“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.”