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 onthe 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
