"Wife in the middle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Ron)

CHAPTER ONE

There had been times when Caron actually wondered if she'd be able to make it. She felt like one of those Vietnam POWs, returned home after years in a prison cage, faced with a totally new world that had been created during her absence.

Or was that being a little extreme? I do have a tendency toward dramatics, she thought reprovingly. And I haven't been away. I've been here all the time. Just trying to cope. Well, the trying is over.

She looked out the window. Paul's car was pulling into the driveway. Caron smiled, reached under the bar for a bottle. When he came through the front door she had his drink already prepared, just the way he liked it – lots of bourbon and a few drops of water, poured over two ice cubes. Beside it, her own campari and soda.

"Hi," she said, "you did want a drink, didn't you?" And then she moved around the bar and glided into his arms and for a long time neither of them even thought about a cool drink. His tongue was in her mouth and he held her by the smooth rounded cheeks of her ass, pulling her body tightly against his own, so tightly she could feel every pulsation of excitement as it began to stiffen his prick inside his pants. Caron sighed and wrapped one leg around him. She was wearing a beach robe, with her favorite string bikini underneath, and the fabric was tight across her high set crotch. Each time she moved against Paul, his pecker stiffened a little more and exerted a sweet prodding stimulation against her crotch. We may, she told herself, forget about the drinks altogether. She peeled back his coat as she kissed him, rubbed her hands up and down his ribs. He had a good body, but why shouldn't he? He was only a child – twenty-five, in his first year of law practice. She'd be thirty next August and she felt delightfully like the older woman in a Colette novel, bringing the joys of sensuality to a blossoming youth. It wasn't exactly the case, but she liked to imagine that it was. Every little delight helped.

Paul was fully hard when she peeled her mouth loose and stepped back. She licked her lips, as if she were savoring the taste of him, and then her eyes dropped down to his bulging hard-on. "Mmmmmm," she said, "that looks a lot tastier than the drink I fixed myself." Her hand moved in, covered his straining erection, and she squeezed him happily. He covered her hand with his own, helped her squeeze. She liked him.

"Let's go out on the patio," Caron suggested.

She'd been born Karen, married Karen, but her name seemed so plain and ordinary. When she opened the antique shop and gallery, she told the sign painter to try it as "Caron", and she liked it. Someday soon she'd change it legally. No great difficulty in that. But since she'd been married is Karen, she had to be divorced as Karen too. The complexities! She picked up the drinks and her open robe flapping, she led Paul through the living room, into the den, out onto the patio. The smell of salt water was sweet to her nostrils and to constant inrush of waves made a pleasant dreamy sound down the beach. She liked to sit down here and she liked to sit out here with Paul.

They took chairs. "Where's Sheila?" he asked, swilling the liquor in his glass.

Caron smiled. "She went out painting after lunch, said she wouldn't be home till near sundown. Something about the light at the cove?" She leaned over, put her hand on Paul's knee. His finger straightened out, began to walk up the inside of his thigh. The front of his pants was still distended from the mass and weight of his erection. When he got hard, he didn't go soft until he'd had his pleasure. And I mine, she added mentally. That was the nicest part of it. "So," Caron added, "if you'd like to do something naughty to me, I guess there won't be anyone around to rescue me from your vile little demands. In other words, the coast is dear, darling."

"To us," he smiled, lifting his glass. Caron clinked with him and they sipped, eyeing one another over the rims. The aroma of his mouth was still strong on her lips. She was hardly aware of die liquor or of the ice cube that kissed her tongue. She looked across the table, and the soft warm breeze floated in from the sea, moist and fresh and salty. Gulls were singing as they floated low over the incoming waves, splashing in and out of the highest whitecaps.

She swirled the drink in her glass and listened to the ice cube tinkle against the sides. "It seems as if I've been waiting forever," she said wistfully. "In fact, I think I have. Why does it have to take such a long time, anyway? Seven years? Maybe that was okay in the days when you needed three months to cross the Atlantic, when getting from New York to San Francisco took the better part of a year in a covered wagon, but my God, this is 1977! The son of a bitch walked out on me seven years ago and it seems to me that I should have been able to tie a coffin around his neck long before this."

"It's a hallowed tradition in Anglo-American jurisprudence. With no concrete evidence, no corpus delicti, you can't have a person declared legally dead for seven years. You could have gotten a divorce after two years, on grounds of desertion, but…"

"Oh, let's not talk about him! Anyway, if I'd just gotten the divorce and gone my merry way five years ago, I'd never have met you, would I?"

"Sometimes the hallowed traditions pay off," Paul said, putting down his glass. He held out his hand and Caron stood up. Her body was aflame with desire and her fingers trembled. She wanted to touch him. Everywhere. To draw his body into her embrace and never let go.

She dropped the beach robe as she moved toward him. Her body was golden, clad only in the string bikini that bared her almost completely and left her tantalizingly half-revealed. She had the shape for string bikinis. A riders body, slim and lissome, firm and taut from exercise and swimming, bronzed by the sun. All her parts were in good working order. Small high breasts whose nipples were hard and obvious, straining against the tiny triangles of cloth which covered their pointy ends. A narrow waist encircled by a tiny gold chain, 24 karat but a mockery beside the gold sheen of her flesh. Tight high ass whose cheeks were almost completely bared by the skimpiness of her bikini bottom. Long slinky legs and, between them, at the apex of her thighs, a fleshy prominent puff of cunt vividly modeled in the tight clinging nylon. Most women never look this good in their entire lives, Caron reminded herself, and I'm almost thirty years old. I'm not getting older. I'm getting better.

And how much of that was due to Paul? Well, a lot. She'd really flowered since meeting him. Before Paul she'd been in imminent danger of turning into a boozy, flabby woman, but he'd brought in the sunshine, reminded her that she still had a life to live. Caron Archer slinked her long hot body against Paul's and she wrapped her arms around him in a death grip, lifting her face for the kiss they had only dress-rehearsed in the house.

His mouth came down on hers hot, wet irresistible. She played it coy for a moment, keeping her lips tightly sealed despite the urge of his prodding tongue, but her skin crawled with lust she couldn't pretend for another moment. Caron opened her mouth and his tongue thrust inside her. She began to suck passionately, as his hands slid down her back and came to rest on the half naked cheeks of her ass.

Rest? That wasn't the word. He couldn't keep his fingers still when they were touching her, and right now his fingers were just as hot as her skin. He squeezed her, he pawed her, toyed with her firm buttocks, and she rocked about on her itchy feet, grinding him with her crotch. She worked on him impatiently, shedding the jacket from his shoulders, Paul letting go of her ass long enough for the coat to drop. And then he was caressing her again, stroking, feeling.

His cock stiffened even more inside his pants. Caron mouthed his tongue eagerly, sucking hard, and it seemed that each time she sucked, his pecker twitched against her dancing body. "Mmmmm, yeah," she purred huskily, and then her tongue was in his mouth, plunging.

How many men had there been in the last seven years? She couldn't begin to remember. There had been none at all the first eight or ten months. She hadn't even felt the urge. Sex had not been the high point of her marriage. She hadn't enjoyed it, had accepted it only because it was expected of her. But then, Lou didn't seem to have much of a libido either. He was clumsy and fast and if he found her unresponsive, he never bothered to mention it. Of course, he had also packed a bag and walked out the door one night while she was asleep, and he'd never come back. But she had remained faithful, no matter how cruelly he had abandoned her.

But with all those months and not a phone call, not even a fucking postcard, her anger had begun to simmer and boil inside Caron. She celebrated the first anniversary of his desertion by aging to a bar. She got drunk that night, really drunk, for the first time in her life, and she went to a motel with a man whose name she'd never learned, whose face was a dim alcoholic blur in her memory. The next morning she awoke, alone in the motel room, the bed a disaster area, her body exhausted and her pussy raw from a savage workout. The feeling was fantastic. Caron Archer was twenty-three years old and she had never felt anything like it before. She did it again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Bars. Men. Motels. Night clerks began to nod familiarly when she staggered into their offices and asked for a room and a bucket of ice.

It went on for over a year. And then she turned to the opposite direction. The excesses began to sicken her, and she grew even more sick when she realized that she had no idea how many men she'd been with, where she'd gone, what she'd done. Vague flashes of memory came back to her, and they were worse than not remembering. Once she'd gone to a deserted spot on the beach with eight men. They all fucked her. In the mouth, in the asshole, in the pussy. She lay on a cum-stained blanket writhing and moaning, her body jerking as cock after cock slammed into her, and obscenities trickled from her mouth along with the spillage of jizz. "Fuck me," she had moaned again and again, "Fuck me and fuck me and fuck me… I can fuck anything… I can fuck everybody… my whole body is a cunt… fuck all of me…"

For a long time she lived on the island, going out only in the daytime, only when it was absolutely essential. She didn't touch liquor, didn't talk to anyone, spent all her time reading. And masturbating. Furiously. Incessantly. With the same passion she had once hunted men.

She went through a health food and yoga period, growing her own organic vegetables even sublimating the urge to masturbate. At that time she was living on the remnants of her small inheritance. When Lou deserted her, he didn't take his money with him, but the son of a bitch had neglected to make it easy for Caron to get her hands on the cash.

So Caron tried her hand at writing. She'd won some short story and essay contests in high school and in college. Under a pen name she sold eight paperback Gothics and earned the grand total of twenty-six thousand dollars. Using it carefully, she was able to get by.

Gradually she started to reach out again. The area population was fairly transient, people moving in and out regularly. She'd gotten herself a reputation a few years ago, but almost no one was around who remembered that Caron Archer had once been the motel queen of the middle Atlantic coast. She had affairs, refined affairs, conducted with restraint. Nothing serious. Not until Paul came along.

She met him innocently enough. The elderly lawyer in charge of the Archer file retired last year and his place was taken by a younger man, fresh out of law school, newly arrived in town. It had been months since the breakup of Caron's last entanglement. She'd opened the gallery and it was doing very well, especially during the tourist season. She was nearing thirty, feeling a little old for the pulse of romance to be throbbing in her veins, but Paul took her to dinner one evening in order to discuss her rather unusual predicament, and they wound up in bed. Ii was so natural, so automatic, so – satisfying. Sometimes, Caron thought, it seems as if we've never gotten out of that bed. She stirred against him then, felt the responsive shudder of his rigid dong, and her tits tingled inside their little triangular bra cups.

Well, it was all working out. Finally. In three more weeks she would have the inestimable pleasure of hearing her Goddamned husband pronounced and officially dead by a judge of county court, and as Lou's widow, she would finally inherit all his tied-up estate. And, she could cap the day by becoming Mrs. Paul Drake. It was definitely a day to look forward to.

Or did she want to get married again? Maybe it would be better just to live together. They were virtually doing that now. Of course, some of the overt aspects had had to be toned down, with Caron's sister down for a visit, but she still saw Paul every day and they managed to get theirs with little trouble. Play it safe, Caron, she told herself. You've already gotten a second chance at life. You might not get a third.

His cock was hot and stiff in his pants and she realized that she didn't care if she had him as his wife or as his woman. She wanted him, and she wanted him right now.

Breathing heavily, she pulled her lips free. She was hot with lust and her hands shook as she fought the tight little bra loose from her tits. She ran the backs of her fingers across her stiff, aching nipples, and it felt so good. Caron closed her eyes and moaned, rocking back and forth on her feet.

Paul's hands came up, in, replaced hers. He squeezed her tits forcefully, yet with the gentleness she found so attractive in him, and Caron thrust her boobs into his hands, still moaning, still rocking. "Oh," she whispered, "it feels good, it feels so Goddamned goooooooooodddddd…"

He leaned in, pushed aside the long falls of her sun kissed brunette hair, baring her smooth golden shoulders. The tip of his wet tongue brushed the taut skin of her neck, slid up to lick her earlobe, then ranged down again. His hands flexed on her tits and the nipples, were burning coals against his pliant palms. Caron gasped and shivered, as if she had suddenly grown very cold. But she wasn't. She was hotter than the sun which blazed like a red glowing ball in the westward sky. She was hotter than the fires of hell, where her unlamented husband Louis was almost certainly being fried to a crisp at this very moment. Her hand slid down Paul's front and she was holding him possessively by the outlined bulge of his erect dick, the erection her body's silky touch had stirred to vibrant life. She worked him with her fist, making sure he didn't get soft now, and she was rewarded.

She danced away from him, skipping to the edge of the patio where windblown sand impinged on the tiles. He moved toward her, and she laughed, untying the string which held up the bottom part of her bikini. It slithered down her legs, left her totally naked, totally ready. She reached down, smoothing that part, pushing hairs aside to show him the rich, almost purple cleft of her slit. Her finger stroked up and down the well-defined slice, one green-painted nail slipping inside ever so slightly. Paul made a husky choking sound deep in his throat and he came toward her, fast, unbuttoning his shirt as be walked. Caron stepped onto the sand, into the sunlight past the patio roof, and her body seemed to glow on invitation. He threw off his shirt, reached quickly for the belt of his trousers. There was a snap and a zip and he let his pants fall. He moved again, toward Caron, the ruby head of his cock thrusting out through the slit of his boxer shorts. Another step, and his whole stiff prick poked forth, wobbling as he moved. Caron laughed and started to run, naked, down the beach, toward the foamy incoming tide. Hers long hair streamed like a banner behind her and she stretched out her arms as if she were welcoming the kiss of the cool blue sea.

She looked back over her shoulder. Paul was following, stumbling as he let his shorts drop and kicked them loose. She threw herself into the ocean, right into the force of an incoming wave, and she nestled in the foamy shallows as she waited for him. She panted with lust and she kept stroking her hot wet tits and their stiff, poking nipples. "Hurry," she said languidly. "Hurry before I melt."

He joined her at the waters edge, his arms surrounding her like a spider web. "Right here," she announced. "Fuck me in the surf. Just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY."

"They didn't even take off their bathing suits," he pointed out as Caron got her fist around his stiff, hungry cock.

"Then they must have been uncomfortable as hell," Caron laughed. She lay down on the sands, a target for the incoming waves which washed blue and foamy across her. Her legs were spread and she touched herself between them, fingering her eager slice.

He looked back up the beach. For Sheila? Oh, damn it! Caron thought. Sheila was busy with her painting. God love the girl, at least she had a hobby, even if she didn't have much else to call a life. Twenty-six years old, going on twenty-seven, pretty as could be, and she'd never even been in love, never known even the peculiar thrill that heartbreak could leave in its softening aftermath. "Don't worry about Sheila," Caron advised, and she reached for his cock, where it pointed up from the patch of hair between his legs. His prick was smooth and hard, like the rest of his body. She liked that. And, God, what it could do to her! Caron pulled on his dick and he slid down atop her. She spread her legs to accommodate him, and they fought in the foamy waves, both of them battling toward the same end. The very point, of him touched her juicy cunt lips, parted them, and then he came down hard, burying himself in her churning depths.

"Aaaaaaagggghhhhhhhhhh!" Caron squealed, her arms and legs flapping in the water. "Oh, God, Jesus, do itttttt!" He's only just started, she thought, and I feel like I'm ready to come! What other man had ever done that much for me?

Lou certainly hadn't. Sex with him was a dim, dreary memory, one she called to mind as infrequently as possible. When he crawled upon her in bed, it was for a perfunctory fuck. She made the right noises, the right moves under him, but he had a tendency to stroke hard and fast, pumping till he came, then rolling off her, weary. Maybe, she thought as Paul began to pound her hard in the surf – maybe getting abandoned was the best thing that ever happened to my marriage!

She'd been cold when she was Lou's wife, but now she could almost climax just by remembering Paul's cock and the cute way his knob reddened and swelled up and coated over with a thin film of moisture when she was really turning him on. And that turned her on. Oh, God, did it ever! She was turned on now, and she didn't have to remember or pretend or fantasize. Her ass was making little hollows in the wet sand under her, and not even the constant inflow of cool waves rushing over the intertwined couple could chill or dampen the fires in her pussy. The only thing that could quench Caron's lust was the injection of Paul's seven-inch rod, and she was getting a full dose of it right now. He sank deeper and she began to moan, writhing under him.

She gasped as he touched a responsive place inside her. "Oh, God, do it again – in-out, in-out, in-out, fuck me fast, fuck me hard! It makes me jelly inside! Do it darling, do it again, do it again, oh, do it do it do it do it."

He did it. His cock sawed into her juicing cunt and she bucked in delight at each fast, sure stroke. Not even the Atlantic Ocean itself was as wet as the inside of Caron's cunt right now, and the waves seemed to sizzle and steam as they broke and foamed over Caron and Paul's hot, mingled bodies. She lifted one leg high into the air, kicking like a prima ballerina, and then she brought that leg down and tied it around Paul's thighs in a knot. He had a good body, a man's body, a body to be tied to. A hair under six feet, which made him not quite three inches taller than Caron. No flab, no puffy white flesh – she fucked him on the beach so often he was nearly as brown as she was. He worked out regularly, and not just with Caron. He was smooth, a patch of hair across his broad chest, thickest around his nipples, where, she loved to nuzzle and burrow, tickling her lips on his curly hairs. Thicker around his sopping mat of pubic hair rubbing against her body now, each time he plunged deep and held on, allowing her to feel the full weight and majesty of his prick inside her. The taste of sea and sand filled her head and she loved it, too. When he was officially dead, maybe they'd set up housekeeping here on the island. Their own private playground. Sheila would be going home to Connecticut after the ceremony; she'd only come down to lend moral support, and she was a darling for thinking about Caron, but sometimes she did get in the way. Just a little. And never so much that she'd mention it or even hint at it. She saw her sister so little as it was. But with Sheila gone home, Indian Head Island just might become Orgy Island, an orgy for two players.

Oh, God, the way he filled her! Not just her pussy, her entire being! She only wanted to be with him, to be fucking him and loving him and drowning him in the melted butter of her orgasmic soul. He was all she thought of.

He fucked faster, till her cunt was afire with lust, and she was clutching him with arms, legs, pussy muscles, pulling him deep into the craving core of her body. The tip of his cock brushed repeatedly at the mouth of her womb, and she felt the uteral opening expand, as if it wished to suck him totally home.

A giant wave came rolling in, almost drowning them in water as they were already near drowned in lust. Paul sputtered, and his cock strokes fell off. Caron was sputtering too, her nose full of water. "Let's move out of harm's way," he suggested, pointing to the dry sand just beyond them. Caron nodded.

His cock slid out of her greasy snatch, and immediately she felt empty and abandoned. But not for long! She hustled out of the water, crawling on hands and knees up the beach, spitting out salt water as she moved. And Paul was behind her, his hands busy on her ass. He got one of his fingers between her legs, started massaging the itchy slice of her cooze. She didn't feel so empty, not when his finger wiggled into her hole and started to explore her interior. She made a happy, whimpering cry, and fell onto her belly, legs spraddled.

Paul got his hand under her stomach, lifted ha so that her ass jutted up into the air, and then he came in from behind, his prong straight, hard, and horny! He stuffed it into Caron and began to fuck the living shit out of her. She pound her knees and her hard hot titties into the sand and her ass wiggled from side to side as she absorbed the hot fevered thrustings of his tool.

"God Christ!" she moaned, "don't stop!! Give it to me!! Give it all to meeeeee!" Ships at sea could have picked up that hot wailing cry but she didn't give a good Goddamn. She was being fucked and, baby, that was where it was at!

The angle from which he entered her was absolutely divinely perfect. The underside of his dick, the thick hard vein of his urethra, was able to slide like sandpaper in the vicinity of her throbbing clitoris. Caron's head began to swim.

Sheila, she thought. Why can't she find herself a man like Paul? God, she's going to be thirty in a few more years! It seems so Goddamned fucking unfair that I should have everything and she has nothing except her paint brushes and her canvas. Maybe, she thought, maybe Paul knows someone who'd be right for my little sister.

The thought was intriguing, and it sent little twitches of interest running through Caron. Had Sheila ever been with a man? But hadn't everyone been screwed at least once? Sheila couldn't be a virgin. Not today, not in 1977, not at twenty-six. But she'd never even been serious about a man. Had she sublimated all her natural longings, all her womanly passions to paints and canvases?

Sheila seemed happy and contented enough, but how could she be, living along, spending all her time alone? Didn't she ever feel the need? Didn't she even get horny? The pangs of her own horny desire were flooding Caron and she wasn't sure if she even cared. I can't live Sheila's life, she thought. I'm having a hell of a time living my own.

"Yes! Yes!!!!" she shrieked, feeling the first come spasms ripple through her cunt. The quickening of her heartbeat, the heaviness of breath, the muscular contractions deep in her snatch – there was nothing like it. She wondered now if she could ever live without that feeling. But she'd never experienced a sexual orgasm till she was twenty-three years old, a full year after her husband had walked out on her.

The bloody hell with her husband! In a couple more weeks she'd be done with him forever! It would be as if he'd never existed in the first place. She'd be a free woman, free to live her own life as she pleased, and that life would definitely include Paul Drake, oh, yes, God, definitelyyyyyyyyyy…

His cock plunged into her snapping twat and she writhed madly with each stroke he gave her. Caron's clit was throbbing and raw, and her juices were already fluid inside her. He squished as he penetrated, squished in her cummy goo and she could feel the vibrations throughout her body, rocking her, bouncing her, sending her higher and higher. God bless the child, she thought, God bless the child that's got her own.

The best comes were always like this. A fast yummy one, hitting like a summer thunderstorm, cracks of lightning, thunder rolling in her head, her pussy going absolutely mad, full of cock and turning cartwheels. And then the second one hit, right on the heels of the first, before Caron had had time to catch her breath.

It blasted up through her belly and she moaned onto the hot sand, grinding her chin onto the beach until she could taste it in her mouth. Her tits were afire on her chest, hotter even than the sunburned sand, and the little grains of it felt like a zillion tiny fingers pawing her stiff nipples, rasping them like sandpaper.

"Fuck me, darling, fuck me," she wailed, and Paul seemed only too happy to do just that. His cock slammed into, her with all the speed and ferocity she craved. He was big and thick now, filled with the lust that roared inside his body and his cock hungered for the sweetness of Caron's twat. He stuffed her as deeply as he could, and the head of his cock rammed countless times against the tip of her womb. She writhed each time he flailed her there, but she loved it, as she loved everything he did to her, and he fucked her all the harder, lifting his head and shoulders, bracing his knees against the sand. He grabbed the cheeks of her ass and started to feed it in and out with gathering force and power.

Her churning cunt ate it up and his head grew giddy. He couldn't keep this up forever. His nuts ached – they felt as big as watermelons and he knew that he had a lot of jism to spill. Maybe one fuck wouldn't clear his tubes of all the cum lust had brewed inside him. Her snatch tightened on him, sucking like a wet toothless mouth, gumming his cock in greedy hot swallows. He closed his eyes and thrust hard, then began to fill her with his hot spurting seed. She was having her third orgasm and it had been better than this for both of them, but who cared? This was great and he was giving her as good as she gave him. Paul tensed, stabbed deep, and he could feel the mouth of her uterus opening up to drink his cum.

His balls emptied, and her pussy convulsed around him one final lurching time. Softness crept upon him, but not real softness. He was still inside Caron's sticky hole, and he was half-hard, pressed against her, loins to butt, as he panted in the aftermath of release. He stoked her hot sweaty ass, and he groaned a little. His balls still felt full, and his prick wouldn't go down. What could you expect? He hadn't fucked Caron since night before last. It would be nice when her sister went home and they had the place to themselves.

Beneath him, Caron's cunt contracted again, a little tightening of muscles that wiggled all along his prick, and he knew she was still hot for more. He was stiffening again inside her and he had to fuck her at least once more.

"Let's go up to the house," he suggested hoarsely. "Before you get sand where it won't do either of us any good."

He leaned back and his rampant cock eased from her, glistening with the coated mixture of their juices. It was a stiff, thrust-out cock, and the sunlight gleamed upon it, made the creamy cum-gobs look like silver decorations. Caron turned over, sighing and purring. She worked her thighs together. Cum was beginning, to leak from her pussy. She licked her lips as she stared at Paul's hard dong, and then she sat up, fisting him eagerly. "Let's," she said. "Oh, let's!"