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
