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
