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
