, too, and then he repaid the favor. They settled onto the carpet, not two feet from the glossy photo of the late Lou Archer, and Caron wondered why she had not bothered to do this a long time ago. There was a delightful, heady sense of independence in making love in front of Lou's picture. And she wouldn't have too many more chances, because that Goddamn photo was going down the john as soon as she was free. Her own personal touch for the celebration.

His hand slid down her stomach as they kissed, and he got his fingers into her pussy. Caron opened her legs with a gasp, ready for another fuck, but he seemed interested only in using his fingers. Well, he did a damned good job with them. They slipped neatly into her slot and, three strokes later he had her juices flowing like a flyer. He tickled her clit, rubbed it round and round, pushed it like a button, then slid down a little lower and traced the puffy outline of her cuntal lips. They were fleshy with lust and dripping with passion. His fingers entered her again and she squirmed, moaning, "Yes, darling, yesssss."

His lips moved off her mouth, centered on her chin, and she giggled, she stopped giggling as he continued down her body. He licked her nipples till she was twitching like a bitch in heat, and he sucked her slender stiff tits, his teeth gnawing gently onto the tanned flesh at the ends of her breasts. He sucked hard, and Caron groaned, her fingers pawing though his hair. "Drink me," she whispered. "If I had milk, I'd give you milk, darling. I'd fill your mouth with it. I'd feed you like a baby. Oh, God! Wiggle your fingers again!"

He was only too happy to do just that, and her thighs snapped shut. His fist was large and hard between her thighs, and it exerted a heavy, consistent pressure against her pussy. She bucked furiously, loving every ounce of pressure he was giving her, and die juices kept oozing from her hole. His finger stabbed deeply up her twat, scooping out the juice.

Paul suckled her tits and hippies for a few more exciting moments, then kissed and licked his way down her belly. He rimmed her navel with his tongue. She was sensitive there. "Jesus!" she giggled, jolting as if she were being electrocuted.

His leech-like mouth slid the rest of the way down. He was into her bush, the thin hedge she kept trimmed at the edges so that unchic patches of pussy hair wouldn't show around the sides of mini bikini pants, and his fingers popped out of her, making room for his tongue. And God, what a tongue! It went deep, snapped like a whip on her clitoris, went deep again, so fast she couldn't keep up with him. Caron jerked and bucked and twitched, and her hand reached toward Paul, fingers eager to wrap themselves around his prick again.

"Come here, damn it!" she sighed, and he was agreeable. He couldn't help being agreeable. She was jerking on his cock as if she really meant to jerk it off. As he came closer, she had a momentary flash of Lou's portrait, the asinine face unchanged. Watch this, asshole! she told him mentally, and then she was leaning to meet Paul, her tongue stuck out in anticipation of touching the end of his dong.

He moved into her mouth and they started to sixty-nine on the floor. The carpeting was comfortable under them, like a fur bedspread, and she felt no muscle strains or aches as she began to suck Paul hungrily.

She swallowed hard and something more than half of Paul's seven inch cock rammed into her mouth.

Paul raised his head. "You taste salty," he said. "Like a mermaid." He was licking his lips thoughtfully, and while he spoke, one of his fingers kept working in and out of Caron's hole.

She unclamped his penis for a moment. "How many mermaids have you been going down on lately?" she asked. "Do you have a secret life I don't know about?" Caron giggled then. "Hey, how can you go down on a mermaid in the first place? They have tails, like fish, instead of cunts."

"Some do," Paul nodded, "but most people don't know that there are other mermaids who have fish bodies down to the waist and all the necessary working parts underneath. But it's so much bother. If you want to fuck and kiss at the same time, you have to have two. I think it's a little easier with a girl, so I believe I'll keep you."

"Thanks." Caron chirped, humping up to kiss his face with her sopping pussy. "Fuck that," she said. "French style. With your face."

"Happily." He bent in and started eating her again, this time even more ferociously than before. His teeth gnawed at her puffy, sopping snatch, and he sucked the juices from her. She groaned. He took eating literally, it seemed, and she couldn't be happier. She leaned toward him, took his cock in her mouth, and began to suck again.

Caron raised her head again. "We'd better hurry," she moaned. "Sheila may come back any time now."

"Well," Paul opined, "I guess we could always ask her to join us."

"You're awful!" Caron's eyes widened. "How could you say such a thing? About my own sister!"

"You're the one who worries about her social life," Paul replied. "It seemed the natural solution. Anyway, she's very attractive. And it's not anywhere near dark yet."

"Mmmm," Caron purred, her hands busy on his thick root. "I think you're just using me to get next to my sister. I ought to horsewhip you."

"You don't have a horse."

"I have somebody who's hung like one," she snickered, pulling hard on his cock. Tie groaned, eyes rolling, and he lunged at her face. As he entered her receptive mouth she found herself thinking about what he'd said. About Sheila, that is. It sent little chills up her spine, but they weren't nasty chills. She tried to picture Sheila, so prim and reserved and quiet, walking into the room while this was in progress. She tried to picture Sheila being invited to join in. Oh, my God, she thought, almost ready to laugh. Still, it would be nice if they were finished and dressed when Sheila got back from the cove, and if it was six o'clock now, the hour of Sheila's return had to be drawing near. How long could anyone paint, after all? Caron worked her head from side to side. She didn't really want to get caught by her sister.

Not that she had anything to hide, of course. Sheila knew how it was between Caron and Paul, that they were in love. Still, having Sheila know about it was one thing. Having her watch was something else. Caron's only group experience had been that awful time on the beach, and she could never remember much of it. Thank God. No, one on one was perfectly line for Caron Archer and she had no intention of changing in that respect. So, in the interest of modesty…

"Make me come," she moaned between mad slurps at Paul's dick. "Suck me like you mean it."

"Who says I don't?" he growled into her twat, and he began to lick her in a style that made his previous cunnilingus look like pre-game warm-up.

His tongue was everywhere, and she was starting to go crazy. Her body jerked and jiggled and her leg went up, locking around his neck. She'd drown him in her musky twat.

She was too preoccupied with her own response to do a perfect job on his prick, but she could still do pretty well. Her tongue slithered up and down his hard male flesh and the strong, male taste of him was delicious. She licked and tongued and kissed and slurped, fluttering her tongue endlessly against the underside of his penile glans. Quivers shot through his root and she knew what those meant. Ah, she knew!

His lips seized her clit and he brought her into a sudden, wrenching orgasm that tested the resilience of every nerve in her body. She could only moan and wail and jerk on his prick, keeping her moaning lips pressed against his flesh. Her fingers worked him, due as much to the convulsion of her entire body as to any conscious desire to help him join his pleasure to hers. Cum began to spray from the end of his rod in glistening, high arcs that spattered down, onto Caron's upturned, ecstatic face. She felt his sticky, creamy jizz running down her cheeks, streams of it pouring down on either side of her nose, into her open, fluttering mouth. Her tongue shot but and, as the pleasures of orgasm swept through Caron, she sought to drink as much as possible of the sweet viscous semen that was drenching her face.

His cock was still squirting. God, he must have been full of the stuff! Another spurt hit her on the eyelid. She tightened her fist on him, leaned close, stuffed him into her mouth.

He was almost finished by then, but she had the delicious pleasure of tasting the last gob that squirted from the end of his prick, felt it roll across her tongue, slide greasily down her throat, warm all the way to her belly. Releasing him, Caron lay back. She raised her hands, scooped up the cum which had only just begun to clot on her face, and she brought her wet sticky hands to her mouth where she licked them dry, licked until she could taste only her own flesh, and then she sighed. "And you wonder why I'm crazy about you!" she said with a lilt.

They rolled together, kissing, caressing, her tits hard and firm against his chest, his wet sticky peter limp as a noodle but so delightful to feel, bumping on her sleek smooth thigh. She reached down to stroke his well-used dick, and it felt small and delicate in her hand, like a precious little treasure. Hard to believe that only a few moments ago he had been erect and arrogant, feeding his tool into her mouth or her pussy with equal enthusiasm.

"How'd you like it?" she asked the portrait of Lou, and she scooped up a stray bubble of cum from the end of Paul's dong. Laughing, Caron smeared the sticky gob down the front of the glossy photograph. "That's what a man tastes like, in case you're interested. Asshole!" And she pushed the picture over. "I am really looking forward to getting rid of that," she told Paul. "I think I'll piss before I flush it down. Would that be appropriate?"

"From all you've told me about him, maybe we should both piss on his picture," Paul suggested. "Was he really as bad as you say?"

"Worse," Caron sighed. "Physically, he was repulsive. I'm still not sure how I ever stopped barfing long enough to marry him. Had a body like a toad when he undressed. And did you ever see that little joke booklet, WHAT MEN REALLY KNOW ABOUT WOMEN? Open it up and it's all blank? Well, Lou wrote that. In between chapters of his book on Keats. Say – will the estate settlement allow me to burn his manuscript? I could really get off on that."

And they rolled together, laughing and tickling and giggling like children at play. I have never, Caron thought, felt one half so good in all my life. Never. But the realities were imposing themselves. "Listen, I had better get dressed. Why don't you fix us another drink and put on some music? Be back in a few minutes, love, don't get started on anything without me."

When she came back, wearing a loose silk shirt and baggy gaucho pants, a scarf tied around her long brown hair, the room was full of Nat King Cole and a fresh campari and soda was sitting on the bar. Caron remembered the days when she had to get piss-drunk before she had the nerve to try fucking, and she shook her head sadly. She drank a little now, not much, and only for socialization.

"Cheers," she said, tilting her glass, while Nat King Cole sang "Nature Boy". Paul had turned her on to soft jazz, Cole, Ellington, Billie Holiday, George Benson. Something else she had to thank him for. "Oh," she said, a little sadly, "I think I hear Sheila's moped."

"At least we're decent," Paul smiled. "But the room smells like a Chinese whorehouse." He touched her skin. "I happen to like Chinese whorehouses." She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, then settled back.

"That's awfully loud for Sheila's moped," Caron observed. "It sounds more like a car."

Paul went to the window and looked out. "It is," he said. "A red Volkswagen, with – California plates, I think."

Caron stood up. "Oh, Good Christ," she moaned, "are those Goddamn Bible salesmen working the area again? Shit! There's the doorbell! Well, if it's a salesman, you can help me chase him off. Unless he's cute. Then maybe we can work up a threesome – or a foursome if Sheila gets back in time…"

Hand in hand, laughing, they went to the door. Caron opened it, said, "Yes?"

A girl stood in the doorway, a girl probably in her late teens. Blonde, breathtakingly blonde, in fact, with a proud mane of golden hair that swept around her cute face and swirled onto her shoulders. Built like the proverbial brick shithouse. About five feet two, at least 38-D on top. It was hard to tell, because she was rocking slightly on the balls of her bare feet, while her tits rocked much more than slightly. She wore a skintight t-shirt with HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD emblazoned across the front and a pair of jeans she had obviously been born in. If she owned any underwear, it must have been in the red Volkswagen parked in the driveway, just behind Paul Drake's Buick. She didn't look at all like a Bible salesperson.

"Yes?" Caron said again, and the little blonde stood grinning vapidly. Stoned? Probably. Weren't all kids stoned nowadays? All the time? And this was a kid if Caron Archer had ever seen one.

"Mrs. Archer?" the blonde said in a whisper of a voice that some people would probably find very sexy. Caron looked over at Paul, who stood beside her. His eyes seemed to have glazed over slightly, and the angle of his vision was apparently focused downward, toward the puffy protrusion of nipples in the tight t-shirt the blonde wore. Oh, my God, Caron thought, if he's responding to this little twit! Men! It was easy to see that the girl was a cheap, showy piece of nothing, and it unnerved Caron to see the silly grin occupying Paul's face. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"I'm Caron Archer. Is there something you want?"

A head peered round the edge of the doorframe. Its owner must have been standing there all the time, waiting for his child accomplice to make the first move. Caron stared at the head, wondering why it looked so familiar.

It belonged to a man, a well-weathered man, apparently in his late thirties, perhaps early forties, she decided, as he came into full view and slipped his arm round the busty little blonde's waist. He was bald on top, with fingers of hair on the sides of his head. Gray hair, though he didn't seem that old. The top of his scalp gleamed as if it had been polished. The biggest moustache Caron had ever seen not belonging to a member of the walrus family. Barrel-shaped body in sleeveless t-shirt. Big, beefy arms, tan everywhere she could see. Faded denims. Sandals on his feet. Grinning like a shit-eating dog.

Caron's forehead wrinkled. His eyes glittered. So did his teeth, under the mustache. White, even teeth, barring one on the lower jaw that was slightly out of line and protruded just like a little fang.

The moustache, she thought. He hasn't always had that moustache. He was shorter, pudgy and flabby, big pot around his waist, white skin like a fish's belly. The crooked, out of line tooth. "Oh, my God," she said, and her body started to go limp. Paul caught her, braced her.

"Hi ya, kid," the man said, still grinning. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"Caron – is something wrong?" Paul asked in concern.

She couldn't speak. He had to hold her up. He framed her face with his hand. She felt her consciousness starting to go. It would be so much better if she passed out. Caron cleared her throat, found she really could speak. Even if she didn't want to. "It's – it's him," she told Paul. "Don't you recognize him? From the picture? It's – it's Lou. My husband. He's come back."

Lou grinned, shrugged, squeezed the giggly blonde. "We were in the neighborhood, thought we'd drop by and say hello. Aren't you going to ask us in?" And before Caron could answer, he and the girl were edging past. "Do you still keep the booze in the same place?" he asked. "I hope you have some Scotch around."

Caron stood trembling, watching them enter the house. Paul was there, at her side, but she had never felt so alone in her life. Never. It's worse, she thought, worse for him to came back than it was when he left in the first place. She still couldn't believe what her eyes and her brain assured her were true, very true. Lou Archer had come back.

CHAPTER THREE

Sheila stepped back, tilted her head to one side, looked at the picture. It still wasn't right. Frowning, she took her brush in hand. She looked up at the sky, blue with massed banks of white clouds drawn back over the ocean. She looked at the sea below, swirling into the cove in foamy waves, as it had always done, as it always would. A moist ocean wind kissed her face, ruffled her auburn hair. She dabbed her brush on the palette, stirred the little patty of color, and once again she tested it on canvas. There was still something missing. Try as she might, Sheila couldn't make the nipples the precise shade of pink her eyes and tongue remembered so well, ah, God, so well.

Sighing, she put down her brush and palette. She was working on a portrait, not a seascape, but working here on the bluff overlooking the cove gave her a degree of privacy she wouldn't have had at the house, "Oh, what are you doing now?" Caron would want to know, and there were certain portions of Sheila's life that belonged only to her. This portrait of Claire. That was one of the areas, and Sheila did not feel the slightest desire to share it, not even with her sister, the dearest, sweetest sister anyone could ever want to hive.

"When, darling, are you going to find yourself a man, fail in love, get married and settle down? Or at least find a man and settle down?" Caron's favorite question. As if her own marriage had been anything to set an example for others! Well, she'd never figured it would last. Caron was too nice for a twerp like Lou Archer. Too young – she was almost nine years younger than the man when they married, only just out of college, one of those crazy student-teacher relationships.

I know all about those, Sheila thought, and for a silent moment her eyes misted over and she remembered Ms. Thatcher, who'd taught painting and drawing in high school. Beautiful, sweet Ms. Thatcher. But it was a good student-teacher relationship, all the same. As long as she lived, Sheila would never forget that one night they had shared, when Ms. Thatcher let down her hair and took a trembling, tense young girl into her bed and taught her that. Love was something too important to waste on men. Sheila shook her head, scooped up a fallen lock of hair.

Anyway, Lou Archer was an ugly man, running to fat, losing his hair. But like any man of his age or condition, he'd been lusting for the chance to stake a claim on a young, beautiful girl like Caron, and he'd gotten her. Before their second anniversary, though, he had disappeared, just packed a bag and walked out in the middle of the night. Not even the FBI had been able to turn him up – though God knew why anyone would even remotely want to! Especially Caron, who had been hurt so badly. Desolated. Sometimes Sheila could see the pain that lurked like a furtive mugger behind Caron's liquid brown eyes. Sometimes Sheila wanted so badly to take Caron in her arms, kiss and hug away all the pain, the way she knew how – the way she knew she could never do. Not if she wanted to keep her sister's love and friendship. At least Caron had Paul. He appeared to be a real man, if there was such a thing, and he'd be as good for Caron as any man.

And what do I have? Sheila wondered. I have my paints and my brushes. I have an apartment in Connecticut and, if I want it, a job teaching art at the community college. And I have a painting of Claire, not quite finished. Was that all? Sheila trembled a little, despite the summer heat, the warm sea breeze. Was that really all?

She'd come down to the island about ten days ago, ostensibly to be with Caron during the final days of waiting for the legal assumption of Lou Archer's death. Ostensibly. To be honest, it was either this or stay at home in Connecticut and, sooner or later, cut her wrists in the bathtub.

Maybe it's my fault, Sheila thought. Maybe I'm too possessive. Or maybe I just have rotten taste. Maybe I deliberately go after people who are going to break my heart as soon as they find a chance. Well Claire hadn't been the first, but she'd been most efficient. "Whoever," Sheila wondered aloud, "said it was fun to be a Goddamned dyke?"

She stared at the painting. It was a nude, sensuous, full-length, Claire's lovely lush body spread across a maroon-draped divan in a posture of languorous availability. All done from mommy. She could never forget anything about Claire. The set of her eyes and the little laugh lines at the corner of them. The full thrust of her round, smooth tits, the curves and shadings of her hips and legs. The painting was a kind of exorcism. When it was finished, Sheila would not feel quite so desolate. Not quite. And later, when she'd found someone else, someone to share hot life, to fill the gnawing emptiness, she could ritually burn the painting and, with it, all the aching memories.

"And how many times has that happened?"

Sheila asked herself. "How many paintings have you burned? Six? Seven? Did it ever make the hurt stop, even a little? Is that your destiny, Sheila Ross? To go around burning the pictures of women who've dumped you? Answer, Sheila. Unless you're frightened to answer."

She would try another tact. "There is nothing inherently wrong with me. I am a lesbian. I am not an evil person. I don't molest children or sneak through shower rooms sniffing gym shorts. I have never knowingly harmed anyone in my life. And I happen to prefer the sexual company of women. I love to be with women, to feel their soft moist mouths on mine, their firm full breasts kissing my body from head to toe. I'm not evil. I'm not sinful. I'm not a pervert. I'm just different. So if I'm gay, WHY THE HELL AM I NOT HAPPY?"

She looked at Claire's portrait, hoping to find an answer. The picture was about half finished. When it was done it would be lush and sensuous and beautiful. The outlines and much of the coloring had been laid in for the girl's figure, but the whole background was blank, not to mention the essential details. Like Claire's nipples. They were a subtle shade of reddish pink, almost violet under certain light, and Sheila simply could not match the color with her memory.

Claire. It had lasted a long time. Better than the average. So much better that Sheila had found herself wondering – is it the real thing this time? Oh she knew it was! It was always the real thing for Sheila. She gave of herself totally when she was in love, and she loved to be in love. But it never worked.

The girl on canvas was beautiful, even unfinished. Lissome bodied, with full rich tits and a heartshaped face surrounded by curls and spills of coppery hair. Ripe red lips, pouty and kissable, beneath a tiny nubbin of nose. Light dotting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Slender little waist, flaring out into sweet full hips that curved all the way down, curved in ways that still made Sheila's breath catch in her throat as she realized how successfully she'd done them on canvas. She hadn't filled in Claire's pussy, but that too was vivid in her mind. She could remember each and every one of the dark brown curls that swept across Claire's mount, hairs that looked kinky and coarse but felt like little wisps of silk when fingers stroked them. The slit lurking amid the fluffs of hair, the sweet, pink, always juicy and moist slit into which Sheila's tongue had dove millions of times during her months with Claire. She could still taste it, the tart musky flavor of Claire's cooze leaking into her mouth as she sucked and licked and ate. Hungry for the taste, hungry for the sweetness, hungry, hungry, hungry…

Sweet lush innocent Claire. Waitress at a coffeehouse, just come to the big city from a hick village in Maine, eager to meet life head-on. As hard to get as a pack of cigarettes. The first night Claire accepted Sheila's invitation to drop by for coffee and talk, they wound up in bed, Claire shrieking, tearing at the sheets, while Sheila feasted on the sweetest juiciest little pussy in Christendom – at least in Connecticut. And then Claire repaid the favor, in a manner that suggested she had tried it in the past but not many times. Just amateur enough to present a challenge, just darling enough to fall in love with.

And now she was gone. The whole time she'd been living with Sheila, she'd been bringing men into the house while Sheila was away, fucking them on Sheila's own bed. Until she'd gotten caught. And now she was gone, gone as lost Atlantis. Sheila had even swallowed her pride, begged Claire to forget the awful things she'd told her, to stay, to please please stay. It hadn't worked. Ass wiggling, braless tits flopping inside a $40 silk blouse Sheila had bought her, Claire went out the door. For good.

"It's my fault," Sheila said. "Why do I have such a weakness for tramps? For sluts? For cheap little tarts with ripe bouncy bodies and glittering eyes? Am I that butch? Really, am I?"

The sun was a shimmering ball in the western sky. It was getting near dinner time, six o'clock or after. The light was almost gone. Time for Sheila to be heading back. But Paul had come by, on the road below. She'd seen his Buick come across the causeway, and she didn't have to guess what was going on at the house by now. Caron tried to be so circumspect about it all. As if, Sheila thought, she imagines I would be shocked to know she's fucking Paul. So what. I don't care. But I have to play my part of the game too, and I suppose it would embarrass both of us if I were to come strolling in while she was blowing his tool or doing something else equally disgusting.

It's not disgusting, she reminded, herself. It's Caron's way. She chose the straight path, and I didn't. Ten to one – a thousand to one – she'd be shocked out of her proper little mind if she knew how I considered sexual time well spent. That gay working at Caron's shop – he knows. I could tell as soon as he saw me. We're both outsiders. We can smell our own kind, I guess. And he says there's no action locally – not my brand, at least. All for the best. I'd probably fall in love again.

So there was no real hurry to get back. In fact, it might be better to wait around, see if Paul's car left the island. That way she'd be sure not to disturb them at their fun. Sheila sighed, began to unbutton her shirt. The sun warmed her and made her feel that life was almost worth living. It certainly wouldn't do to go back to Connecticut after a month at the seashore without some kind of tan.

Anyway, she thought, dropping her shirt and leaning back, offering her tits to the sunlight, the coppertone look really goes over big with truck stop waitresses. And what about the girls who worked at the local McDonalds? She'd already been dumped by barmaids and secretaries and once by a minister's daughter. She still had a long way to go before she hit rock bottom. The world was literally full of sluts, each of them a potential new heartbreak for Sheila Ross. Oh, goodie goodie goodie! she reflected cynically, undoing her jeans and stepping out of them. I can hardly wait to see who screws up my life next!

She hesitated a moment before taking off her panties. They were the only undergarments she fooled with. Her tits were small and she didn't really need a bra. Maybe, she thought – maybe that's the reason I go so hard for the girls who are stacked like milk cows. Sheila raised her hands, felt her little breasts, rubbing till her nipples were warm and stood up against her palms. Men seemed to go apeshit over girls with big boobs. Why shouldn't I? And, God, it was so delicious to feel your face absolutely buried in plump, moist titties! Like Claire, and those heavenly, jiggly, D-cups of hers! Not the biggest Sheila had ever had, but the most recent and, consequently, the sweetest in memory. She looked at the painting, and her heart did a little flip-flop inside her. I'm good, she thought. With a paintbrush, at least. Too good. I can't even look at the picture without remembering how great it all was, being with her, loving her.

Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She looked around. Prying eyes couldn't disturb her here. From the causeway and the road, her painting haven was almost invisible. She could see down, but the rocks and brush prevented anyone from seeing up. And unless she ran into a voyeuristic seagull, she could be assured of privacy. Smiling, Sheila took off her panties, laid them with the rest of her clothes, and stretched out on her blanket in the sun.

She liked being naked, especially in the summertime, under a dying sun. She could smell the ocean. Its salty tang reminded her of Claire's sweet twat. Sheila groaned aloud. She was trying her Goddamnedest not to think of Claire.

She cupped her breasts, squeezed. They were small tits, capped in tiny brown nipples that were always erect. So it wasn't just the caress of her hands that made tingles race through her titties. It was her, the natural, the sensuous Sheila, coming to the forefront. Could she help it? Could the sky help being blue?

"The hell with Claire," she told the sky. "I don't give a good Goddamn what she does. The only one who counts is me. I am numero uno. Me, Sheila Diane Ross! Me!" She squeezed her tits, and it hurt a little, and she remembered how Claire would grab her roughly sometimes, laughing like a child as she pawed and bruised the sweet tender flesh, then soothing away all the hurt with the softest, sweetest kiss that any two hurt nipples ever got from any two lips in all the history of womankind.

She shouldn't be here now, painting a lost lover's portrait by the seaside. She should be in Connecticut, where she belonged, and there should be a sweet moist pair of thighs wrapped around her head while her tongue played in and out of a honeyed, sticky-juicy gash, and another tongue should be giving similar service to her own hole, making her moan even while she ate. It wouldn't be her own hands caressing her lonely tits, but the hands of a lover, of a sweet gentle delicate lover who knew how to make music with her fingers on the soft curves of a pair of small, sensitive breasts that longed and ached to be caressed by fingers like that.

Sheila began to writhe on the blanket. Her body flamed with lust, the sudden hot passion of her starved libido, and every time she brought her thighs together a pulsating heat shivered inside her pussy. She bit her lower lip, moaned, then sent one hand ranging downward, fingers extended like scouts riding point for the wagon train, ready to mull through the floss of her dark pubic hair and toy with the sweet juicy slice lurking under the tangle of curls.

It was her slice. She could play with it whenever she wanted. And her fingers. The only ones, it appeared, she could trust. Why was her life such a pit, anyway? She knew women who had been together for years, faithful and loving. She envied them. Eight months and three days with Claire – my record. Was it Sheila? Did something about her chase lovers away? She wasn't butch, and she wasn't a simpering femme either. She didn't wear tuxedos, like Dietrich in MOROCCO, and she didn't pretend to be Shirley Temple. She had never in her life strapped on a dildo and popped the cherry of a frightened virgin. She only wanted to love and to be loved. Jesus fucking Christ, was that too much for anyone to ask from life? AHHHHHHHHHH!

She wanted to scream it aloud, but the surroundings were so placid and quiet, the sea lapping in upon the shore, the soft flutter of gulls overhead, that she didn't dare shout her joy for fear of disturbing the natural harmonies. But she was screaming inside herself, screaming madly, passionately, in shrill excited tones. Her entire body shivered with that mental scream and she could feel marrow melting in her bones.

Her hand was on her cunt, one finger – the middle one, longest of the five – pressing her slit. Sheila bit her lip hard, then shoved more forcefully with her finger. It sank into her pussy. She felt the lips spreading to allow it passage, and she pushed deeply into her hole. The lips sealed tight around the intruder, muscles rippling up and down, and she sighed as she tried to work her finger in and out of her itchy cunt. She couldn't move far, thanks to the constriction of her cooze, but every motion was a poem in itself. The juices were hot and thick in her simmering pussy and she stirred them round and round with a questioning finger. Somehow it always came back to this, Sheila's finger inside Sheila's cunt, and somehow she knew, inside herself, that it always would. Some people were destined to find love, happiness, fulfillment; some people wore the badge of failure on their breasts. Some people were ordained by the Gods to be lonely and loveless and hungry, desperate for all they were missing, all they could never have.

She could give herself this much. She didn't have to rely on anyone to help her. It was her own gift, from Sheila Ross to Sheila Ross. More than anyone else had ever wanted to give her. She sniffled a little – self-pity, but how could she help it? This was what she'd come to, what she'd always come to.

Sheila drew up her legs, till her knees were almost touching her bare tits. She had both hands in her crotch now, one of them assaulting her pussy from above, the other working below, stroking her cuntal slice from the rear, slipping back now and then to stroke the tight clutch of her asshole. She liked that 1:00, but not too vigorous. A delicate, featherlike touch, not a fist jammed up her rectum.

One hand tickled the sticky hole of her sex, three fingers stiff, thrusting in and out. The other stroked the sensitive flesh around and back. She caressed herself lovingly, wishing that someone else were doing her this sweet service. Her fingertip brushed the rosy bud of her asshole and she shivered a little. Her toes wiggled in the air. Sheila moaned, sighed, dug a little deeper.

The juice was almost pumping from her, each time she thrust those three stabbing fingers into her cooze. They went deep, fast, hard. Why did it feel so different when she was fucking herself? This was basically what men did to women, wasn't it? Only men used a dick instead of fingers. She'd tried it with men. She preferred this, her own fingers in her own pussy. I am a lesbian, she told herself, as if she needed the reminder. And a compulsive masturbator. I am not a straight woman and. I don't want to be. Ever ever everrrrrrrrr!

Her thumb was busy too, rubbing the button of her clit. The little nub was erecting from its shield of flesh, all slick and hot and Jesus Christ almighty, so sensitive it made her skin crawl! She pushed it like a button and white-hot pain sped through her body, but the sweetest kind of pain imaginable. It hurt, but she enjoyed hurting like this. Her thumb came down again, and by now her clit was fully extended, as big as a ripe pea, so tender and raw she couldn't bear to touch it directly.

Not that it stopped Sheila, in any case. She made circles with her thumb, all around the base of her trigger, rubbing with her thumb, pushing, poking, prodding, rubbing, her throat was raw from raspy breathing and there was a throb behind her eyes that seemed on the verge of popping her head open. At the same time she kept plunging fingers into her pussy, and it occurred to Sheila that at least one good thing had come of her encounters with men. She didn't have a hymen to make it hurt, to block the passage of her fingers. She could really get into herself. One thing she could thank the race of men for. The only thing.

As she played with herself, she had a quick, sickening flash of memory. Her defloration. "It won't hurt, Sheila. I promise." That's what he told her. Kevin, his name was Kevin Brown. She was now prejudiced against men named Kevin no matter how nice they were. She'd failed an art student unfortunate enough to have been christened Kevin.

His cock. Hot and hard and thick against the mouth of her pussy. Sheila squirmed atop the blanket, felt the sand shift under her. Stop, memory! she wailed mentally. Stopppp! She didn't want to think about it. No no no no noooooooooo!

His cock shoving at her. "What's wrong?" he asked innocently, face flushed with the intensity of his desire. His desire to get his dick into her pussy. Her pussy was the only thing that counted, to him. She was giving him her cherry and, as far as he was concerned, she could have been any girl on the face of the earth. He was above her, in the male superior position, naked, struggling. "Loosen up, Sheila! Somebody has to bust you, for Chrissakes!"

And then he pushed, and instinctively she pulled up her legs, and he sank into her twat and she could feel the ripping of flesh, the flow of blood as he broke her, tore her, ripped apart the wail of her cherry, stabbing his proud cock into her depths. She was ravaged, and it hurt, oh, God, Jesus, it hurt! Pain everywhere, her pussy in agony, his cock moving in and out despite the moans and wails of protest she tried to make, despite the agonized way she twitched under him.

But it didn't hurt now, and the memory began to fade. It was fingers in her, her own fingers, gentle, bunched, stroking as she wanted to be stroked. Not a thick stabbing prick. She was loving herself. She wasn't being screwed in the bushes outside her high school auditorium while a rock band blared away on the other side of the wall and all she could hear was someone imitating David Clayton-Thomas shouting, "You've made me – so – very – happy…"

"No," Sheila moaned, "no, not that, me, me, me, Sheila…"

Her fingers plunged into the knot of her rippling cunt and her juices were like a fountain and her asshole tightened against the finger that prodded it, too, and she began to gasp and moan and rock about on the blanket, eyes wide open but not even seeing the yellow ball of sun in the sky to westward. She curled into a tight ball on the blanket and she hugged herself, knees to chest, and she fucked herself, and she whimpered through her come until her wrist ached and her pussy ached and her whole body was a mass of satisfied tissues and nerve endings and she was like a cello that had just been played on by Pablo Casals. Slowly, Sheila Ross uncurled, stretched on her blanket, and her fingers eased free of her juicing twat, and she lay panting, satiated. For now. But how long would it last? How soon would she feel the need, the irresistible need, to love herself again?

But when you came down to it, what did you really have, ever, but the moment? It was all there was. When it was gone it was gone and you couldn't bring it back, you could only wait for the next one. Well, she'd made the most of this one.

Sheila came out of it slowly. Even as the glow faded she knew that it was only a temporary glow, that she had no one but herself to thank for it. Was there anything in life sadder than that? Sheila wondered. Having no one but yourself? Oh, God, she thought, wanting to cry. She sat up, shivering, as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. The sweat on her sun bathed body was cold, and her crotch and armpits were damp and clammy. She reached for her clothes, hurried into them. Damn Caron and Paul! She was going home. If they weren't finished with their afternoon games, they could Goddamn well adjourn to the bedroom or to a motel or whatever they considered private enough. She was tired and hungry and her body ached with a longing that not even sleep, not even food, could hope to fill.

She covered the portrait of Claire, wondering if she'd ever finish it, tucked it beneath the seascapes, then put everything into the carry-rack on her moped. Walking or bicycling was better exercise, but she liked the feel of the buzzing bike between her thighs, almost like a vibrator. She was just putting the paint box into the basket when the sound of an auto engine drifted up into her ears.

Paul? she wondered, looking down at the road below.

No. It was a red Volkswagen, coming toward the island, not away from it. Sheila put her hand on her hip and stared at the VW convertible, top down, speeding over the causeway from the mainland. She leaned over the bluff and looked down, curious. A couple of people in the car, she could see, even from this high up. A man, bald and moustached, his shiny head gleaming in sunlight, and a girl whose long blonde hair streamed in the breeze. Who the hell are they? Sheila wondered. Nobody came out to the island unless they had some business here. Of course not. The whole island was part of the Archer family estate. Caron would inherit it, once that worm Lou was safely and legally dead. Salesmen? Sheila shrugged. She didn't really care. She had no interest in buying anything, unless someone was selling a lifetime's worth of love with a money back guarantee. Caron would send them packing. And at least there'd be someone else to interrupt whatever games Paul and Caron might be up to right now. Before she got back to the house and did the same. That made Sheila feel better. She got onto her moped, fired it, started back over the dunes toward the house.

She parked her bike behind the house, loaded her arms with canvases and paints, entered the house by the kitchen door.

Someone was in the refrigerator. "Hi, Caron," she said. "Get me a beer while you're at it, okay? Need any help with dinner?"

The door swung shut and Sheila was staring into the face of a stranger. A blonde girl, tiny but stacked, oh, Jesus! Wearing a mane of silky silver-yellow hair that fell down her back and shoulders, green eyes that glittered like emeralds. A t-shirt reading HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD, if the nipple bulges weren't enough to distract any normal eye from the printing. And blue jeans so tight Sheila's hips and ass began to ache in sympathy. Oh, my God, she thought, I have never seen such a slutty-looking girl in my entire life! Not even in that struck stop on the Boston Pike. She ought to be singing country and western songs in a truck driver's bar. And what was she doing in the refrigerator? Here? Had Sheila walked into some kinky replay of the Manson massacre? And was her heart turning upside down inside her because she was scared or because.

The blonde girl smiled, shook back her wealth of hair. How would I paint that hair? Sheila asked herself. How would I make the silver and gold highlights stand out? "Hi," the girl said. "Did you say you wanted a beer too?" She was holding a six-pack in one hand, swinging it idly, and her tits were bouncing inside her clinging t-shirt as her arm moved. Sheila felt vaguely seasick, watching those tits jiggle. The carton rocked against the girl's leg. She was young. Oh, God, she was young. No more than seventeen? And her pants were so tight Sheila could almost see the pulse beating in the blonde's thigh. Sheila clutched her paint box and canvases.

"I'm Melissa," the girl added. "Melissa Chase. Wow, this is really a weird situation, isn't it?"

"What is?"

Melissa shrugged, then smiled roguishly. Sheila's eyes began to water. That smile… "Come on in to the living room. I guess they're still talking about it. There's plenty enough to talk about."

Breathing hard, Sheila followed the girl through the swinging doors, into the living room. Did hips really have to swing that fluidly? The way Melissa's swung? Not even the doors had a swing like that.

Caron and Paul were sitting on the couch, pale, drawn-faced, holding hands intently. A man sat in the chair facing them, and he stood up as Melissa and Sheila entered the room. The couple from the VW, Sheila thought. I should have recognized, the hair on the girl. So what was all this about? The man smiled, and his moustache lifted, showing his teeth. One of them, in the lower jaw, was noticeably crooked. Sheila frowned. She looked at the man, bald and barrel-bodied, with a huge moustache, and she knew she had seen him before, but she couldn't remember where.

"And who is this?" the man said, leaning his head to one side. "As I live and breathe, if it isn't little Sheila! My God, you're not so little anymore! What are you, five-nine? At least. Mmmm, Caron isn't the only pretty one in the family, either. Well, hell, Sheila, aren't you going to give your brother-in-law a hello kiss? After seven years I ought to rate a hello kiss from somebody."

Seven years, Sheila thought. Crooked tooth. My brother-in-law. "Ohmygod," she said, quickly. "Ohmygod." It was Lou, Caron's husband, come back from the grave, come back for God knew what. The only thing Sheila knew was that it could not be for any good. She felt weak in the knees and, if Melissa Chase hadn't caught her, she'd have toppled. The blonde girl's frame was small, warm, soft, upholstered in all the right places, and surprisingly strong as she held Sheila upright. "I think I'm okay," she said, straightening up, wondering why she hated not to be touching the little blonde. Then she looked at Lou Archer, and if looks could have killed, he would have died on the spot, grin, moustache, and everything.

CHAPTER FOUR

This was one of the classic situations, Sheila thought, and in a kinky, sick, way it was a kind of a privilege to be a part of it. Someday, she reminded herself, we'll laugh about all this. But it was a little too soon for laughter.

Caron cried all through dinner; afterwards she swallowed four valiums, which at least seemed to dry up her tears. Mostly she sat with Paul, holding his hand tightly, her face, drawn and pale. While Lou made himself right at home, as if he'd just gone out for cigarettes rather than returned from seven years of oblivion. He walked Melissa around the den and living room, showing her family heirlooms, antiques, telling her funny little stories, and she giggled in all the right places like the silly little girl she was. And through it all, Sheila couldn't take her eyes off Melissa.

I'm the worst part of it all, she thought. I ought to be allied with my blood-born sister, helping Caron put that son of a bitch into his place, helping her destroy him. And all I can think about is that cheap, tarty, dumb, stacked teenaged sun bunny, about the tits inside her t-shirt, about her legs, about her sweet swinging ass. I want to bite her. I want to sink my teeth into that tanned flesh. I want to find out if California girls taste different.

Lou was showing off the portrait of his seventeenth century ancestor but Melissa's attention span was short. She lifted one little hand and touched the painting beside the one Lou was talking about. Sheila's heart sang inside her body. It was one of Sheila's paintings, a scene in the Berkshires. "That's really nice," Melissa said. "Look at the clouds." She touched them. She might as well have been touching Sheila, who fidgeted nervously on her chair. "You can almost feel the rain starting to fall. I wish it was raining now." Her hand fell away. "I'd take off all my clothes and dance up and down the beach. I love rain." Sheila's eyes misted over. Oh, my God, she thought, I want her!

Lou peered closely. "Oh," he said, "whose name do I see in the corner? I didn't know you were an artist, Sheila."

Sheila sniffed haughtily. "There are a lot of things you don't know, Lou. You've been gone a long time."

"So I have," he agreed, slipping his arm around Melissa. Sheila hated that gesture of possession. "But maybe I've come home to stay."

Valiums or no valiums, Caron burst into tears then. She collapsed onto Paul's shoulder. Sheila wanted to run to Caron, help comfort her sister, but she couldn't. She couldn't move, not while Melissa was walking liquid-hipped across the floor, her bare toes digging into the pile carpeting. "What's this?" Melissa giggled, bending over. Her ass stuck up and out, rounded and smooth and so delectable…

"It's me!" Lou said, taking the picture from her hands, the same picture Caron had placed on the floor while she and Paul were 69-ing. "This is what I used to look like."

Melissa hooted. "You've changed a lot!"

"Lots of things have changed," Lou observed. He was still holding Melissa's waist, but he was looking at Caron. Sheila's brow furrowed and she didn't like the gleam in his eyes. She didn't like it one bit.

Paul and Caron spent a long time at the door. It was obvious she didn't want him to go, but he left anyway. When she turned around, her face was livid with rage. She came across the floor staggering like a drunk, pointing her finger at Lou. "Goddamn you," she said, "if you think that you can come in here and…"

Lou was lazing on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table. "The house is still in my name," he pointed out. "If it wasn't you'd have divorced me years ago. So the least you can do is show a little hospitality." Melissa giggled. Inanely, but lovably. Sheila's emotions were being torn to ribbons inside her.

Caron got hold of herself. "You can sleep on the sofa," she said, grimly, with determination. "Sheila's in the guest room. But tomorrow you're going. Paul is drawing up divorce papers tonight and you'll be served tomorrow. There is not a judge in this state who will let you walk out of court with a Goddamned thing left to your name. I'd been planning to celebrate your funeral, but this will be almost as much fun. Goodnight." She turned and stormed out of the room, Sheila hurrying after.

"No," Caron said at the door of her bedroom, "I'll be okay. I'm going to take a sleeping pill. If that man thinks he can come back into my life after what he's done to me – oh, God, Sheila, I am going to get him! I am going to get him so good!" She put her hands on Sheila's shoulders, kissed her sister on the mouth. There was an unexpected warmth and moistness to Caron's lips. Sheila closed her eyes, reveled in it. A woman's mouth tasted different from a man's. Even her sister's. Oh, with those warm sweet lips against hers, she could almost forget it was her sister she was kissing. She felt the tiniest pang of regret when Caron drew back, smiling, and went into her room, closing the door behind her. Sheila sighed and went back out.

"Let's camp on the beach," Melissa was saying, eyes aglitter, obviously excited. "We can build a fire and everything." She looked up at Sheila. "You wanna come along?" she asked. "We could drink beer and sing songs and dance and everything, you know?"

Sheila flushed. She shook her head. "No, I don't want to come along," she said, but deep in her heart she did, she really did. If only that son of a bitch Lou weren't sitting there, grinning like a hound dog with a mouth full of shit. Men! She hated them, and she hated this one more than any of the rest. Without bothering to say goodnight, she left the room. She hoped Caron would be all right. A sleeping pill was no cure, but at least it would help her sister get some rest. And Caron would need plenty of strength for tomorrow.

Sheila came out of the bathroom wearing her nightgown. It was flannel – nights could be chilly on the seashore – and it was pleasantly frumpy. All she needed were curlers in her hair.

The bedroom window was open, and a salty mist of night air came fluttering in. With it came the sound of music. Sheila felt the slight chill and she went to close the window, but before she did, she happened to look out.

Lou and Melissa were camped on the beach. They'd built a small fire and Lou sprawled on a blanket, sipping from a can of beer. Melissa stood by him, the tire behind her, a transistor radio twirling from its thong in one hand. She was naked, stark naked, and she was dancing like a bacchanal to the heavy metal music she held on a string.

Sheila sank to her knees, still staring wide-eyed through the window. Dear God, she thought, oh, dear God! She's even more beautiful than I'd dreamed she could ever be!

Melissa was as tawny as a lioness in the firelight, her body shining as if it had been waxed. Her breasts shook as she danced, and they looked even larger naked than they, had straining inside the too-tight t-shirt. They moved now with a freedom and bounce that Sheila found hypnotic.

Melissa turned in profile and her nipples were taut and stiff, thrust out in eye-catching erection. With her free hand she caressed herself while she danced, felt her tits, played with her nipples. She leaned her head back in a sigh of contentment. Her body twisted again, gyrating with the music, and she was poetry in motion. It was a kind of art that could never be captured, not even by anyone as talented as Sheila Ross. Sheila could only stare. And lust. And envy.

She was short, yes, and built, but there was no fat on Melissa's frame. Her tummy was small and softly rounded, hollowing down into an inviting crotch set between firm, taut-muscled legs. Dancer's legs. Her ass was smooth, swinging in wide exciting curves, and her own curves were nothing to sneeze at, either. She stuck out behind nearly as provocatively as she did from the front, a nicely symmetrical effect, and she kept turning round and round with the music, turning until Sheila had seen her bare gleaming body from every possible angle. But Sheila wanted to see it again, and again, and again. She didn't want to stop looking. She couldn't stop looking.

Still on her knees, Sheila reached down with a trembling, nervous hand. She lifted the hem of her gown, reached inside. For a moment she caressed herself with shaking, quivery fingers, stroking her twat through the nylon of her panties, until juices oozed into the slit and soaked the fabric, and her hips began to shake a little. She realized that she too was moving with that music from down on the beach. Infectious music. And an infectious sight.

Sheila pushed harder at her slit until finger and panties alike slipped into her tender, love starved crease. She moaned through clenched teeth at the sudden pressure on her clit, and she was astonished to find her nubbin as erect as it was, so stiff and so lust-raw she could hardly bear to touch it. But somehow she couldn't make herself stop touching it, just as she couldn't, look away from the sight unfolded before her eyes down on the beach. Erotic jolts of pain burst through her cuntal region as she masturbated, and her eyes were glued upon Melissa, dancing. Desirable Melissa. She watched, she desired.

Melissa began to chant along with the music, humming and trilling in a soft, slightly off-key voice, like a little girl child just learning to sing and not entirely sure of her pitch. Chills ran up and down Sheila's spine and she pressed her chin against the window sill, watching.

Melissa wasn't much of a singer, but her voice was haunting and evocative all the same. And there was damned little she had to learn about dancing. At least, about erotic dancing. She has to have been a go-go-girl, Sheila thought. Maybe a topless dancer in some cheap and dingy LA bar. Oh, wouldn't that just be perfect! And I thought it was still a long way to rock bottom.

Her body moved with a sexual, feline intensity, arms lifting high above her head, tits shaking, ass swinging from side to side. She swooped low, down to the sand, legs spread in a split that a ballerina would have been proud of. She humped against the sand for a moment, her hair loose and free, shaking around her face and down her tits, and she husked like a woman in the throes of sexual passion. When she stood up, sand coated her crotch.

She was bare between the legs, bare as a baby, her slit vivid and well-defined, a long neat crack running through her plump swell of crotch. Sheila's mouth began to water as she watched that crack, saw it tantalizingly revealed by the motion of Melissa's legs. And then the girl, giggling, lifted one foot impossibly high into the air, toes pointing upward as if they meant to stir among the stars. Lou Archer reached up from his blanket and for a long moment, a despairing moment to Sheila Ross, he clutched Melissa's plump pussy, flexed his hand on it, squeezed until the girl moaned, "Ah, Godddddd…" and danced away.

She stopped a moment, catching her breath while the song on her radio crashed through its final chords. "Mmmmmm," she purred, rocking on her feet through a commercial or two, and it was plain that she was anxious for more music. The next song started, softer, disco-shit, and she began to move with it.

She did bumps and grinds, soft, sexy, sinuous, disco-style bumps and grinds. She did the hustle and the bump and a little of the hootchie-kooch too, and she was great at every one of them. She could move her body in ways Sheila Ross had never thought existed, and each motion showed her off in a new, exciting way, ways that cut through Sheila like a knife. Her knees trembled where she knelt by her window, and her hand was a crazed, passion-maddened thing operating on her mushy cunt.

"Oh, yes, now," Sheila whimpered at the very bottom of her throat. Her fingers pushed impatiently at the panties, got inside, onto the pussy itself, the pussy whose abundant drippings had already soaked her fingers and the ice-blue panties. Her lips were frothy with juice when she touched them bare, and she moved her fingers along the wet crease until her finger was sticky and moist and the aroma of hot excited pussy filled her nostrils where she knelt. She moaned, gasped, started working her fingers into herself, fucking her pussy with passionate groans that were torn from her heart, from her very soul.

Melissa was singing with this song too, if you could call it singing. At the very least you could call it sexy. If I had my guitar, Sheila thought, we could do duets. Even her sour notes sound good. One song drifted into another while Sheila masturbated and stared, and almost before she had time to appreciate the change, Melissa was down there, flatting only an occasional note as she joined the recorded voice of Debby Boone on "You Light Up My Life".

She went down onto her knees on the sand, dropping the radio onto the beach. She stretched a hand toward Lou and he reared up, his bald pate gleaming in the firelight.

Sheila stroked herself furiously as the tableau kept shifting before her wondering eyes. With her free hand she managed to unlace the top of her gown. She thrust her hand inside, eager to pinch and maul her tits. The nipples of her small hard boobs were firm and upright, and she seized them avidly, squeezing till her breath shortened and her whole body shook and ached with raging arousal. Drool oozed from one corner of her mouth. She couldn't control the flow of her saliva. She tried to swallow the excess; maybe that would help her tight, dry throat. But she had to stop, just short of choking on excess spit. Her finger kept socking in and out of her foaming pussy and she was feeling those strokes, all the stabbing way in, all the shuddery way out. Her muscles clenched and sucked, and her snatch was full of wetness. She hadn't been this hot in months. Not since – not since the last time with Claire. The last good time. And how long ago had that been?

An eternity. At least an eternity.

That had been their song, too. "You Light Up My Life". Sheila had learned it on guitar and she used to sing it to Claire, sing it in a quavering, loving voice. To hear it now, to remember it, as Lou and Melissa came together on the beach – oh, it was too much! She ought to go to bed, stop this degrading voyeuristic game she was playing with herself. But she couldn't. Her eyes were glued to Melissa's naked body down there on the beach, and she could try to make her mind filter out the disturbing presence of Lou. God, where had be gotten the girl? How long had Sheila been looking for someone just like Melissa? And how long had she been finding them, only to lose them? Lou was only a man, but he had Melissa.

The song went on, gospel-like piano chords emanating from the radio on the sand. Sheila's heart raced inside her bosom and her fingers raced inside her pussy. It was a toss-up who would win, heart or fingers. She was stroking herself hard now, masturbating furiously, her eyes following Melissa as she knelt on the beach, offering herself shamelessly to Lou Archer.

He was kneeling too, and their bodies rocked together. She was dry humping against him, doing it like a slut. She was a slut. Of course she was. Sheila had known that the first time she saw Melissa. "But I love sluts," she whimpered. "God, I love them!"

Melissa pulled back a little and, profiled in front of the fire, Lou was obviously hard in his pants. Sheila dug into her twat with three fiery fingers, pounding them like hammers on the anvil of her lust. She jerked them free, drove them home again, drove up her snatch until her throat tightened and her body seemed on the verge of becoming jello. That was how Melissa deserved to be loved. In the soulful, intense way that only another woman was capable of loving her. A woman like me, Sheila thought. A woman exactly like me!

Caron would strip Lou when the divorce settlement was finalized. She'd take his money and his property and everything except the clothes on his back. If they were lucky, and drew a woman judge for the case, Caron might also be granted the right to castrate her ex-husband in open court. She was entitled to all that, and more. But if it was me, Sheila thought, if it was me, I'd take nothing. Nothing but Melissa. That would hurt him where it really counted, in his pride, in his Goddamn balls. And what would it do for me? It would light up my life, oh, God, it would light up my life, brighter than that fire on the beach, brighter, than the sunshine at noon. Even if I knew I'd get my heart broken one more time. Even if I knew the pain would kill me, Sheila thought, I would take that girl and I would teach her to love, to be loved, I would take her, I would take her, I would take her.

Lou was stripping himself, with help from Melissa. She pulled the shirt over his head and shoulders, and then he reached down to undo his pants. She fell onto her belly on the sand before him, jerking at his jeans. His cock bounced out and smacked her in the face. The fire's glow made his cock look red as the devil's ass.

Sheila's heart recoiled at the sight. God, it was so big and gross! Ugly! All cocks were ugly, but this one was uglier than any other cock because it belonged to an ugly, vicious man. How could Caron have allowed him to use that ghastly thing on her, even if she had been married to him? How could she have let Lou degrade her with that tool, let him fuck her, let him… oh, God…

Melissa said, "Ooooohhhhh, honey, it looks good enough to eat!" She said it in that dreamy little voice of hers, a child's voice in a woman's body. Sheila closed her eyes a moment, trying to remember the name of that actress, the one she couldn't stand to watch, the one who always played teenaged sluts and did tit scenes in R-rated movies. Same voice. Soft and sweet and light as a feather, and as innocent as a ten-year-old asking for a lick of that tasty-looking pecker.

"Then eat it," Lou said, and Sheila wanted to crawl under a rock. She didn't want to watch this – she knew what was coming, knew how much it would hurt – but she couldn't tear her eyes away, even when she tried. She could still see it, plain and clear, Lou thrusting his cock into Melissa's sweet mouth.

Grabbing him by the legs, she began to eat him up and down, gobbling, swallowing, making loud, vulgar slurpy sounds. It made Sheila queasy. Until now she could almost have pretended that Melissa's erotic display was for her benefit, for Sheila's own private arousal. But not now. She understood the game that was being played on the beach, and she understood that she could only spy on it. No one would ask her to join in.

The tears flowed more freely as she watched Melissa humiliate herself, make her mouth a receptacle for that man's throbbing prick, as she watched Melissa apparently reveling in her own shame. It was Sheila's shame too. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't stop. She didn't want to fuck herself, but she couldn't stop her fingers from reaming madly in and out of her pussy. The sprawl of Melissa's busty, ripe frame on the sand, the curve of legs and hips, the thrust of tits – they were too much, God, too much! Sheila was excited and she was saddened, and she was so ashamed of herself for what she was doing, but she couldn't make her fingers go limp in her steamy jungle of a twat, and she couldn't force her pussy to stop snapping like a piranha at those fingers.

Her nipples were stiff, agony swelling and coursing in them each time her hand brushed the rubbery little tips. She knew that a warm wet mouth could make those nipples feel good – better than good – but she didn't have a warm wet mouth to suck on her, only her fumbling, aroused hand, clawing over her lust-hardened boobs, pinching viciously at her swollen, aching nipples.

"You gonna fuck me?" Melissa asked, wiping drool from her mouth as she sat up. She had a smug grin on her face. Forty feet away, Sheila could see that grin. Lou's cock jutted up with a slight curve in its length, giving him the appearance of a scimitar someone had tried, not successfully, to straighten out. Sheila was good at estimations. Space and proportion were part of her calling as an artist. And she knew that Lou was a well-hung man, that his cock was big and fat and long and thick, bigger than the average, bigger than any other prick she had ever seen. The knowledge fired her with rage. Was Melissa like other women? Did she think of nothing but length, thickness, stiffness? Did her every waking dream center around a stiff prick? Was she really just another Claire, after all, another Lucy, another Janice, another Melanie?

"It seems kinda kinky," Melissa observed, lying back on the sand, her knees up. "I mean, here we are. Your wife in the house and us on the beach. Shouldn't we at least invite her to join us?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?" Lou teased, coming into the spread of Melissa's legs. He put his hands on her knees, worked them. She tossed her blonde hair around. Obviously she was happy.

"Think she's sexy?" Melissa made a humming sound that meant yes. "You should have seen her when I left," Lou added. "She was a nothing. Student in one of my classes, used to come sucking around to me after class. Not much to look at, all stringy hair and knobby knees, but I wasn't much myself then. All I knew was Keats and Wordsworth and Shelley. We used to go to motels and recite poetry. It was a hell of a lot better than the fucking we did."

Sheila's ears burned. She was hearing something she had no right to hear, but it was not Lou's right to talk about Caron that way, either. As if she were a thing. She was a woman, and she was a good woman. She's my sister, Sheila thought. I ought to go out and kick his nuts. Get some use from the karate lessons I took. The fucking pig!

"Are you better now?" Melissa giggled.

"You know I am, baby. Know what? Something tells me Caron is, too. Would you really like to make it a three-way, get her into the middle?"

Melissa giggled. "I don't think she likes me well enough. But somebody else does."

"That boyfriend?" Lou wondered. "I saw the way he was drooling when he got a look at your jugs. And such sweet jugs they are, too. You oughta give him a taste, maybe keep his tongue from dragging on the floor." He reached down, squeezed her titties. Melissa squealed in glee and romped on the sand. Her knees scissored together on Lou and she pulled him down upon her. One of her hands, stroked his bald head and it looked as if she were licking his ear. "No shit," Sheila heard Lou say. "I never even noticed. You really think so?"

"Mmmm-hmmmm," Melissa purred. "Right on the carpet, if nobody'd been looking. And you know what else, honey?" She pulled his head close again.

Lou gave a mighty, bear-like guffaw. It went well with the new look he'd acquired. Jesus, Sheila thought, the last time I saw him, he was a sallow-faced turd with a spare tire big enough for a Mercedes around his middle, and he looked like the kind of guy who went to singles' bars every night but never scored. And now – big hard hairy body, barrel chest, broad muscled shoulders, big arms, strong-looking thighs – no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but no Lou Archer either. "No shit!" she heard him say. "Well, in that case, baby, I oughta give you a good one. Just to make everybody happy, hmmmm?"

Melissa hummed something, and her legs spread widely, and Lou came down upon her. There was a moment of fumbling and then the girl wailed out a cry of delight. Her legs shot up into the air, toes wiggling, and she moaned, "Oh, do it, Lou, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Sheila's eyes were full of tears now, thankfully misting the degraded sight she was watching, and there was a roaring in her ears, louder than the inrush of the surf further down the beach. "I could make you bloom," she whispered, still pawing her tits and frigging her hot box of a pussy. "I could light up your life. It wouldn't be the same after you'd been with me, darling. You'd never look at him again, never want to look at another man. You'd know how ugly they are, with their big hard cocks sticking out and all their brains in those cocks. You'd want me, me only. And I'd give myself to you, fully, completely. The only thing I'd want in return – the only thing I'd ask would be you, darling, just you. No, please, Melissa, don't – don't make those noises – don't moan – don't cry out – don't fold your legs around him. Tell him to get off you. Tell him, you don't want to do it. I'll come and help. Just scream. Scream for help and I'll be your help. Call me, Melissa. Call to me. I'll come. I'll come. I'll come!"

She wasn't far from coming now. She could sense it in every fiber of her being. Her fingers trembled inside her pussy, quivered tensely, and the lips of her slot, the walls of her tube – they were doing all the work, rippling, contracting like the speeded-up tempo of her breathing. Her clitoris throbbed and her tits were sore, aching lumps of abused flesh. She stared out the window, sobbing with frustration as she watched Melissa Chase writhe under Lou Archer, and she could feel the shame as each stroke of that fat thick cock pounded into the girl.

Melissa screamed wildly, rolling under Lou as if she were going into epileptic seizure. Her legs wreathed around him, and she said, "Oh, fuck me, daddy, really fuck me, fuck it to me, fuck me, fuck me…"

"Fuck it to you and a dozen more, the way I feel tonight." Lou panted, working hard above her. His bare buttocks shone in the firelight, and they looked hard and firm, like slabs of meat. Oh, she hated him, hated him because he'd married Caron and then broken her heart by deserting her, hated him because he'd come back now to complicate Caron's life, hated him more than any other reason because he was atop Melissa and his ugly cock was pummeling its way in and out of her sweet, sweet cunt. His body topped Melissa's beautiful frame and he used her the way an animal uses the nearest available female of its species. He didn't care about Melissa. He didn't love her. He couldn't love her. He only wanted someplace to dump his cum. If Sheila could have but one wish, it would be that every man on earth would wake up in hell tomorrow morning. And she hoped Lou Archer would be the man nearest the flames. The hottest flames. I'd go to hell myself, she thought, if only for the chance to stick a pitchfork up his ass.

"Do it, baby, do it to me!" Melissa squealed, rocking and writhing under him on the sands. She attacked him with hands and legs, but she wasn't fighting him off. She was enticing him to fuck her harder, to ravish her and brutalize her and fuck her. Sheila felt her heart breaking at the realization. It was worse than with Claire, almost, but it was also too late for Sheila to stop masturbating. She turned away from the window. She had shamed herself enough by watching this long. She would take care of her own needs now, the way she'd always taken care of them, the way she'd always have to take care of them. She staggered toward the bed, fingers still buried in her rippling snatch. Somehow she managed to throw herself down, collapsing onto the mattress with sighs and tears of frustration.

She rolled aver, and she could see the flames through her window and she could still hear the moans and giggles of Melissa as the slutty little blonde was fucked and re-fucked. Slut. That's what she was. A slut. Nothing but a slut. But sluts are my type! Sheila wanted to scream. I love sluts! And I love her! God, when I want to roll in garbage, I know where to find it! And I want to rolllll…

Her fingers thrust in and out furiously. She had her knees up, her panties down to her knees, and her nightgown rolled, up past her quivering tits. Her cunt seemed to buck up to meet the plunges of her fingers, and she fucked herself with a maddened determination. I don't need anyone, she told herself, and least of all that trampy twat Melissa. I'll never need anyone again. I've learned my lesson well. As long as I have myself, I still have more than most other people will ever call their own. And I have me. Oh, baby, I have meeeeee!

Her orgasms came thundering down upon her, one followed by another and still another. She rocked on the bed, not caring how much noise she made. Caron was doped into dreamland. The people on the beach had their own activities going. Yet through it all, through the whole sweet surrender to her own passions and lusts, she could hear plain as anything the sound of Melissa's radio, and, even clearer, the girl's sexual moans and cries, floating in with the breeze from the sea, through her open window.

And when it was over, she could still hear the sounds from outside. Weren't they ever going to stop? She wanted to close the window, shut out the noises, but she knew she couldn't walk over and do it, that she'd have to look, and that if she looked… Sheila Ross crawled under her covers, sobbing like a baby, and she covered her head with the pillow. And still those sounds hammered upon her eardrums, penetrating the pillow's shield the way Lou's cock must be penetrating Melissa's cunt. She rocked and tossed until a fitful, dream-haunted sleep stole upon her. It seemed to take hours, but her body finally fell, leaden, into the sea of slumber.

CHAPTER FIVE

Caron Archer spent a lousy night, the rottenest of her life. The sleeping pill went to work, but it catapulted her into dreamland, and the dreams were as bad as being awake. In one of them she was with Paul, on the beach. They were fucking gloriously, the way they'd done this afternoon. He was mounting her from the rear, really giving her the dick, and he leaned close to kiss her on the side of the face and she could feel a moustache. "Oh, God, no," she moaned, turning her head round, staring right into Lou's face, the bald head, the big moustache. It was his cock ramming in and out of her, sending messages of delight from her pussy to her brain, and even as she understood she felt herself beginning to come, to come like a bandit, her body shaking and writhing under him, and he could feel it too because he stepped up his fucking and speared her with his tool and she couldn't stop, she could only lie there and weep and buck and climax, again and again.

She awoke from that dream with a cry of panic, but she was alone in her bed and the house was as silent as a grave. The digital clock by the bed said it was 5:17 and that had to be A.M. because there was only a chilly-looking gray light outside. Caron closed her eyes, sank onto her bed again, and sleep came stealing back. Her dreams were no more pleasant, but at least she didn't awake until the alarm rang.

She staggered out to the kitchen, loaded up Mr. Coffee, and her hand shook as she poured down the first cup, black and hot. Sleeping pills always made her nervous the morning after. She almost never took them. But last night it was essential. And tonight? Would she have to drug herself again tonight? She didn't know. She could only swallow the hot coffee in gulps that hurt her throat and shake her head. There was a note on the refrigerator, pinned up by a tiny magnet. Caron took it down and read:

"CARON – I'm sorry I didn't wait for you, but I had to get out of this house. I'm sorry. I'm desperate. Everything is so awful. Please don't hate me for not being here. I'm painting, at the cove. If you want to, come up and be with me. I had to go. Love, S."

Well, she thought, laying the note on the counter, who can blame her? I wish to hell I could get away from all this so easily. Maybe I should get my paints and brushes out of the attic. How long will it be till Paul gets here? God, I can hardly wait to sign the papers and to see the last, the very last of Lou Archer!

She'd wanted Paul to stay here last flight, but he wouldn't. "We don't have to go through the rigmarole of declaring him legally dead now, darling," he'd told her. "You can simply get a divorce and take everything but his moustache. That, too, if you want it. I'll draw up the papers tonight, and I'll bring them over tomorrow as soon as I've gotten my afternoon business out of the way. Besides – if I stay the night, he might get the smartass idea of filing a countersuit of some kind, and maybe charging us with adultery. It wouldn't be more than a joke, in view of his track record, but it would be a complication, and we don't need any more complications, do we?"

They didn't, but she had missed him, last night, and she had needed him. Someone to hold her in his arms all night long, to tell her it would be okay. Well, she'd have him tonight. Even if it did embarrass Sheila. Oh, maybe they'd all get drunk. Maybe Paul could find a date for Sheila and they could have a party to celebrate getting rid of Lou. Caron sipped more slowly at her coffee, brightening. The world was beginning to take on a rosier glow.

"Mind if I have a cup?" someone asked, and she whirled, spilling coffee on the floor. It was Lou, shirtless. His hairy chest was broad and tanned. His moustache glistened. She really hated that moustache. He'd not been bald when they were married, but he'd not had that God awful thing either. He had really filled out in the last seven years; muscled where he used to be flabby, thick where he was once thin. He looked more like a lumberjack or some other, kind of really macho character. He was more like a seasoned truck driver than like the assistant professor of English he'd once been. Even his voice was different. He had a street twang to his talk, not the cultivated tones she'd encountered first as his student, then as his wife. First as his student, then as his wife.

(Saxon found herself wishing he had really died during his seven year absence. Maybe, she thought, maybe this is the dream. I'm all tense and nervous because the court proceedings are coming up, and I took a nap and dreamed that Lou had really come back. When I do wake up Paul will be kissing me hello and he'll have the court decree in his hand and I'll be a widow instead of a deserted wife, and he and Sheila and I will split a magnum or two of champagne, and… It wasn't a dream. It was real. His hand brushed hers and she knew it was really real. A fucking mess. And she was in the middle of it, right up to her ass.

"I wouldn't give you an ice cube if you were burning at the stake." She picked up the coffee urn, dumped it into the sink. "Swim down the pipes and get some," she suggested acidly.

He laughed. She hated that new laugh, booming and hearty. "You're hostile, Caron. Spunky, too. I like it. You've changed a lot over the last few years. Want to see the picture I carry in my wallet? You, as you used to be? No? I don't blame you. Jesus, Saxon, I can't understand what I ever saw in you then. You were a dog, you know that? A dumb little dog."

"Fuck you. Up the ass."

"Did you ever wonder why I left?" he pursued. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. "Well, it was you, partly… I mean, you were a stone fucking drag. A dishrag in bed. I wasn't much better, I guess. My nose in a book all the time. My magnum opus. Keats and the Romantic Revolution. I can remember two lines from 'Grecian Urn'. Forgotten all the rest."

She started to move past him. "I wish you'd also forgotten the address of this house." He thrust out one arm, blocking her way. She edged to the other direction, but he thrust out his other arm. "Wait a Goddamned minute," Caron said angrily. Her back was against the kitchen cabinet. She couldn't move forward, nor to the sides. He was looking down at her, smiling under his moustache. She hadn't really remembered him as so tall. Had he grown? Or had she forgotten?

"No, you wait," he said. "I woke up one morning and I was thirty-one years old and I was trapped. I had money, but what good was money doing me? I had a job and a career and they didn't matter a fart in a hailstorm. I was a paunchy nothing, sick of my life. So I said, fuck it. I'm getting out. And that's what I did. I got out. Be honest, Caron. Did you ever really miss me?"

She shook her head. "Not once," she said. It was half true. There was a time when she, had thought she loved him, or they'd never have been married. But it had passed. They had nothing now, nothing except a soon-to-be severed bond.

"Interested in where I've been?" She shook her head again. He leaned in closer and she shrank back. She felt like a rat in a trap. She could smell the masculinity of him. He'd never smelled like a man before, but he did now. She tried to sink down, slide under his arms to freedom, but he sank with her. "I've been everywhere," he said.

"Europe, Asia, Africa. I've done construction work, been a stunt driver in low budget movies ran a chain of massage parlors in Arizona. I've grown. A lot. Not only outside, but inside, too, where it counts. And the last year or so I've been thinking. About us. I wondered what you were doing, what you were thinking, you know?"

"No, and I don't care either!" Caron snarled, pulling her dressing gown shut. It had fallen open without warning and she'd been all too aware that his eyes were momentarily taking in the sight of her pink nightie. Thin, almost transparent, a gift from Paul. Nothing that Lou had any right to look at, to get cheap thrills from. She set her lip and pushed at him. Hard. As hard as she could. Christ! He had a body like a piece of worked iron! She rocked back, unable to move him, and his hand came in, seized her wrist. "Aaaaahhhh!" she said, rising onto tiptoes.

"You've grown a lot, too, Caron," he said. "Unless my eyes deceive me, you've turned into a woman since the last time I saw you. I can see it now, the way your eyes sparkle. You're afraid, but you're not a coward. You'll fight me, even if you know you'll lose. I can see it in the way you move, too, the way you carry your body. You've filled out a little since I was home last. Almost thirty, starting to bloom – you're at your prime, Caron, and I like it. Are you shacking that guy, Paul? Maybe figure to make it permanent once you've gotten rid of me?" He twisted her wrist, not roughly, but enough to give her the message. "Well, baby, before you make any rash decisions, maybe you should try out all the angles. Know what I mean?"

"Don't know and don't fucking care!" she spat. His face clouded momentarily and his other hand came in. He cuffed her across the face, not brutally, but hard, very hard. No one had ever struck Caron Archer in her adult life and she was shocked. Her dressing gown fell open as she slumped, and when she reached to close it, he caught her other wrist and held her up.

"Don't be shy, kid. I've seen it all before. I used to own it. But I think…" and he tilted his head, eyeing the revelation of her body through the sheer pink nightie, "I think the property values have gone up a little since I was the tenant."

"If you don't let go of me right now, you motherfucker, I'll…"

"You'll what?" he wondered innocently, just before he grabbed the neck of Caron's pink nightie and tipped it downward, savagely, tearing the flimsy garment to shreds while she screamed and kicked and went beet-red. She tried to double up, to deny him the cheap peek at her bare body, but he pulled on her hand and, she thought he was going to jerk her arm out of its socket. "Ohmygod, stopppppp…"

"Good tan," he admired. "I was hoping you'd be tan all over. Jesus, I really hate those pukey white places where chicks are afraid to take off the bikinis and let it all get sunkissed. Golden tits, Caron. Sweet and golden." He touched them. "Firm, too. And look at the nipples. Little cherries, aren't they? Mind if I tickle them a little? Of course you don't mind?" And he laughed, and his hand stroked across her nips. She moaned, and squirmed and sputtered, but there was no way she could get loose, not with that steely hand of his clamped onto her wrist. Her nipples stiffened in fear. What the bloody hell had gotten into him? Did he think he could take a walk, stay away for seven years, then come back and pick up where he'd left off?

"I'll see you in prison," she said. "For attempted rape."

He laughed heartily. "Attempted? Who said I was finished? Anyway, a husband can't rape his own wife. And as far as the law is concerned, we're still husband and wife. The little separation doesn't change it one damned bit. Listen – do you think this is easy on me? It's hard, Caron, and getting harder. Feel." And with that, he ground himself against her, his jeans scraping her bare belly, and she could feel it, his cock, starting to bulge inside his pants. She screamed. For Sheila, for Paul, for Jesus. For anyone to come help her.

But no one did, and she didn't really expect it. Sheila was at the other end of the island, and the only person around, besides Lou and herself, was that blonde tramp of his. Hadn't he said something about operating a massage parlor? A glorified pimp, in other words. And that little bitch looked as if she'd stepped right out of a massage parlor. Probably a dingy one. She tried to think about that, and not about the fact that Lou was eagerly stroking her naked body, dragging her across the floor kicking and protesting.

They stood in the middle of the kitchen. He jerked her wrist and she snapped upright. Lou was grinning. His moustache wiggled. He leaned in close, kissed her without warning. She could feel his hairy growth against her skin. God, it tickled! "We have the house to ourselves," he said smugly.

"I sent Melissa on a tour of exploration. If she finds a seashell it will occupy her for hours. She's not a very bright girl, but she's fun."

"She's a cunt."

Lou grinned. "You've picked up a new vocabulary since I left home. Yes, she is a cunt, a sweet, hot, tight young cunt. But she's only a cunt. I think you're a lot more than that, and I intend to find out. Anyway, Melissa seems to have made herself a conquest already."

"Paul?" Caron was livid. She remembered the glazy-eyed way Paul had stared at Melissa's sumptuous tits, but to think that he… "How dare you say that?"

"Mmm," Lou smiled, "you are the innocent one, aren't you?" He didn't give her time to think about what he'd said. His hand swept down her front, caressing her tits, sliding over her smooth rounded belly and into the forest of her pussy. His fingers traced the little hedge of fur that trimmed her slice. She groaned, trying to close her legs on his hands, push him out, God, anything! A moment later she realized that her spontaneous action was only helping him, pinning his hand to her pussy. Blushing scarlet, Caron unclamped her legs, tried to hold her breath until she passed out. She sucked it in till her chest hurt and her brain went woozy from lack of air, but Lou was fondling her pussy with greater and greater involvement, his fingertip flirting with the smooth tight lips of her gash, and her lower body was starting to twitch and undulate. "Goddamn you," she moaned, releasing her breath. Her lungs filled with air. She wasn't going to faint. "Oh, Goddamn you!"

"Here?" he asked. "On the kitchen floor?" He looked round. "Hey, the table. Come on, Caron." He dragged her to the table, shoved her head and tits down upon the smooth Formica top. It was cold against her bare skin. Her ass was sticking out and up. Lou lifted the hem of her dressing gown, her ripped nightie. He stood behind her, prodding her with the bulge in his pants. It had grown enormous, Caron thought, since the first time he rubbed her with it a few moments ago.

His hand stroked her buttocks, traced the deep cleft, zeroed in on her unprotected snatch. She moaned in tenor as his finger began to assault her from behind, and she started to buck and twitch. His finger slipped inside and there was a cold clamminess in her armpits, a sense of tenor just behind her eyeballs. "Please," she sobbed, wishing the tears would flow. Just this once. Couldn't she cry? Shame him? God, he had no shame! He'd left her, and now he'd come back, dragging along a slut barely out of diapers. But Melissa wasn't enough for him. He wanted her, too, the woman he'd abandoned. He wanted to shame her again, more brutally than before. He was going to fuck her.

"Haven't you been fucked on the kitchen table lately, Caron?" he asked, insidiously. "You don't seem very comfortable. Maybe we'd better go the traditional route. So let's try for a replay of our wedding night, hmm mm? Only this time I expect something more than a fuzzy glove wrapped around my cock. I want a cunt. A real live cunt. Your cunt, Caron. I want to feel you fucking me back, I want your legs around me like a spider web, I want to hear you mooooooaannnnnn when I sock you into paradise. 'Cause, baby, that's what I'm gonna do!"

She didn't have time to answer. He swept her up into his arms and went strutting through the house, carrying her. He kicked doors open as he came to them. Caron could only hang on lest she fall. She couldn't believe he was carrying her. The old Lou had been a weakling; the OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY was a heavy load for him. Once. But not now. He carried Caron into the master bedroom and he threw her onto the large double bed they had once shared as man and wife. It was rumpled from her night of tossing in fitful dreams and as he towered above her, she knew achingly that it was going to get a lot more rumpled.

She huddled in one corner of the large bed, legs drawn up. Her dressing gown was gone, lost somewhere between kitchen and here. All she wore was her ripped nightie. She tried to cover herself.

"Shy?" she heard him ask. "You were pretty damned shy that first time, too. Let's see how well you've gotten over it."

He grabbed her ankle, pulled her across the bed. There was no way she could retain her dignity or decency. The torn nightie opened, stiff-nippled tits sticking out. She quivered with fear as he pulled her to him. He sat down on the edge off the bed, still holding her foot, and slid his other hand up her thigh, onto the hair-hedged mound of her twat.

"Pulsating," he observed. "With anticipation? With dread? Or with a mixture of the two? Which is it, Caron? You have three choices, after all. Pick a winner."

"Paul will kill you for, this," she said through clenched teeth. "When I tell him what you did, he'll kill you. And not, a jury in the state will convict him. They'll set him free and they'll give him a medal and…"

Lou raised his hand and he bit her, for the second time. Sharply, alongside the jaw. "Sometimes you talk too fucking much," he told her. And with that he threw himself forward, onto her supine body.

His face burrowed into her cowering crotch. She screamed at the first touch of him, at the tickly wiriness of his moustache on her smooth tanned flesh, and she tried to rock him off her. But it was no go. He was a heavy burden upon her lower body and she could not move her legs. His arms pinned her hips to the bed, his face commanded her midsection, and she felt his tongue serape across the cleft of her pussy, scampering like a predator in pursuit of some fleeing prey.

He split her twat with his fingers and licked his way inside, tongue picking up speed as he raced over the slick purplish-red flesh of her vulva. He found her clit and assaulted it furiously, whipping with his tongue until her button peeked out to see what the hell was going on. Caron felt it, felt the shudder run up her body, followed immediately by the heat, oh, God, the heat! She dug her fingers into the bed sheets and she clawed, moaning, "No, no, noooooo!"

She tore, she ripped, she pawed, she panted and she whined, but still he drank at her trough. His tongue flailed round and round her stiffening clit, scurrying lower to steal into the winking mouth of her terrified hole. Sweat began to pour across Caron's forehead. She would kill him for this. She wouldn't wait for Paul. Paul could defend her in court. Did he think she was some kind of machine that could be turned on and off at will? Didn't Lou know she was a human being; that he had hurt her tremendously and could never make up for that hurt? Oh, he'd pay for this! She'd see that he paid!

"Tasty cunt," he complimented, smacking his lips. It was a vulgar gesture and she knew that he intended it to be one. His face moved a little lower down her cooze, and now it was his thick wiry moustache brushing her clitoris. Caron's eyes threatened to pop from their sockets. It was like nothing she had ever imagined, the sensation of bristly hair slipping and sliding across her button. She husked a cry, a cry of shame, and her fingers tore through the sheet they'd been clasping so tightly. Her pussy began to lubricate, not gradually, but in a flooding river of woman juice.

It must have touched his chin, those trickling juices, because she heard him chortle and then his tongue was ramming up her hole, followed closely by two or three of his fingers. Caron screamed and tried to kick at this new violation, but she was powerless to move, as impotent as if he'd tied her down before setting about to rape her body.

Only my body, she thought, willing herself to resist with every strength left to her. He might take her body, but he couldn't get within gunshot of her mind, let alone her heart. Oh, Lord, she thought as his tongue swirled in and out of her creaming tube. Oh, Lord God, he never did anything like this when we were married! If he had… if he had…

He whipped her clit with the end of his tongue and she knew that there was no possible way she could hold back anymore. Her body was going to come. She was powerless to prevent it. But she would fight as long as she could. She'd rob him of whatever perverted satisfaction this act might be giving him. Oh, Goddamn you, Lou Archer, she thought, Goddamn youuuuuuu…

His fingers filled her tight sucking twat. She kept herself in good shape. Paul liked a tight fit, and he hadn't come near to wearing out her elastic pussy. She could snap it shut around him and milk his pecker with all the oozy muscles of her cunt. And right now Lou's fingers were getting the benefit of that tip-top conditioning. He flexed them inside her, made her shake and shudder and whimper, and her pussy ate him greedily. Her pussy couldn't tell the difference between a friend and an enemy. She knew now why a stupid person was often referred to as a "dumb cunt". She had a dumb cunt between her own legs and she'd never known it till now.

It was too late, much too late, for Caron to send a message down to her pussy. She suffered the tortures of the damned as Lou continued to fuck her with his fingers and to lick up the hot juices that were overflowing her drippy crack. Again and again his tongue sloshed across her, and he opened her gape as widely as he could, slipping into her vulva with his nose and his chin and that damnable ugly moustache of his. She hated him! God, how she hated him! He had not been content, this wicked terrible man, with deserting her. He'd chosen to come back and totally ruin her life. Caron's nostrils twitched nervously. She could feel the simmering excitement in the pit of her churning stomach.

His fingers stiffened inside her, fucking into Caron as if he had a cock in his hand. She screamed, tossed, bucked, and then she was coming and it felt as if she would never stop coming. Her body rocked and twitched in the throes of her orgasm and hot sticky juice leaked from the mouth of her snatch. He'd never been that good, she told herself. Not when they were man and wife. He'd never made her come, not once, in all their past relationship. She hadn't been good either, just a frigid woman, but if he'd been as adept as he'd just shown himself to be, she'd have melted in no time. Fear began to crowd the inner reaches of Caron's mind – tense, terrible fear.

She tried to think of other things, but it was hard, so hard. Melissa making a conquest in the house. He'd snickered something about that, grinned when she defended Paul's devotion, when she said it wasn't possible. And she knew it was true. Paul could never be excited by such a cheap, trashy tart. Sure, he'd looked at her tits. So had Caron. That didn't mean she was hot for the little whore. Anyway, who could help looking at the damned things? They stuck out like artillery, distorting the printed HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD legend across her front; the nipples rigid under the skin tight cotton, her ass wiggling like a shithouse door in a gale whenever she walked. Some men would find that attractive. Obviously Lou had. Most likely, Lou would find a piece of moss growing on a rock attractive. He'd become an animal during his wanderings, an ugly dangerous animal. He belonged in a cage.

But what the hell did he mean about Melissa making a conquest? What the hell was he talking about? Thinking about that occupied her mind while Lou's hands and mouth continued to ravish her unwilling but orgasmic pussy, allowed her to fog out the humiliations he was forcing upon her. Twenty-four hours ago she had thought the man was certainly dead, but this was no corpse eating her pussy.

His fingers worked in her twat and she moaned again, an unwilling and agony-full moan, but God, it felt so good, even if it was rape, it felt so good down there, the lips of her pussy raw from lust and arousal, the juice sticky wet all over her genitals, seeping out to dampen her hedge of pubic hair. His tongue, sloshing wickedly through her cuntal froth, tickling her budlike clit, working through the folds and crevices of her privates. And his fingers, stroking at her. Gentle fingers, really, she decided, not nearly so animalistic as they'd been at first. It was almost as if he were starting to make love, rather than take his pleasure in rape.

What came next? She couldn't remember. The bed creaked, and it felt lighter, less occupied, and she wanted to open her eyes but she was afraid to. She heard the sound of a zipper, and she did open her eyes. Lou stood beside the bed, dropping his faded jeans. His cock jumped out as the pants went down, and it was in gigantic erection, that prick of his – enormous, towering, like a battering ram that jutted from his loins and the patch of hair at the base.

Caron sat up, eyes bulging. It had been seven years. Had he been so big then, too? God, he must have been! Men of his age didn't experience sudden spurts of penile growth. But she hadn't remembered him that way, not so huge, so monstrous, so… so…

She clutched at her breasts, trying to cover herself from the proud thrust of that incredible prick. Big, swollen, with a glowing ruby knob the size of both her eyeballs, put together. A slight curve up the jutting length, as if he were beginning to form himself into the shape of a crescent. "Oh, my God, no," she said, pointing, "there is no bloody way – I won't let you use that thing on me – absolutely not – Lou – for the love of God – Louuuuuuuu…"

Her voice died away in a trembling whimper as he climbed onto the bed naked, his cock fully erect, the tight scrotum flesh clinging lewdly to the huge stones of his testicles. They jiggled beneath his lancing dong. Caron took a deep breath, but, her lungs refused to fill up. She felt as if she were strangling. She couldn't speak, only whisper. "I will not," she told him in a low, almost inaudible voice. "I most certainly absolutely Goddamned fucking NEVER will not! No, Lou, no, no, noooooo…"

"Lie down," he said. "Flat on your back." He raised his hand and she was very frightened, afraid he'd hit her again. He'd done that twice already, not really hurting her but startling her, reminding Caron that men were, after all, the stronger sex. And he was a man. If nothing else, the vivid thrust of his erect cock proved that point. Her heart skipped a beat and she lay down, shivering.

Lou straddled her chest, his hips settling down upon her shaking tits. His flesh was hot, nearly as heated as her aroused hippies. He pressed down upon Caron, grinding his ass against her chest. Her hips twitched and she moaned, "No, please Lou, I'm sorry for everything I said, but don't…"

He was already angling his cock down, toward her mouth. "Suck it Caron. Open your pretty little mouth and suck it. You always had some excuse for not doing that when I was living with you before, but I've heard all the excuses. What I want now is a blow job, and something tells me that I'm going to get a damned good one. Anyway, look at my prick. You haven't seen it in seven years. Don't you even have a little hello kiss saved up for me?" He grinned, pushed the tip of his dick against Caron's lips.

She stifled the urge to scream because that would have opened her mouth widely, given her tormentor the impetus and opportunity to shove it in. But his cock tickled her lips, and she trembled, and before she knew it her lips had parted ever so slightly and the end of Lou's rod was flush against her teeth and she felt tears well in her eyes. It wouldn't be so bad. Once she'd hated the very thought of this act, but that was a long time ago. Only yesterday afternoon she'd sucked Paul's cock, giggled as his cum spurted into her face, into her mouth. It wouldn't kill her, even if it was Lou's prick. And if she refused, God only knew what he might do in his anger.

Caron closed her tear-filled eyes and she unclenched her teeth. Lou thrust hard into her mouth, filling her with the bulk and heat of his stiff, strange-tasting cock. She gasped, summoned her courage, and then she began to suckle him. Not enthusiastically, but her lips were working and they could not help but be felt by Lou.

"Is that your mouth, Caron, or did I take a wrong turn and wind up in somebody else's bed? I can't fucking believe it. You're really sucking me! I can feel your tongue floating around, and your mouth is full of spit. I'll bet that if I went deeper, if I gave it a nice big hard shove, you wouldn't even gag. You'd open your throat and take me as deep as I wanted to go. Right? Grunt if you want to put any money on it, Caron. Don't want to bet? No matter. You're getting it anyway, and… here goes! Oh, hot shit!"

He grabbed the sides of her head, lifting her slightly from the pillow, and humped his cock into her mouth for what seemed an eternity. He was true to his word. The head of his dong slipped into Caron's throat. She wanted to gag, but she couldn't. It wasn't that bad. She'd done this very act for Paul, more times than she could count, and the trick was simple. It had to do with breath and muscle control. Anyone could learn it, anyone who really wanted to. And now she was using her sexual education, using it for the pleasure of a man she hated with all her heart and soul.

He was big, thicker than Paul. Why didn't she remember that? Could seven years wipe out all those memories? But she'd never really sucked him when they were man and wife. She'd pleasured him in bed as infrequently as she could manage.

"If I'd known you were this talented," she heard him say, "I'd never have left you. You open any deeper, I'm gonna be fucking your throat. Would you like that, baby?"

He tasted salty, like ham, she decided, and when the end of his cock brushed the tip of her tongue, she could taste the faintest sampling of the jism that was already starting to leak from his pecker. His jizz? Once she'd have been ready to puke at the thought of sperm in her oral sanctuary, but that was a long time ago, and another Caron. She'd sipped gallons of sperm since the last time she'd seen Lou. It tasted good and she loved to drink it. But not Lou's. Oh, she'd show the cocksucker! She'd take his cum into her mouth, suck till he'd finished shooting, and she'd collect the stuff in her cheeks, under her tongue. Her throat would be shut off tightly, by God. And when he was done coming, when his cock had softened and slipped from her greasy mouth, she would look up at him. No. She'd get up, as soon as he was off her, and she'd put her arms around his neck and she'd give him the biggest wettest kiss he'd ever gotten.

Oh, what a kiss it would be! She'd spit his cum into his grinning superior face. She'd spit it all over him, every fucking drop of his lousy seed! And she'd laugh like a hyena while he turned purple and green and every other color under the sun, trying to wipe the scum off his features. Yes, Caron thought, the upper hand is coming back to me. But that would only be the start. When she was finished, his ass would be better off dead.

"Suck harder, baby, I think I'm almost there," he was telling her. "Jesus, you have a mouth and a half. Feels like two chicks giving me head at the same time. I don't know who taught you how to blow, but he deserves a medal. I think I came home at just the right time, baby. I've caught you in your prime. May not go away again. Suck in your cheeks. Vacuum me. Mmmm, yeah, I could sweep floors with that mouth of yours. Do it tight. I won't break. Mmmmm, Caron, honey! Did you ever see Jennifer Welles suck cocks in a dirty movie? You should. Oh, fuck, what the hell for? She couldn't teach you a Goddamn thing you don't already know. I could make you a porno star, baby. Would you dig that? Heyyyy!! That little twat Melissa was born with a dick in her mouth, but you could give her lessons. Maybe after we get this all straightened up, the three of us can shack together. You ever make it in a threesome, Caron? You'd dig it. Melissa is as queer as a six-dollar bill. She'll go down with anything. Man, woman, fag, dyke, German shepherd. She made an eight millimeter movie out on the coast where she jacked off a Shetland pony. The RSPCA has her on their permanent shit list, but she doesn't care. Come on, suck me. I can tell you're holding back a little. Don't hold anything back. Give it all to me, Caron."

She sucked obediently, her tongue moving, in circles around his thrusting cock. Part of her mind was repelled by what he said, and the images it created in her mind. Melissa. If anyone was born to jack off a horse, it had to be that little blonde twat. And part of her was strangely fascinated, top. She tried to conceive what it would be like, watching Melissa and the horse. It was a tantalizing thought, one that sent hot tingles racing through her body. Oh God, the hapless woman told herself, I shouldn't be thinking that! I shouldn't even be doing this!

"Open your throat, Caron, I want to fuck you deep and hard. Suck sweet, baby. Use your tongue. Make it good for me. I'm… easy, now, baby… watch those teeth… I'm almost… hold on, Caron, hold on… you're gonna get a mouthful… tighten that mouth… don't want you to miss any of it… lot better than blowing a pony, isn't it, baby? Get ready… here it… here it… coommmmmmmmmmmmmmmesssss!"

And his dick began to pump hot thick semen into her mouth. Caron wasn't at all ready, and her throat had apparently forgotten all about the master plan she'd prepared. The first gush of Lou's jizz went right down her throat, and she gulped it without even thinking. Her lips tightened on Lou while he kept squirting and gushing, his hands fierce and possessive on her head, and she realized to her shame and horror that she was actually drinking his cum, allowing it to pulse in viscous gobbles down her throat and into the pit of her churning belly. Tears invaded her eyes. She wouldn't even have her dearly cherished revenge! And she couldn't stop milking him with her lips. Her mouth tightened and sucked, and each time she pulled another spurt of cum poured into her sucking mouth.

"Good job, Caron." Lou grinned, pumping into her. She might as well drink his seed now. She'd already allowed it to happen. Grimly, Caron sucked and drank. The taste was bitter as gall in her mouth. And then her lower body jerked. Lou had reached around and, without warning, stuffed one of his fingers – the middle one, to judge from the feel – into her raw, itchy cunt!

She lurched and bucked under him, almost swallowed his stiff rod, right to the balls, and he fired the last salvo of his wad directly down her throat. His tool throbbed and pulsed against her tongue and when he came out of her mouth he was still hard as a rock. He tapped her mouth with the wet slimy end of his pecker and he announced, "Okay, Caron, now that we've gotten the preliminaries out of the way – let's fuck."

She moaned, her throat gurgly and full of jizz, and his fingers worked savagely in her pussy. Caron moaned and writhed, and she understood that, short of Paul's early arrival, there was no way she was going to escape being fucked too. Semen dripped from her mouth and she was trying to talk, but couldn't. Lou eased off her, still using his fingers in her cunt, and he kissed her sticky mouth. His tongue grazed the sensitive rims of her lips and she shivered on the bed. She didn't want him to fuck her. Oh, God, she couldn't endure the thought of being screwed by this man!

He worked his finger deeper into her cunt and her body convulsed. Sick, Caron realized that she was perilously close to yet another orgasm. Two or three more jiggles of his finger and she would – she would – she didn't know what she'd do. Lou turned her over, onto her side, and he lay down behind her, his cock pushing hard at the round cheeks of her ass.

"Open your legs, baby," he purred into her ear, and she realized that she had opened her legs, realized it as his cock began to slide up and down the cleft of her pussy, gathering momentum for its stabbing entrance. Her breath was ragged and her nipples ached. There was a drool of froth on the slash of her pussy and it bubbled as he continued to rub her, rub her, rub her with his throbbing pecker point.

"No," she said. "Please don't do this to me, Lou." He kissed her neck, then bit it, and his hands were on her tits, squeezing, pinching the hard taut nipples. She moaned. Again she could feel his cock rubbing the crease of her sex, stirring the soup that boiled in her twat. Caron closed her eyes, and then she reached down. She seized the shaft of his rigid peter and brought it to bear on her cuntal mouth. "Aaaaaaaaaggghhhhhhh!" she screamed, plunging down upon him, swallowing his dick in her pulsating pussy. He clenched on her tits and shoved, and they were fucking, and she couldn't understand why. But her snatch thrust to meet him and the juice was like a river inside Caron and she moaned, "Do it, oh, God, Lou, do it, fuck me, Goddamn you you son of a fucking bitch, do it do it do it do itttttttttt…"

CHAPTER SIX

Sheila was absorbed in her painting. The portrait of Claire looked so much better than it had yesterday. Part of that was due to the sun, which was still slightly hanging to eastward, climbing toward noon. The light was different, and it made the picture look different. Even the nipples were beginning to take on the roseate pink that had eluded her brush yesterday afternoon. God, at least she had this much! She could still paint!

Something about Claire's face nagged at her. She studied the painting, worked with her colors, used the brush to make an alteration here and there, then peered carefully at the results. "Oh, Christ!" Sheila said in exasperation. There had been nothing wrong with the face as she'd first painted it. What she was doing, what she had just done, was to give. Claire's features a slight but noticeable resemblance to Melissa Chase, as the girl had looked last night, dancing naked on the beach. The set of eyes, the particular pout of the mouth – it was Melissa she was putting onto the canvas, and not Claire. Sheila cursed softly, began to paint out her mistake. As the brush moved, though, she found that she could not forget the image she had witnessed last night. And what a picture it would make, she told herself. The fire, the blue-black sky with a trail of moonlight gleaming on the ocean. And in the forefront, Melissa, glorious before the blazing fire. Every detail of it was inscribed onto Sheila's memory. A year from now she could do that scene, with photographic precision. Her hand began to shake and she smeared some paint on the canvas. "Fuck," she said. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

"That's really nice," a voice said behind her, and she spun around. The brush fell out of her hand and she almost dropped her palette too. It was Melissa, a towel wrapped around her body, her hair and face wet, as if she'd just stepped from the ocean like Aphrodite. The towel barely covered her crotch. If she were sitting down, Sheila thought, and if she didn't think to close her legs, I could see it all under the edge of that towel. I could see it all. Sheila felt her heart do a pitter-pat and she found herself wondering if she could dig up some excuse for Melissa to sit down for a while.

Melissa came up, looked at the portrait of Claire, the portrait no one else had seen, no one else would ever see. It was a private picture, something that belonged to Sheila's personal life, but somehow she didn't mind the intrusion, didn't resent the curious interest as Melissa studied the painting, nibbling softly on her plump pink lower lip.

"It's gorgeous," Melissa said. "She's very sexy. But how can you paint without a model?"

"I don't need one," Sheila replied softly. "We used to be friends. It's from memory."

Melissa giggled. "You have one hell of a memory. Or were you really good friends, mmm?" She stepped back. "You know what? I'd really dig somebody painting me. I mean, I've modeled for photographs – I was the centerfold girl in HOT CHICKS, but you probably never saw that one, did you? I was lying on a bearskin rug, real tacky, and they'd rubbed my tits with ice to make the nipples stick out, and I had my fingers down here, you know, spreading myself. If you looked real close you could see my tonsils through the split. It was so tacky, but it was fun, too. You know?"

Sheila felt faint. She tried to imagine Melissa spread like that, in front of some photographer with a Hasselblad, and the trouble wasn't that she could not picture it, but that she could. In vivid detail. HOT CHICKS magazine. She didn't think she'd ever seen a copy. But maybe if she could find out which issue, one of the bookshops in Darien could dig up a copy from some back-numbers house…

"I used to do a lot of modeling, but the pay was so low – maybe five dollars or ten dollars an hour, and there's so much competition. You work steady for a few months, and every photographer in LA has a bushel of pictures of you, and nobody needs you anymore, they want new girls, you know? I was washed up at eighteen. Boy – you are really good, you know that, Sheila? Looking at that picture, I can almost reach out and touch the girl, she's so real, I'd like to pose for an artist, for somebody who could make me look that good."

Sheila cleared her throat. She felt madness crawling through her veins. There was no history of insanity in the family, but she knew that she was on the verge of setting the precedent. She was so close to Melissa she could smell the salt water that still clung to the girl and, even more powerful, Melissa's own natural body oils and odors. They were sweet, like rolling in a garden of fragrant flowers, and Sheila felt her head beginning to roll too. Her vision misted, as if heat shimmers were surrounding her on every side, and time after time she willed her nervous hand not to reach out, smooth the tangles from Melissa's golden hair. The skin, oh, God, the skin. Smooth, tanned, little bubbles of water decorating it. Her hand twitched and she wanted to crawl under a rock, join a nunnery – oh, Jesus, not a nunnery – a monastery – a Trappist monastery – anything – to get away…

"You're not interested in finding any new models, I guess," Melissa went on. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, back and forth, and her hips moved inside the towel that appeared to be her only garment. Sheila watched the rise and fall of those ripe haunches and she wanted to turn away, but she couldn't will herself to do it. Not even when she remembered last night, the whorish way Melissa had responded to Lou on the beach. It couldn't dim, couldn't cheapen the passion that swelled inside Sheila, swelled and flamed for this tally, trampy little girl.

"I – uh, I don't know," Sheila heard herself saying. "I – maybe…"

Melissa turned, green eyes sparkling like emeralds. "I'd really dig modeling for you, I think. I mean, if you could make me look that good…"

"I" and "me" seemed to be her favorite words. Narcissistic, yes, and hedonistic, really, dumb, but God in heaven, so desirable…

Sheila took the portrait of Claire off the easel. She picked up a blank canvas board. It gave her something to do with her hands. "Are you gonna let me audition?" Melissa asked delightedly. "Oh, wow!" She hurried around, stood beyond the easel, golden hair glowing in the sunlight. "I guess you want to see how I look without my clothes, huh?" she added, and the towel dropped in a flurry at her feet.

She stood naked, tits lifting as she breathed, and Sheila began to moan while her eyes seemed to blur and mist and her fingers clenched tightly on the brush she held, so tightly that the brush handle snapped in two and both pieces fell to the ground. Melissa cupped her lush full tits from beneath, and she held them as if in offering. The nipples were pink and rigid, big round nipples with fat thick teats set squarely at their centers, and those nipples stared at Sheila like earnest pink eyes. Her legs were slightly parted, and the glorious puff of her shaven cunt was on full display. Sheila could see the reddish-pink of the crease, could even see the tiny inner lips framed in the slash, demure hints of the sweetness and pleasure that lurked a little deeper within.

"Stop it," Sheila whispered. "For the love of Christ, stop it!"

Still cupping her tits, Melissa stepped a pace or two toward Sheila. "Don't you want to paint me?" she asked, a stray wet lock of hair fallen across her smooth forehead, gold hair against gold skin. "Or would you rather fool around a little?" She let go of her tits and went around the easel. Sheila turned, and Melissa's hand stretched out. Sheila took that hand in her own and, together, the two girls walked into the ankle-high grass that dotted the bluff overlooking the cove.

Melissa was short, and she had to stand on tiptoes to kiss Sheila, and when she did, her lush full tits rubbed arousal and invitation onto Sheila's chest. Sheila moaned into, the mouth that covered her own and she embraced Melissa, hands racing down the girl's bare body. She cupped Melissa's buttocks, squeezed, marveled at the taut springy resilient flesh. Warm flesh, smooth flesh, still wet from the ocean. She pinched off tiny rolls of baby fat, felt them glide beneath her probing, seeking fingers. Melissa sighed and wriggled against Sheila, and it was a dream come true. God, it was only a dream! Sheila tried to tell herself. None of this was happening! A perky, frisky tongue slipped into Sheila's mouth, played like a puppy, and Sheila knew that this was no dream sensation. It was real, dear Jesus, it was real and it was happening! To her! To Sheila Diane Ross! She clasped Melissa's ass and ground her, body against the young blonde's, giving full rein to her passion and lust.

They sank onto the grass, still kissing and touching. Sheila felt hands on her breasts, hands that caressed the outline of her tits through the loose shirt she wore, hands that wouldn't be content with caresses, that had to slip inside. Her buttons loosened. Melissa's fingers touched the bare trembling flesh of her tits. Her nipples were stiff and the young girl's fingers found them in no time, began to squeeze the sensitive little tips in rhythmic, knowing fashion.

Melissa's tongue retreated and she rolled over onto her back. Sheila moved up, taking the initiative. Her shirt came loose. She fought free of it, came down upon Melissa bare to the waist, and there was an electric shock as her naked tits came into contact with Melissa's. Four stiff nipples, four eager tits. And a mouth that was only too willing to accept Sheila's tongue, to suck it happily while lips and tits rubbed together and excitement roared like a blast furnace inside Sheila's hungry body.

They came apart slowly. Sheila's lips hurt, she'd kissed the girl with such intensity. She sat up, rubbing her mouth, looking at Melissa, wondering what all this meant. Melissa sat up too and she brushed Sheila's nearest breast with the back of her hand. The nipple wobbled as she stroked it, and Sheila could hardly breathe.

Melissa was beaming with smiles. "Did you like that?" she asked. Sheila blushed. "Was it more fun than watching me and Lou last night?"

"What…"

"I saw you peeking out the window," Melissa added, leaning in closer. She licked Sheila's neck, and then her tongue glided down Sheila's breast, onto the reddish peak of one nipple. She flicked it twice, then pulled it into her mouth and sucked. There could be no faking in the smooth, efficient action of her lips. She knew what she was doing and she enjoyed it. So did Sheila.

"Really," Melissa said, lifting her face and looking into Sheila's brown eyes, "I could tell the moment I first saw you. You don't cover your emotions too well. When I closed the fridge door and you were standing there looking at me, well, you were eating me with your mind. And you didn't take your eyes off me once last night, not even when your sister was crying her heart out. Do I turn you on?"

"A hell of a lot," Sheila whispered. "A whole hell of a lot."

"The girl in the picture," Melissa said, pointing. "Did you use to have a thing with her? I thought so. You painted her as if you loved her. I wish somebody loved me that much, you know? But people just want to fuck me. Are you nice? Really nice, I mean? Or do you just want to fuck me too?"

"I – yes, I'm nice," Sheila said softly. She put her hands on Melissa's tits and squeezed. God, the ripeness, the firmness; the heat of the pink nipples against her palms! "And yes I want to fuck you, too. I want you so badly I can taste you right now – all over my face, as if you're already feeding me on your pussy – I…"

Melissa stood, looking down at Sheila. "And I can feel your tongue in me," she said, rubbing her slit until it sparkled. Little drops of cum were oozing from her crack. Sheila could see them, smell them, almost taste them. "I bet you're good," Melissa added. "I bet you're good at everything you do. Show me, Sheila. Show me how good."

"Come here, Goddamn it," Sheila husked, and she seized Melissa's legs. Lifting herself, she thrust her face into Melissa's crotch. Her hands preceded her, split the hairless crack, made room for Sheila's hot ready tongue. She speared into Melissa and she heard the girl moan in delight, but she couldn't be half so delighted as Sheila was, getting her first sweet taste of Melissa.

Slowly they came down again, Sheila on her back, Melissa sitting on her face. Sheila had an entire pussy to work with, and it was the pussy of her dreams. She opened it, marveled at the coral pink interior, at the slippery texture of the folds of flesh inside Melissa's gates, at the redness of the clitoral button that was already erect and hot for the fray. Leaning up, she anointed the clit with her tongue, felt it quiver against her, felt the shudders of joy run through Melissa's entire body. She squeezed the girl's ass and started to eat pussy.

Melissa leaned forward, pressing her twat down upon Sheila's face. "God," the blonde panted, "you are good at everything! Eat me, darling! Eat me up! Chew me raw! Stick your tongue in my twat! Oh, lick me, lick me, lick me! Suck me sweet and I'll come all over your pretty face! My God, Sheila, eat me, eat me, eat meeeeeee!"

As for Sheila, she was eating, and it was better even than she had dreamed it could be. The blonde girl's cunt was delicious, young and fresh and tangy, and her tongue found new taste treats everywhere it roamed. The tube was snug around her tongue and she loved that. She worked one hand loose from Melissa's ass, got it into the girl's sweet young snatch from behind, and she poked home with a lustful vengeance. Atop her, Melissa quivered and moaned, and Sheila knew that she wasn't the only one enjoying this magic moment. Oh, God, she thought, it's really happening! No matter how the rest of my life goes, I've had this. And I'll never ever forget it!

Melissa rocked back, until she was lying atop Sheila's tall, lean body, her taut-fleshed legs on either side of Sheila's head, her pussy jammed against Sheila's eager mouth. Sheila rammed her tongue into Melissa, then reached up, and took hold of the girl's jiggling tits. They were hard with excitement, the nipples an inch long and fat as pinky fingers. Sheila squeezed the nipples, squeezed until Melissa throbbed and shook atop her, and she kept her tongue busy, in and out the vagina, up to bathe the clit in hot saliva, back down to the hole again. Everything was so delicious she didn't know where to lunch next. She wanted to eat that cunt hole, to chew it up and digest it and absorb it into her own system so she could keep it with her always.

"Suck me sweet," Melissa panted. "Oh, you're doing it, Sheila! You're eating me! Nobody eats like another woman, do they? Nothing tastes like a pussy? I want to smother you with my cunt! I want to get your whole head into me! I want to pull you up my snatch and never let you go! Your tongue, baby! Use your fucking tongue! Fuck me with your motherfucking tongue! Slurp, slurp! Ohhhhhh – wowwwwww…"

Her pussy was responding like a well-tuned engine. When Sheila wasn't burying her face in the sweet hairless crack, that sweet hairless crack was thrusting at her face, cooze juice leaking from the slit, thick and tart and as addictive as good wine. Sheila's face was already soaked, from sweat and cooze juice, but she wanted more. Oh, God, she wanted everything!

Melissa jerked her pussy back, and Sheila couldn't raise her face high enough to follow. Melissa rolled off Sheila, turned around fast, threw herself down upon the supine girl, began to kiss her mouth hungrily, using lips and tongue and teeth. "I can taste me," she said. "I can taste me all over you." Her tongue shot into Sheila's mouth and Sheila sucked as vigorously as she'd nursed Melissa's clit. At the same time Melissa's hands were on Sheila's body, ravishing her tits, sliding down her belly, fighting with the button of Sheila's tight jeans. "Come loose, Goddamn it," Melissa growled, and the button opened and her hand thrust inside.

She slid beneath the waistband of Sheila's panties, fingers burrowing through Sheila's little jungle of dark pubic hair. Sheila's twat was leaky with hot juice too, and Melissa's fidgety fingers only increased the flow.

"Hair," Melissa sighed. "I like to nuzzle in hair. Get your pants off. Let's eat each other. You can lick me with no hair and I can wallow in your fluff. Okay?"

Did she have to ask? My God, Sheila thought, does she have to fucking ask? She lifted her ass and Melissa pulled down pants and panties in one quick motion, baring Sheila to the ankles. The shoes had to come off before Sheila could be stripped totally, and it was hard getting the shoes off because Sheila's toes were curled tightly, tense with excitement.

But the shoes fell away, and Melissa was grunting heavily as she jerked off Sheila's pants, and then both of them were naked, two glowing female bodies hot with desire and lust. She stared at Sheila's twat, her eyes glittering as she drank in the loveliness of the curling hairs. Sheila was just as turned on by Melissa's hairless twat. To each her own, she thought, her hand sliding up and down Melissa's smooth tanned thigh. The girl was tanned to the same shade of new penny copper all over, a tribute to the California sun and a landmark to Sheila's arousal. Sheila's hand worked up the inside of Melissa's leg and the fingers came to rest on the girl's puffy bare cuntal mound. The flesh was blazing hot, or so it felt to Sheila's excited fingers, and the slice dripped sticky juices. Sheila worked her fingers in that goo, then started to punch one into Melissa's hole.

"Right," Melissa said. "It's time to play!" She cupped Sheila's mound, squeezed it. "Hair tickles," she announced with a girlish giggle. "I shaved mine when I was working at the massage parlor. The customers really get off on it. Maybe I'll let the fuzz grow out again."

"I like it this way," Sheila husked. "I really get off on it, too."

Melissa giggled, and she arranged herself over Sheila, pussy to face. As her hairless twat settled down on Sheila's mouth, the auburn-haired girl thought, a massage parlor. A split-beaver centerfold model. I have picked myself a slut this time, and that's for sure! And isn't it what I was looking for? A girl to roll in garbage with? "Come here," she murmured to the descending pussy and her tongue lifted to kiss it hello…

Something kissed her own pussy at almost the same instant. It was Melissa's mouth, Melissa's wet hungry mouth, covering Sheila's entire cuntal bulge, sucking hard. Sheila moaned, her mouth full of hot hairless twat, and she began to writhe. She was so juiced-up that it wouldn't take much to set her coming, but there would be more. God, if she had to, she'd rip up a canvas or two and make little ropes to bind Melissa hand and foot! Keep her out here the whole Goddamned day, rape her as thoroughly as any woman had ever been raped in this world's history!

Melissa sucked cunt, and then she relaxed the pressure, causing Sheila to groan in a mixture of joy and sadness. It only lasted for a second. Melissa opened Sheila's snatch and started to lick her way in and out, and it was obvious she knew what she was doing. I'm not the first cooze she's eaten, Sheila told herself. How many others had there been? Little pangs of jealousy shot through her. She hated the idea of other women having known Melissa, of that sweet darting tongue flitting in and out of other women's cunts. But I had her now, Sheila thought, taking a death grip on Melissa's ass, squashing the hairless snatch down against her hungry mouth. I have her and I'm not going to let her go! Not until I'm good and ready. And I may never be that ready.

Fingers stabbed into Sheila, little fingers but agile fingers, sharp punching fingers that clearly knew their way around a pussy. At least, Sheila rationalized, I don't have to educate her, the way I did with Lucy and Janice. We're not starting from scratch. We're equals, in a way, this young girl and I. And the best way to prove we're equals, the best way to show her I know what I'm doing too, is…

Her tongue raced up into Melissa's rippling snatch and she felt the eager play of muscles inside the sweet-scented pussy. Hot drippings smeared her face, coated her raging tongue. Melissa's clit was up, big and eager, the biggest clit Sheila had ever seen, a thrill to behold, a treat to suck, a privilege to make love to. She washed it with her tongue and she sucked it and she loved it, and she felt Melissa's excited pulse thump through the clitoral nub, hammering against the tip of her tongue. Another flood of sticky girl-goo oozed from Melissa and wettened the ball of Sheila's chin. Reluctantly she left off clit sucking and scooped low with her tongue, hungry for those juices. She drank them avidly and her tongue worked inside, lapping up still more and more and more of Melissa's come cream. And this was only the preliminary! When Melissa orgasmed, there would be a flood of juice in which Sheila could easily drown. But what a way to die!

Had Melissa really seen her last night? Had Melissa been aware of Sheila's desire from the moment of their first meeting? It seemed incredible, almost impossible to believe, but it had to be true. And had she come up here today only to watch Sheila paint, or had she come up here precisely to be seduced? On the other hand, who had seduced whom? The initiative had been Melissa's, right from the start. In all her other relationships Sheila had made the first move. Maybe this indicated that her luck was beginning to change? God, she hoped so! If anyone needed a change of luck…

But it would not be. Even as she drank the flowing honey of Melissa's twat, Sheila knew that it was hopeless. In its way, it was worse than the passion she'd been nursing since last evening. She was getting Melissa, sure, but what was she getting? Melissa was Lou's girl. This could be nothing more than a one-afternoon-stand, to turn a phrase. Two hot women, come together for an hour's passion, and when they parted, it would be forever. Sheila's heart began to deflate. There was a God and he was punishing her in the most vindictive fashion possible. He was giving her a taste of paradise, but he would also take it away and she could only hunger and pine for all time to come, aching for one more sip of the manna that dripped, not from heaven, but from something much better – the crack of Melissa's pink petaled pussy.

Sheila grabbed the blonde girl's lovely ass and her fingers dug into the firm but yielding curves and she thrust up with her tongue, sucking honey from Melissa's cooze as if pussy were going out of style tomorrow and she needed to get more than her greedy share today.

It was good. Jesus, it was so good! Better even than she'd dreamed it could be. Her fantasies had been only fantasies. She had never guessed that they might be capable of fulfillment. All last night Sheila had lusted and hungered and yearned and felt sorry for herself. She had taunted her mind with the unattainable image of Melissa, the epitome of all her dreams and hungers. And now she was in possession of Melissa, and she knew how sweet dreams could be, how gratified a body could feel when hungers were fed. She worked her tongue in and out of the tight sweet crack, and she felt magic things take place in her own twat. Melissa had a tongue like an angel, and if those fingers of hers were artistic in no other fashion, they were talented when it came to pronging and stroking a hot, horny cunt.

"I'm going to come," Sheila moaned. "I'm going to come all over you, Melissa darling! Put your tongue in me! Lick me while I come!"

"Mmmmm," Melissa giggled, and her tongue oozed up Sheila's twitchy tube. She went deep – it was surprising that her tongue could be so long, but Sheila had the proof, a mile up her snatch – and as her tongue slid across the lust-maddened flesh, it began to erupt in ripples and convulsions of orgasm. Sheila screamed around Melissa's pussy and she pulled her knees back, entrapping that beautiful slutty blonde face where it belonged, between her legs, glued to her climactic cunt.

And then, like magic, Melissa groaned and began to come as well. How often did that happen? Sheila wondered. Two women in a spontaneous love act, both of them coming at almost the same instant? She hummed into Melissa's cunt and the juices oozed forth, drenching her face, drowning her in lust. She lapped into them and her tongue scooped up the liquid love and it was beautiful, it was dynamite, it proved that even a loser could win – at least once. Sobbing with joy and the sense of what she was about to lose forever, Sheila ate Melissa's orgasm, fed Melissa her own cum. Legs clutched heads, hands clutched asses, tongues dove in and out of churning, excited pussies, and two bodies finally collapsed together in the grass, passion spent for the moment.

"Where do you live?" Melissa asked, chewing on a blade of grass. She lay in Sheila's arms and Sheila was toying with her breasts, teasing the sweet fat nipples, enticing them to become erect once again so they could be kissed and sucked. "I mean," she said, stretching, "do you stay here all the time, or what?"

"I live in Darien," Sheila said. "In Connecticut. It's not far from New York. I'm just down here to visit my sister. And, well, to forget somebody. Her. The girl in the picture."

"New York, wow," Melissa sighed. "I've never been to New York. Is it nice there?"

"It can be," Sheila agreed. "Maybe Lou will take you up."

Melissa giggled. "Lou? What for? Don't you have eyes? He's got something else in mind." Sheila didn't understand. "Her. Caron. He wants her back. I don't blame him, really. She's a very sexy lady. He showed me a picture of her, from back when they were married, and I couldn't believe it's the same person. This morning he told me to get lost, said he was going to try a reconciliation."

"Oh, my God," Sheila whispered. "He wouldn't dare."

"Yes he would. And…" Melissa looked at the sun, "he probably has. He can be very forceful when he wants something. And he wants Caron."

"It'll never happen," Sheila said. She squeezed Melissa's tits. She didn't want to talk about Lou and Caron or anything else. She wanted to make love again, before Melissa waked out of her life forever.

Melissa wriggled free, walked over to the easel. "Isn't that what's his name's car?" Sheila got up, peered over the edge of the bluff. It was Paul's truck, coming across the causeway to the island. He had the divorce papers with him and Caron was only too anxious to sign them, to get rid of Lou. Sheila felt tension in her belly. If she wanted to make it with Melissa again, she'd have to do it now. Once the papers were signed, Caron was going to throw Lou's ass out of the house. And if Lou went, so did Melissa. Sheila put her arms around the young blonde girl, pulled her back from the edge of the hill. "Come here," she said, "I want to kiss you again."

"Where do you want to kiss me?" Melissa asked coyly, puckering her lips. At the same time her hand slid down her belly and she parted the hairless lips of her snatch. Sheila stood panting, watching, unsure how to answer the question. Sighing, she sank to her knees and planted her mouth on Melissa's belly, just below the navel. It eased downward, onto the puff of pussy, and her tongue scraped the parted, inviting labia. The girl's clit was still erect, a pulsating little nubbin against Sheila's tongue. Sheila licked it once, found she couldn't take her tongue away. Melissa took hold of Sheila's head, began to wiggle against Sheila's face, just as she'd wiggled in her dance last night. Only this time, Sheila thought, she's doing it for me and for me only. She sucked the clitoris, felt its eager throb between her lips, and her eyes went misty with tears I can lose her and live, she thought. It won't be the first time. But it won't hurt any the less.

Melissa settled down. She knocked over the easel and its blank canvas board, the one Sheila had set up when Melissa asked to be painted. It didn't matter. The sun blazed down from overhead and Melissa felt its rays kissing her body, kissing her everyplace Sheila wasn't already kissing her. She basked in the sun and the love, and she basked in the glow of Sheila's attention. It was nice, being with somebody who really seemed to dig you. Not just as a body, as a person, too. The sex was good, but the vibes were even better. And she got dynamite from Sheila Ross. Especially now, with a tongue on her clit.

Melissa's hand slid lazily across the ground. The paint box had spilled too, and there were tubes and stuff all over. She sifted through them, enjoying the way the fat smooth tubes felt against her fingers, until her sense of touch told her she'd located a paintbrush. Melissa turned her head, baked at it. A long handled brush with a wide flat set of bristles. She stroked them against her arm. Stiff, but not harsh. Sorta like Lou's moustache. Mmmmmmm! She remembered how that moustache felt, wiggling across her shaven snatch. She looked at Sheila's naked legs, spilling across the grass. Smooth, brown legs, slender and shapely. Pleasant to touch, even more pleasant to feel, wrapped around her face. Melissa began to slide the bristles of the paintbrush up and down Sheila's legs, paying close attention to the backs of the thighs. The way Sheila wiggled around and kinda purred into Melissa's twat signaled to Melissa that it was indeed an idea, and a very good one. She tickled a little harder, scraping flesh, and the brush moved into Sheila's crotch.

"Oh, God!" That was Sheila, first being touched on the pussy by the paintbrush. Melissa worked it vigorously at the fleshy little lips, not trying to get inside. Not yet, at least.

Sheila rolled over, face flushed with excitement. "What are you doing?" she asked. Melissa held up the brush. Sheila giggled. "I never thought of using it for that!" she said.

"Show you a better one," Melissa replied. "C'mon, open 'em! Let me into that little honeypot of yours. Mmmmm! I can still smell the cum all over your cunt. Makes my tummy growl. I think I'm hungry."

Melissa lay down on the ground between Sheila's widespread legs, the brush in her hand. "Open up, you tight little bugger," she told the pussy, and Sheila reached down to lend her assistance. The gates parted, and Melissa moved in, holding the paintbrush, bristly end out.

"Ohmygod!" Sheila squealed as the bristles touched her clit. She jumped and her face went red and her nipples popped out in excitement. Melissa rubbed again, and Sheila's head began to swim. "Don't do that," she said. "You're driving me crazy." But she said it like an invitation, and Melissa kept on stroking. Sheila lay back holding her snatch wide, and the constant flutter of camel's hair across her love button was incredible, stimulating, total fucking dynamite!

She sat up, panting, grabbed the brush from Melissa, threw the younger girl back onto the grass and zeroed in on Melissa's crotch. "Ooohhhhhh!" Melissa shrieked as Sheila repaid her in very good kind, scratching rings round the blonde's big, luscious clit.

A delightful shade of pink suffused Melissa's privates, and Sheila couldn't stand it. She threw the brush over her shoulder and went in with mouth open. Her tongue ravished Melissa, lapping and prodding until the girl was gushing in orgasm, and then she lay back, propped on her elbows, legs spread, ready, ready, ready! And so was Melissa, who mouthed in on Sheila's snatch as if it were a steak, smothered in gravy and fragrant onions. It couldn't last long, Sheila thought, guiding a head that needed no guidance, but it could be beautiful while it lasted.

"What's it like in Darien, Connecticut?" Melissa wondered. She was toying with her towel, alternately shielding and baring her body. Sheila had her clothes on, but, watching Melissa, she wished she was still naked, that they could go around at least one more time. Before – before it had to end. Because it did have to end. Her heart twinged inside her at the thought, but twinging hearts couldn't mask the truth.

"It's – a place. Artists, writers, musicians. Rich people. Not too many poor people. Long Island Sound. Not too far from the Berkshires. That's where I painted the pictures you were looking at last night, in the house. I have a small house in a very quiet, spread-out suburb."

"Mmmm, sounds nice," Melissa said, coming close. "Really small house? Just big enough for one?"

Sheila couldn't believe what she was hearing. "N-no. It's empty for one person living alone, nicer with two, but…"

Melissa put her arm around Sheila. Those big naked tits nudged Sheila's cheek, and Sheila turned her face, trembling. She clutched the girl's breasts, squeezed them together, burying her face between them.

"What I was thinking," Melissa added, "is that maybe I might come up and see you sometime, after you go back to Darien, Connecticut."

Sheila looked up. "But Lou…"

"Lou doesn't own me. I'm with him but I don't belong to him. Anyway, he has other fish to fry. And so do I. I'd really like to fry your fish, if you know what I mean?" She giggled. "I'm tired of being a piece of ass. When I'm with you, I feel like I belong to something, you know? Like we're both part of some kind of bigger thing, but we have to get it together, see, because otherwise we're just a couple of people – I'm not very good at saying things. Am I making any sense at all?"

Sheila nodded, and she began to cry. Her salty tears spilled onto Melissa's big warm boobs. One teardrop glistened at the tip of Melissa's nearest nipple. It shone like silver in the sunlight.

She tried to think. Paramount in her thoughts was the fact that Melissa had just brought up the question of a relationship, had more or less asked if one was possible. Oh, God, it was possible! It was more than possible! It was what Sheila wanted, more than anything else in the whole Goddamned world! But – did she dare? Again? So soon?

She looked up, into Melissa's liquid gemlike eyes. They were simple eyes, the kind of eyes she went crazy for. But could she depend on them? How soon before Melissa pulled up stakes and moved on? How soon before her heart was broken again?

But she had to take the chance. Maybe this time it would be real for both of them. Maybe Melissa had hit it directly on the head, that line about two people and both of them part of a bigger something that encompassed the pair of women, something that made them both complete when they were together. Maybe this time. And she'd never know unless she tried. "Yes," Sheila said, "yes I think that would be nice. I want you to come home to Darien with me and live with me and love me. Please?"

Melissa sat back, beaming. Sheila looked away, saw the portrait of Claire lying on the ground. Now far away was the pen knife she kept in her paint box, spilled out with the rest of her art supplies. She picked up the painting, the knife, and she began to cut the canvas into little pieces. "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single footstep," she said. Was that for Melissa's benefit or for her own? She didn't know. She slashed until the painting was a ruin, and then she threw down the torn pieces and turned, smiling, to her new love.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Caron Archer didn't hear the Buick pull up in front of the house. She was mounted on. Lou, fucking up and down on his stiff thrusting cock, the nipples of her round tits erect with desire. He handled her tits as she rode him, and she leaned her head down from time to time, rubbing his fingers with her cheek. "Oh, God, don't stop," she whined, "don't get soft, keep fucking me. I want you to fuck me, fuck me, keep fucking, promise you won't stop."

She couldn't remember how many times they had done it. That first time, when he'd carried her from kitchen to bedroom, thrown her on the bed, mastered her – that was rape. In a fashion. At least it was rape while he was pinning her to the bed, eating her pussy making her suck his fat lustful cock. But when they rolled together like a pair of spoons, his loins firm and hard against her butt, when he slipped his dick between her legs, when she reached down, led him to the mouth of her slit, humped down to take him in – was that rape, too? And if it was, who was the raper and who the rapee? She didn't know. She only knew, as his large cock slammed up her tube, that she was being fucked and that it was fantastic. Her body boiled internally and sweat ran from every pore of her skin.

And she fucked him. It didn't matter that he was the husband who had deserted her seven years ago. It didn't matter that she hated him passionately. It didn't matter that he had forced himself upon her. Caron Archer had never been so thoroughly fucked in her almost thirty years of life and she was so far from being finished it took her breath away, even as she and Lou moved into position after position.

He knew them all. Apparently he'd learned the KAMA SUTRA by heart. He took her in the congress of the elephant, the water buffalo, the cow, the pelican, and all the other animal names Vatsyayana dug up for describing fuck-postures. He draped her over the edge of the bed and fucked her from beneath. He gave it to her dog-style, hunching against her buttocks while she clawed at the bedclothes. He sixty-nined her, he put his cock between her small hard tits and worked back and forth until his cum gushed into Caron's face. He fucked her in the armpit while she kept herself in a clench, squeezing his cock against her moist, sweat-drenched skin. He fucked her in the ass once, not the first time she'd ever done it, but the first time she'd ever climaxed while being cornholed.

And when she climaxed, God, it felt as if she'd never stop! Her asshole and pussy were fucked raw, but her body ached for more, still more, as if she'd spent the last seven years in a nunnery and was only just broken loose from vows of chastity.

"You motherfucker, what are you doing to me?" she moaned between bouts, her fist clenched tightly on his cock as she shook and jerked him to a fresh erection.

"Something I should have done seven years ago, it appears," he replied, working his finger in and out of her aching twat. She whined, squirmed, milked his finger with her pussy muscles, bent low to suck his dick into her mouth and vacuum it hard with her well-trained lips. And when he jutted forth again, stiff and ready, Caron rolled obediently onto her back, knees up, one hand between her legs alternately spreading her cooze lips for his visual delight and rubbing herself in anticipation of what Lou was going to put inside her.

"Come here and fuck me, you bastard," she growled. "You bald-headed, walrus-faced bastard! When this is over, I'm going to pull that moustache out, hair by fucking hair."

He put his hand on her twat, fingering the cumsoaked fuzz that hedged her slice. "Every hair you pull out of me, I pull one out of you, bitch." He ground down, mashing the lips of her snatch, and she breathed in throaty delight. The mouth of Caron's pussy oozed cream, a thick tangy-smelling mixture of hers and his. "Does that lawyer give it to you like this?" he asked, coming down upon her with his cock at the ready. He worked it into her hole. "Does he make you scream the way I do?"

"Don't talk about that," Caron gasped. "Just fuck. Don't talk, fuck. Okay?"

"Okay, baby. You want it like this? Hard, fast, deep. Or like this? Slow, alternately shallow and deep, and oh, baby!"

"I just want it," she sobbed, scissoring her legs around his body. He worked from side to side, hitting new places in her pussy with each penetration. Caron rolled beneath him, never certain where he'd punch her next. He was long and deep. He filled her pussy to overflowing, and it felt as if he were fucking into her body itself, through her stomach, into the hollow place at the very core of Caron. How could two people who hated one another fuck so Goddamned fantastically? she asked herself. But they were living proof, and she screamed and creamed under him, moaning deep in her throat that she wanted still more, you son of a bitch, more, more, more!

It's doubtful she'd have heard the car even if she hadn't been slamming up and down on Lou's dong. Her head was full of ringing bells, and she probably wouldn't have heard the ringing at the door either. All she could do was romp up and down on the stabbing piece of love muscle, shivering as Lou mauled her hard, taut-nippled tits, as his hand dropped down and fingered her clit from time to time, sending fresh spurts of energy and lust through Caron's entire body. She could feel him, feel him with every inch and pound of her being. He was proving to be all man, all afternoon. He wasn't the old Lou at all. It was like meeting one of those strangers, one of the men she'd balled in dingy motels during her trampy days. She looked down at his flushed, sweating face, and she felt as if she'd never seen him before in her life. And how could she hate someone she didn't know? How could she fuck someone she hated? How could she – how could she – so many things she didn't, understand how she could possibly do, but she was doing them, doing them all. And through it, her mind raced ahead. If he didn't dog out on her, maybe she could persuade him to shove it up her ass again. God, the way she'd climaxed when he was reaming her! His hand on her clit, his dick shoved a mile up her asshole, both of them pumping like oil drills. Did that slutty little twat Melissa give it to him as well as she could? Had anyone been as good for him as she was, right now? She'd bet her life the answer was no, a big fat NO. Proof of his turn-on was, driven nine inches up her pussy and plunging deeper with each fresh stroke he gave her. I'm the best you ever had, you cocksucker, she thought in triumph. You know it and I know, it. And the knowledge was fulfilling. It gave her what she wanted, a fist on his balls, a tight, commanding fist.

She was thinking about that, fucking with a vengeance born of seven years kindling, when she heard someone call her name in a loud, startled voice. "Caron!"

"Oh, my God," she said, turning around, sliding to the left. Lou's stiff, juice-coated dong rocked out of her cunt and jiggled in lonely prominence. He sat up as she came down beside him. Paul Drake was standing in the bedroom doorway, his briefcase in his hand. His face was dead white under his tan and Caron had never seen a face so full of horror and shock in her life. He must have looked even worse than she did last night, when Lou appeared out of nowhere at the front door.

And worst of all, what had he walked into? How much had he seen? She didn't even have to guess. His face told the entire story. And then he began to speak, confirming what she already knew too well.

"What in the Goddamned hell is this?" he asked, pointing at them. His hand was in a fist and it shook tensely. For a moment Caron wondered if he might – just possibly – hit her, the way Lou had hit her. But Lou's would be a love-tap compared to the anger signified in Paul Drake's fist right now.

"It's – it's not what it looks like," she stammered. "It really isn't!"

"Do you know what it looks like?" Paul replied, closing the door behind him. "Do you want to know what it looks like?"

Lou laughed, a deep rumbly self-satisfied laugh, deep in his barrel chest. "Hell of a lot of nerve, buddy, walking into a bedroom when it's occupied by a husband and his sweet wife having a reunion."

Paul threw down the briefcase. "Get off that bed, you bastard," he growled. "I'm going to break you in half."

"Because she belongs to you?" Lou wondered. "Because I'm trespassing on some private pussy? Why don't we ask the lady herself? It seems to me that she has more say than anyone else about tins."

Caron couldn't look at either of them. She was off the bed, crouching on the floor staring into the corner. "Both of you go away," she said. "I am so embarrassed. I think I want to die."

Lou got off, went to her. He put his hand on ha shoulder and she looked up. "Listen, baby," he told her, "I've been around. I'm a civilized man. If you want a little on the side with Perry Mason here, it's okay. I won't object." He looked at Paul. "How does that grab you? The lady has enough to go around. I'm not possessive. You want to knock off a piece? Go ahead. Stand up, Caron. Good girl."

Paul ignored him. "Caron, I've brought the divorce papers. Do you have a gun in the house? I think we can even make his death look like suicide."

She shook her head. "I don't know, damn it! I just don't know anything anymore!"

Lou put his arm around her waist, squeezed her against him. His cock was sticking out, not at all inhibited by Paul's presence in the room. The smell of sex was strong, Caron realized. No one could have come into this room without knowing what had gone on this afternoon. Afternoon? She looked at her digital clock. It was a little past three. They'd been in here, she and Lou, since before eleven o'clock, fucking their brains out. The room smelled like the inside of a well-used rubber. And so, she realized too, did she. Her tits and thighs and crotch were sticky with spilled jism. Her lips were salty with the residue of Lou's sperm. She swallowed hard and she could taste the stuff, all the way down to her belly. What had she done? To herself? To Paul?

"Challenge, stud," Lou said, petting the side of Caron's tit. "Let the lady make her, own decision. Strip off that three-hundred-dollar suit and remind her how macho you are. And if you ring her chimes louder than I do, then it's settled. I'll pack up my bedroll and get the hell to wherever I'm going from here. What do you say, hot shot?"

"Lou!" Caron's voice, totally shocked.

"I'm not possessive, I told you," he said, fingering her nipple. "And the choice is up to you, baby. You've been balling me, and I know you've been balling him. You might as well run a test and see who gets the check mark."

Paul was livid. "That's disgusting," he said angrily. "That's…"

"All right," Caron said. "All right. Paul?"

"I thought I loved you," he said. "I thought you loved me. Is this all it means, Caron?"

"I don't know what anything means any more," she sobbed. "But this is the only answer that makes the least bit of sense. And if that doesn't show you what kind of trouble I'm in, Paul…"

She didn't finish. He had already thrown off his jacket and he was unknotting his tie. In a few moments he was naked, his lithe, tanned body in strong contrast to Lou's. Where Lou was hairy and big, Paul was smooth and slender. His cock hung limp between his legs, impressive even when soft. Caron looked at that dangling dick and she remembered how many times she had sucked it, fucked it, petted it to spurting orgasm. But never in front of a third party. Oh, God, what a mess! But she had no choice. Her mind was fucked up and she had to get straight. She slipped free of Lou, went to Paul. She offered him her mouth, and he kissed her gingerly. He could taste the semen on her lips, another man's semen. She couldn't blame him for being a little turned off by it. Caron lowered her eyes.

She took his cock in hand, squeezing it, toying with it with the practiced easy way that had never failed to bring him up, big and hard. He didn't respond. "It's not going to work," he said. "This is obscene."

"Yes," she said, "I guess it is. But there's no other way." She dropped to her knees, lifted his soft peter to her lips. She kissed its warm tip, started to lick him up and down. Her tongue was agile and frisky, and it had already had a workout today. If she couldn't mouth a man to erection now, she ought to turn in her lips at the door. She put him in her mouth and began to suck, easily at first, then very hard. Life flooded into his penis and it rose in her mouth. Caron drew back as he stiffened and she sucked furiously at the knobby bulging tip of him. It filled against her tongue and she leaned back. Paul was erect now, his cock red and ready, thrusting from his small patch of pubic hair. It was a beautiful cock, one she had loved to love. Until yesterday she had thought it the only cock in the world she'd ever want to love, but today her conceptions had been shattered and destroyed. She wasn't entirely sure who she was, not now, at three o'clock in the afternoon of this strange, mad day.

Caron stood up. Both her men were facing her, both of them naked and rigid. They were handsome men, each in their own ways, Paul young and lithe like a swimmer or a gymnast, Lou heavy and husky like a steelworker or a lumberjack. Their cocks thrust out proudly, and each of them had reason to be proud. She knew both those cocks, and now she was being forced, to choose between them.

She reached out with both hands, at the same time. It wasn't a time to show favoritism. She took hold of Lou's prick at the same moment she took hold of Paul's. Male power surged in her fists and she squeezed, relishing her command of that power. Two men at once, she thought. Two hard virile men to service me at the same time. And I'm sober enough to know what's going on. This might be an enriching experience after all.

The realization that she could even think in such a fashion almost shattered Caron's composure. But by then she was at the bed and her men with her. She settled onto the edge and they drew in, their cocks glaring at her. She looked at their faces. Lou's was sardonic, cynically amused, Paul's was tense and drawn. And how do I look, she wondered. If she turned around she could have seen herself in the mirror, but she didn't want to do that. She was afraid of what she might see, afraid she might be able to tell how much she relished this moment.

She lay back on the bed, her legs hanging over the side, her pussy slightly exposed by the spread of her thighs. "Who's first?" she asked saucily.

"Goddamn it," Paul said, clenched teeth muffling his words. He threw himself upon her, and his cock sawed into her twat. She kicked high into the air as he penetrated her, and it was a good stroke, a damned good stroke. He was hot and angry, and he fucked in a hot angry fashion. She clutched him with her arms, her legs, her pussy, and he drove relentlessly into Caron's cooze.

"Mmmmmmm," she purred, and it was good, but she wanted Lou to know it was good too. He stood beside the bed, watching, one hand stroking his peter, the other twirling the ends of his walrus moustache. She'd pull that damned thing out hair by hair, she reminded herself. Sometime when he least expected it. Maybe while he was asleep some night she'd take scissors and cut off one side of the wiry monstrosity. He'd wake up in the morning with half a moustache and a hell of a surprise.

Caron stiffened under Paul. What in the name of hell was she thinking about? That entire fantasy involved a future, and a future with Lou Archer. Moustache and all.

Paul sensed the sudden change in her mood. "Loosen," he said. "You wanted it this way and you're going to get it this way." He pumped her savagely, using a vindictiveness she'd never known in him before. She writhed and moaned and pushed at his chest. "No, softer," she murmured, but he didn't seem to hear. Her snatch, was raw from the fuckings it had already taken this afternoon and he scraped that raw livid flesh with his hard peter, pushed deep into the creamed-out center of her vagina, hit her womb with driving, ferocious stabs. She bucked and writhed under him, and it was a kind of rape, like that first assault from Lou, and she found it taking on a new depth, a new interest. Her body twisted, and his angle of penetration wasn't so agonizing. In fact, it was almost nice.

The bed depressed and she looked around to see Lou beside her, the tip of his cock pointed toward her mouth. "Chew this," he said, "and remember who's still the king."

He pushed, and she opened her mouth widely, as she had to in order to get his big tool comfortably inside. He thrust deep and she began to suck. The taste of cum, his and hers, was strong as garlic on his meat, lending a flavorful tang that was delightful on her tongue.

"Bitch," Paul growled. She half heard him, wasn't sure that he had really called her such a name. Maybe she was imagining the sound. She was more concerned with sucking Lou's fat prick, with moving her body to accommodate the vaginal piercing thrusts of Paul's sizable rod. Her knees came up, clutched at Paul's sides, and she worked one hand from his body, bringing it round to grab at the base of Lou's peter so she could cup his balls while she sucked his shaft.

Maybe Paul had called her a bitch after all. He began to fuck her like a rabbit humping its mate, and she couldn't shimmy fast enough to keep up with his strokes. He was hurting her again, hurting her with the impetuous drive of his cock. She made little choked moaning sounds around Lou's prick, and the vibration of her mouth seemed to inspire him with added arousal. He thrust deeper, until he was almost in her throat. Her cheeks were drawn in tightly and her tongue and lips made passionate love to his organ.

The sensation of being with two men at once was incredible. Caron's whole body was live and pulsating with stimulation. I wish I'd tried this a lot sooner, she thought. It had its own kinky brand of satisfaction. But there were so many things she'd never really tried. Like assfucking. Not until today had she understood the true glory of the act. How about cradling a pecker between her thighs – not inside her body, just rubbing the gash of her cunt from outside, frictioning her to distraction? Lou had taught her that one, too. Or making it with a woman. She'd never even thought of doing that. But Lou had spoken of it briefly, in passing, mentioned that Melissa would be delighted to join them in the sack.

Lou. Lou. Lou. She was thinking of nothing but Lou and the things he'd done to her today. Paul fucked like a maniac, and twenty-four hours ago she'd have been crawling out of her skin, ready to explode in a come. But what about today? Where was her head now, at three in the afternoon?

Paul groaned and shot off into her pussy. She felt his cock exploding, but there was no matching response from Caron's twat. She bucked against him, wanting to come, but somehow she couldn't. The urge was there but not enough power. He'd fucked her savagely, brutally, to prove a point – not to bring her the pleasure a man brings a woman. Was it so much different from Lou, slapping her around the kitchen, carrying her off to bed like a caveman?

Paul dragged his dick from her sheath and finished squirting onto her belly. She looked down, saw the thick drops of cum spurt from his prick, splattering her skin. It was a rather contemptuous gesture, she thought, and it reminded her of the time they'd gone to that dirty movie drive-in. All the sex scenes had ended that way, the male actors pulling their dicks out just before orgasm and creaming all over their partners' stomachs. She'd felt uncomfortable watching it. A man should ejaculate inside his woman – her mouth, her pussy, even her asshole, where Lou had squirted not more than an hour ago. She felt that same discomfort now, as Paul rubbed his sticky cum into the flesh of her abdomen.

"Suck mine now," he said. "You might as well give it the old taste test," and with that he too climbed onto the bed.

Caron moved back, making room for him, and she released Lou's penis. Reluctantly. She turned around, and there was Paul's rod, still erect despite his ejaculation. She took him in her fingers, and he was sticky with cum. She put him in her mouth and began to suck.

"C'mon, suck me, Caron," he growled fiercely. "Eat it all the way down!" He rammed into her, not caring if he hurt or not, and the head of his cock went all the way to her throat. She was used to taking him that deeply, but she required a little warm-up first and he'd not bothered giving it to her. Caron furrowed her brow and she thought as she blew.

At the same time, Lou was pulling her legs around. He worked his finger – surprisingly gentle – into her cummy snatch and reamed it round and round a few times. Her lower body began to undulate softly, arousal building. His thumb located her clit, which was not difficult to find, and he pressed down upon it. Bells started ringing inside Caron's head. She was hardly aware of the dick in her mouth, but she sucked it, steadily, mechanically, taking it deeply and loving it with everything she could bring to bear.

Lou's hand stayed busy between her legs, sliding around. Paul's cum was beginning its slow ooze from her slice and he greased her with the stuff, greased her puffy, fucked-up labia, smeared more of the sticky goo into her crack, working with his little finger till the sphincter of her asshole had popped open and he was inside her there. She moaned and her tongue did cartwheels around Paul's cock.

Lou came in behind her then, his stiff cock wet with her saliva, nudging her buttocks. "Spread 'em," he said, massaging her ass. She spread them, and the head of his prong came to rest in her crack. She couldn't tell where he meant to fuck her, in the bun that Paul had buttered or up the asshole. She twitched in suspense, and he teased her by moving his dick back and forth, pushing now at this hole, and now at that.

Finally he gathered up strength and he plunged. Her asshole hadn't tightened up a hell of a lot since he'd fucked it an hour or so ago, and he entered her with no trouble and no pain she could not handle. He went deep that stroke, and she knew that a cock was in her bung. A fat, thick, masterful cock, one that had already spurred her to come after come after come. What are we going to do about Melissa, she wondered, mouth full of Paul's cock, and she shivered a little, understanding that her decision was even now in the process of being made.

But he's a bastard. He deserted me and then, when I'd learned to get along without him, he came back. And look what he's done to me since he came back. Look what he's turned me into! I am a bitch. Paul was right. I am a bitch and I'll roll over for the first dog who comes along and sniffs my snatch.

She tried to count up Paul's good points, to remind herself that she loved, him, that he was the man who loved her. Until this morning it had been perfect for the two of them. Until this morning.

Paul came in her mouth, with no warning. He grabbed her head, forced her to stay in place while he pumped a thinner stream of semen into her mouth and down her throat. She swallowed obediently, tongue teasing him to squirt out more, and then his cock went soft in her mouth and she felt him slipping out. A little trickle of cum oozed across her lower lip and she looked up at him. Her eyes were trying to apologize, but she didn't think he could see that. His own eyes were still blazing, as they had been ever since he walked into the bedroom and discovered Caron pussy-full of Lou Archer. Well, he had a right to be angry. But she couldn't give it a lot of thought. Not now, when Lou was picking up speed in her asshole. He had her from behind, had her fully now. One of his hands mauled her small but sensitive tits, the other was busy with her cunt, thumb-tickling her clit, fingers working in and out of her pussy in counterpoint to the asshole splitting strokes of his thick cock. She moaned and writhed and fucked back at him, her breath coming in short gasps, her nipples rigid, her pussy full of juice. She reached down, touched his hand where he fingered her twat. One of her fingers slipped in, alongside his, and they finger-fucked her pussy in sweet happy tandem. His cock swelled and thrust in her rectum, and she knew he was almost there, ready to shoot. His fingers pinched off her slit and she moaned, knowing that she was almost there too.

"Do it, oh, do it," she whined, "make me come, make me fucking come!"

He did the scissors bit on her clitoris and that was all she wrote. Caron exploded. Her pussy convulsed and her rectum tightened like a vise on the swollen bulk of his dick. He kept fucking, into that constriction, fucking as best he could. Deep, slow strokes that plumbed the depths of her anal tube. Her finger was still in her snatch and she could feel, through the narrow wall of tissue that divided pussy and rectum, the steady, implacable penetrations of his cock. She could even sense the throb of his pulse, rippling through his dick. It was like touching him, finger to cock, and it was magic.

"Now," she moaned, "do it now, do it nowwww! Ohhhhhhh sweeeeetttt Jeeeeeesssuuussss!"

And if the first come had been spectacular, the second might have been orchestrated by Cecil B. De Mile. The only thing missing was Moses parting the Red Sea. Her body went crazy and so did Lou's. She felt every separate gush of cum he poured up her asshole, and she tried to keep count of them, but who could concentrate in a situation like this? He thrust into her seven, maybe eight, even nine times, each thrust dumping a globby squirt of cum deep in Caron's anal passage, and then he lay panting and hushed against her, holding her tightly as she sobbed and wept through the remainder of her own orgasm.

The room was silent when she and Lou came apart. Paul sat on the bed, sullen-faced, as if he'd been morally outraged by the display he had just witnessed. Caron's features were deep red, not from embarrassment, but from the exertion she'd been through. Taking on two men at the same time was exhausting, especially on the pussy. How many men had she fucked on the beach that time, years ago? Five or six? Maybe seven? She couldn't remember, and she was somehow thankful she couldn't. It wasn't the kind of thing she intended to do frequently in the future, and yes, thank you, she did, have a future.

Caron sidled off the bed. She ambled slowly across the room, walking gingerly to ease the strain on her crotch, and she took a robe from her clothes closet. It was late for modesty, but no matter. She'd been undressed all day and she felt like putting something on, even a dressing gown. She tied the sash around her waist and looked toward the bed. Lou and Paul were both sitting there, and she could see the curiosity on their faces. The big moment, she thought. How would Joan Crawford play it? Caron cleared her throat, as if she meant to speak, and both men looked up expectantly, but she remained silent.

"Paul," she said. "Would you get the divorce papers out of your briefcase?"

Did Lou's face drop a little? Did he lose just a hair of that infuriating smugness? Did his moustache droop ever so slightly? That moustache! No matter how good it felt on her clit, she hated moustaches.

Paul came to her, holding the papers. She took them, looked at each page, pensive, of face. "Mmm," Caron said, nibbling her lip.

And then she tore the papers up, one by one, tossing the shreds onto the floor. "I'm sorry, Paul," she said. "I'm very sorry."

Telling Sheila would be the hard part. Sheila hated Lou Archer and Caron doubted she could ever make her sister understand that it really was best for them to start over again as man and wife. I'm not even sure I understand, she reminded herself. But, God, the way he makes me feel when we're fucking! There's no romantic nonsense about it. We're a pair of animals and we interact beautifully. I think it will work, this time. But if it doesn't, I don't think he can ever hurt me again.

Paul had dressed and gone, some time ago. Lou had taken off in his VW, back to the mainland to pick up a case of champagne. "If you think you got it in the ass today," he told her at the door, "wait till tonight, after the party."

Melissa. Caron wasn't sure what they'd do about the girl. Lou had said she meant nothing to him, she was just a piece of ass he'd brought along for the ride. She could imagine him fucking the girl, and it made her a little jealous. He's not going to remember Melissa very long, Caron promised herself I'm going to screw that girl right out of what's left of his hair. That big bald spot was kind of cute. Maybe she'd paint it while he was asleep tonight. Or call in a tattoo artist and have him decorated with a butterfly. I must be crazy, Caron told herself as she walked up the dunes. "I must really be crazy," she added aloud, for the benefit of a passing seagull.

Where in the hell was Melissa? She hadn't seen the girl all day. Lou had said a seashell was enough to occupy her itsy-bitsy mind for a couple of weeks, though. Maybe she was painting her toenails somewhere and contemplating the meaning of life and the chemical structure of nail polish remover. Carol really didn't give a fuck.

She came out of some trees and stared across the intervening dip at Sheila's favorite painting spot, on the bluff overlooking the east cove. "My God," she said, stopping short.

She'd come to find Sheila, to break the news to her, but someone else had found Sheila first. Carol couldn't believe what she was seeing, over there on the bluff. Was she suffering from some kind of post coital madness? Or was that Sheila – and Melissa?

Melissa was naked, her body golden in the afternoon sunlight. Her blonde hair shimmered where it fell down her back and shoulders, and her tits were every bit as impressive as they'd looked inside that tight t-shirt yesterday. And Sheila was nursing on those big-nippled tits as if she were a baby and Melissa some kind of wet nurse. Melissa stroked Sheila's face, reached down now and then, into Sheila's unbuttoned blouse, caressing one of Sheila's smaller breasts. Even here, forty feet away, Caron could hear them moaning and purring. If that wasn't sexual, what was it?

Caron stepped back, leaned against a handy tree for support. Her tummy was full of butterflies. She still couldn't believe what she was seeing. Things Lou had said kept floating through her mind. "Melissa's made at least one conquest… Melissa's as queer as a six-dollar bill. She'll go down on anything." Caron called out her sister's name and the two girls came apart in a hurry, both of them staring across the little divide. Sheila sighed heavily and closed the front of her unbuttoned shirt. Melissa reached lazily for her towel, but she didn't put it on. She draped it over one shoulder, tossed back her long golden hair, then slipped her arm around Sheila's waist, and both of them sat back while Caron hurried to their vicinity.

"Hi," Melissa said, bouncily, cutely. Her tits bounced too, and as Caron got close she could see that Sheila's drool was foamy and bubbly on the stiff pink nipples. "How's every little thing with you?" she added, squeezing Sheila's shoulder. "Pretty good, if your face is any indication."

"Sheila," Caron said. Her sister got up slowly, buttoning her shirt. "We have to talk, kid." They walked down the other side of the hill together, Caron shivering despite the summer heat. Had she really seen that? Sheila sucking Melissa's tits? And what did it mean? She looked back over her shoulder. Melissa was picking up something, tossing it over the edge of the bluff, into the water far below. Caron couldn't be sure, but it looked like a painting that had been slashed to pieces. Melissa was still naked, towel hanging over her shoulder, and her ass was twitchy and provocative. She had a glorious all-over tan, and her body moved with patented allure.

"Sheila…"

"Caron…"

They'd both spoken at the same time. Sheila gulped. Her face was red and she was obviously struggling for composure. "I might as well tell you now," she said. "If you didn't guess, I know you saw us, and I know you must be wondering. You've been worried about me for a long time, afraid I'd never meet Mr. Right, huh? Well, I haven't been looking for Mr. Right, Caron. You might say I've been looking for Ms. Right. Caron, I'm a lesbian. I've been one since I was sixteen, and I don't intend to be anything else. I'm not ashamed of it. The only reason I never told you was because I didn't think you'd understand. Well, it's too late to cover it up now. I'm in love with Melissa and I think she's sort of in love with me. She's coming back to Darien with me. I guess we'll go tomorrow. I know you'd be uncomfortable having us around, especially after you get rid of Lou, so…"

Caron sighed heavily. "You think you've got problems of explanation?" she asked, cupping Sheila's chin. Her eyes were kind and as understanding as she could make them. "Lou isn't leaving. We've – we've decided to reconcile, to give it one more try. My God, Sheila, how could you be a les… a les… I can't even say it! How could you have been that way all these years?"

"I have been, and I am, and I will continue to be," she replied. "It's me, Caron, it's the way I am. I don't want to change. Wait a minute. Did you just tell me that you and Lou, that you and that slimy son of a bitch…"

"He's not so slimy if you give him half a chance. Bear with me, huh, kid? I had a choice to make, and I made it, and I hope it's the right one. But as for you – you're my sister, you can't be gay. You're just a little mistaken. But for the love of shit, it you have to have a girlfriend, can't you do better than Melissa, of all people? She has the I.Q. of a Chihuahua! She worked in a massage parlor! She made porno movies! She is trashy and cheap and she's the sluttiest thing I have seen on two legs."

Sheila sighed. "I know all that. But I love sluts! And who are you to be talking about bad choices? Oh, Caron," and she embraced her sister. "Don't be so tight," she added. "I'm not going to rape you, for Chrissake! You're not a slut, and that means you're not my type! See? I can kiss you without sticking my tongue down your throat. Now, if you were about a 38-D around the chest, and if you swung your hips like a truck stop waitress, and if you snapped chewing gum all the time – well, you wouldn't be so safe. Oh, Caron, did you let him screw you? Is that what changed your mind? Melissa told me he was going to try to get you into bed, but I thought it would never work. Did he? And that's what made you decide…"

Caron nodded, a little sadly. Sheila hugged her. "He told me," Caron said, "not in so many words, but plain enough I could have read him if I'd been a bit smarter, that you had your eye on Melissa, too. What are we getting ourselves into, Sheila? You and me? These people come out of nowhere, plant themselves on our doorstep, and the next thing you know they've got us both in the sack. Are we that crazy, the two of us? Do we think with our cunts?"

Sheila giggled. It was a pretty flutelike sound, and Caron couldn't help giggling too. "I guess so," Sheila said. "After all, we're women. And when it gets right down, what can we trust, except our cunt and our hearts? If it doesn't work, we can always cry on each other's shoulders. You brace me and I'll brace you. Fair enough, Caron?" And she offered her sister a hand to shake.

"Fair enough," Caron agreed. They shook, but they didn't unclasp their hands. I wonder what it would be like, Caron thought. I know how it is with a man, but what about with a woman? Is it really different? Different enough to commit your whole life to? Sheila thinks so, obviously, and I can't understand her reasoning, any more than she can understand why I'm so ready to give Lou Archer another chance. We're crazy, both of us. But I don't care!

Holding hands, they went back up the hill to Melissa. The blonde girl was still naked, her shaven pubes a landmark between her thighs. Caron looked at the hairless slit, tried to imagine Sheila licking it, then tried to imagine herself licking it. Who knows, she thought, who knows what is coming next?

Down below, on the causeway from the mainland, they could see Lou and his VW, racing home with that case of champagne. Party tonight. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. For Caron, for Sheila. They were trusting their pussies and their hearts, and maybe this time their trust would be rewarded. It wasn't too much to ask of life, and Caron knew that the chance was worth the risk.

Content

Ron Taylor
Wife in the middle

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN