Matt Daniels
Honeymoon Orgy
Chapter 1
The sun was a shimmering ball midway in the western sky. It was getting near lunch time and Jonelle Davis felt hungry, yet another gnawing was stronger. She was wet in the crotch of her panties!
The warmth felt good to her on this stretch of lonely beach. Jo sighed and began to unbutton her shirt. She dropped her shirt to the sand and slipped out of her jeans. She hesitated a moment before taking off her panties. They were the only undergarments she fooled with. Her tits were firm, and she really didn't need a bra.
Jo raised her hands, felt her breasts, rubbing until her nipples were warm and stood up against her palms. She was pleased she had such nice breasts; men seemed to go apeshit over girls with big boobs, and she sure wanted a man!
Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She looked around. Prying eyes couldn't disturb her here. From the causeway and road, her haven was almost invisible. She could see down, but the rocks and brush prevented anyone from seeing up. And unless she ran into a voyeuristic seagull, she could be assured of privacy. Smiling, Jo took off her panties, laid them with the rest of her clothes, and stretched out on her blanket in the sun.
She liked being naked, especially in the summertime, under a hot sun. She could smell the ocean. Its salty tang reminded her of her own sweet twat; a man with his face buried in there. Jo groaned aloud. She was trying her goddamnedest not to think about men.
She cupped her breasts, squeezed. The firm tits, capped in tiny brown nipples that were always erect, felt good to her. She knew it was wrong to feel this way, but what the hell. Could she help it? Could the sky help being blue?
Jo 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 seemed to adapt to anything, any situation, but here she was, staying with her brother and his wife, and she couldn't cope with it. Every time she was in the house at night and heard the sounds of her brother fucking his wife, she wanted to burst in on them and join in… her own brother. She even wanted to take on her sister-in-law, too.
Ahhhhhhh!!!!!
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. Jo 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 other 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, Jo's finger inside Jo's cunt, and somehow she knew, inside herself, that it wouldn't always be so, but she could give herself this much. She didn't have to have anyone to help her, not her brother nor her sister-in-law. It was her own gift from Jonelle Davis to Jonelle Davis. At least, this way, she didn't have to worry about the guilt and shame she knew she would feel if she did ever make it with her brother or his wife.
Jo 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 cunt slice from the rear, slipping back now and then to stroke the tight clutch of her asshole. She liked that too, 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 fingertips brushed the rosy bud of her asshole and she shivered a little. Her toes wiggled in the air. Jo moaned, sighed, dug a little deeper, and moaned again.
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 wanted to try it with men-a man, her brother! But instead she did it this way, her own fingers in her own pussy. Even the desire for her own sister-in- law made her feel like a lesbian, she told herself. So she had become a compulsive masturbator.
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, 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 Jo, in any case. She made circles with her thumb, all around the base of her trigger, rubbing with her thumb, pushing, poking, prodding, rubbing, till 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 Jo that at least one good thing had come of her masturbation. She didn't have a hymen to make it hurt, to block the passage of her fingers. That had happened a long time ago and her masturbation had kept the passage open.
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 the westward now. 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, Jo 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 it last? How soon would she feel the need, the irresistible need, to have someone else involved when she had an orgasm?
It was late in the afternoon when she returned to the beach cottage.
Chapter 2
Jo came out of the bathroom wearing her nightgown. It was flannel-nights could be chilly at 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. Jo felt the slight chill and she went to close the window, but before she did, she happened to look out.
Her brother, Jim, and his wife Lisa, were camped on the beach. They'd built a small fire and Jim sprawled on a blanket, sipping from a can of beer. Lisa stood by him, the fire 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 metallic music
