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

CHAPTER THREE

Sheila stepped back, tilted her head to one side, looked at the picture. It still wasn't right. Frowning, she took her brush in hand. She looked up at the sky, blue with massed banks of white clouds drawn back over the ocean. She looked at the sea below, swirling into the cove in foamy waves, as it had always done, as it always would. A moist ocean wind kissed her face, ruffled her auburn hair. She dabbed her brush on the palette, stirred the little patty of color, and once again she tested it on canvas. There was still something missing. Try as she might, Sheila couldn't make the nipples the precise shade of pink her eyes and tongue remembered so well, ah, God, so well.

Sighing, she put down her brush and palette. She was working on a portrait, not a seascape, but working here on the bluff overlooking the cove gave her a degree of privacy she wouldn't have had at the house, "Oh, what are you doing now?" Caron would want to know, and there were certain portions of Sheila's life that belonged only to her. This portrait of Claire. That was one of the areas, and Sheila did not feel the slightest desire to share it, not even with her sister, the dearest, sweetest sister anyone could ever want to hive.

"When, darling, are you going to find yourself a man, fail in love, get married and settle down? Or at least find a man and settle down?" Caron's favorite question. As if her own marriage had been anything to set an example for others! Well, she'd never figured it would last. Caron was too nice for a twerp like Lou Archer. Too young – she was almost nine years younger than the man when they married, only just out of college, one of those crazy student-teacher relationships.

I know all about those, Sheila thought, and for a silent moment her eyes misted over and she remembered Ms. Thatcher, who'd taught painting and drawing in high school. Beautiful, sweet Ms. Thatcher. But it was a good student-teacher relationship, all the same. As long as she lived, Sheila would never forget that one night they had shared, when Ms. Thatcher let down her hair and took a trembling, tense young girl into her bed and taught her that. Love was something too important to waste on men. Sheila shook her head, scooped up a fallen lock of hair.

Anyway, Lou Archer was an ugly man, running to fat, losing his hair. But like any man of his age or condition, he'd been lusting for the chance to stake a claim on a young, beautiful girl like Caron, and he'd gotten her. Before their second anniversary, though, he had disappeared, just packed a bag and walked out in the middle of the night. Not even the FBI had been able to turn him up – though God knew why anyone would even remotely want to! Especially Caron, who had been hurt so badly. Desolated. Sometimes Sheila could see the pain that lurked like a furtive mugger behind Caron's liquid brown eyes. Sometimes Sheila wanted so badly to take Caron in her arms, kiss and hug away all the pain, the way she knew how – the way she knew she could never do. Not if she wanted to keep her sister's love and friendship. At least Caron had Paul. He appeared to be a real man, if there was such a thing, and he'd be as good for Caron as any man.

And what do I have? Sheila wondered. I have my paints and my brushes. I have an apartment in Connecticut and, if I want it, a job teaching art at the community college. And I have a painting of Claire, not quite finished. Was that all? Sheila trembled a little, despite the summer heat, the warm sea breeze. Was that really all?

She'd come down to the island about ten days ago, ostensibly to be with Caron during the final days of waiting for the legal assumption of Lou Archer's death. Ostensibly. To be honest, it was either this or stay at home in Connecticut and, sooner or later, cut her wrists in the bathtub.

Maybe it's my fault, Sheila thought. Maybe I'm too possessive. Or maybe I just have rotten taste. Maybe I deliberately go after people who are going to break my heart as soon as they find a chance. Well Claire hadn't been the first, but she'd been most efficient. "Whoever," Sheila wondered aloud, "said it was fun to be a Goddamned dyke?"

She stared at the painting. It was a nude, sensuous, full-length, Claire's lovely lush body spread across a maroon-draped divan in a posture of languorous availability. All done from mommy. She could never forget anything about Claire. The set of her eyes and the little laugh lines at the corner of them. The full thrust of her round, smooth tits, the curves and shadings of her hips and legs. The painting was a kind of exorcism. When it was finished, Sheila would not feel quite so desolate. Not quite. And later, when she'd found someone else, someone to share hot life, to fill the gnawing emptiness, she could ritually burn the painting and, with it, all the aching memories.

"And how many times has that happened?"

Sheila asked herself. "How many paintings have you burned? Six? Seven? Did it ever make the hurt stop, even a little? Is that your destiny, Sheila Ross? To go around burning the pictures of women who've dumped you? Answer, Sheila. Unless you're frightened to answer."

She would try another tact. "There is nothing inherently wrong with me. I am a lesbian. I am not an evil person. I don't molest children or sneak through shower rooms sniffing gym shorts. I have never knowingly harmed anyone in my life. And I happen to prefer the sexual company of women. I love to be with women, to feel their soft moist mouths on mine, their firm full breasts kissing my body from head to toe. I'm not evil. I'm not sinful. I'm not a pervert. I'm just different. So if I'm gay, WHY THE HELL AM I NOT HAPPY?"

She looked at Claire's portrait, hoping to find an answer. The picture was about half finished. When it was done it would be lush and sensuous and beautiful. The outlines and much of the coloring had been laid in for the girl's figure, but the whole background was blank, not to mention the essential details. Like Claire's nipples. They were a subtle shade of reddish pink, almost violet under certain light, and Sheila simply could not match the color with her memory.

Claire. It had lasted a long time. Better than the average. So much better that Sheila had found herself wondering – is it the real thing this time? Oh she knew it was! It was always the real thing for Sheila. She gave of herself totally when she was in love, and she loved to be in love. But it never worked.

The girl on canvas was beautiful, even unfinished. Lissome bodied, with full rich tits and a heartshaped face surrounded by curls and spills of coppery hair. Ripe red lips, pouty and kissable, beneath a tiny nubbin of nose. Light dotting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Slender little waist, flaring out into sweet full hips that curved all the way down, curved in ways that still made Sheila's breath catch in her throat as she realized how successfully she'd done them on canvas. She hadn't filled in Claire's pussy, but that too was vivid in her mind. She could remember each and every one of the dark brown curls that swept across Claire's mount, hairs that looked kinky and coarse but felt like little wisps of silk when fingers stroked them. The slit lurking amid the fluffs of hair, the sweet, pink, always juicy and moist slit into which Sheila's tongue had dove millions of times during her months with Claire. She could still taste it, the tart musky flavor of Claire's cooze leaking into her mouth as she sucked and licked and ate. Hungry for the taste, hungry for the sweetness, hungry, hungry, hungry…

Sweet lush innocent Claire. Waitress at a coffeehouse, just come to the big city from a hick village in Maine, eager to meet life head-on. As hard to get as a pack of cigarettes. The first night Claire accepted Sheila's invitation to drop by for coffee and talk, they wound up in bed, Claire shrieking, tearing at the sheets, while Sheila feasted on the sweetest juiciest little pussy in Christendom – at least in Connecticut. And then Claire repaid the favor, in a manner that suggested she had tried it in the past but not many times. Just amateur enough to present a challenge, just darling enough to fall in love with.

And now she was gone. The whole time she'd been living with Sheila, she'd been bringing men into the house while Sheila was away, fucking them on Sheila's own bed. Until she'd gotten caught. And now she was gone, gone as lost Atlantis. Sheila had even swallowed her pride, begged Claire to forget the awful things she'd told her, to stay, to please please stay. It hadn't worked. Ass wiggling, braless tits flopping inside a $40 silk blouse Sheila had bought her, Claire went out the door. For good.

"It's my fault," Sheila said. "Why do I have such a weakness for tramps? For sluts? For cheap little tarts with ripe bouncy bodies and glittering eyes? Am I that butch? Really, am I?"

The sun was a shimmering ball in the western sky. It was getting near dinner time, six o'clock or after. The light was almost gone. Time for Sheila to be heading back. But Paul had come by, on the road below. She'd seen his Buick come across the causeway, and she didn't have to guess what was going on at the house by now. Caron tried to be so circumspect about it all. As if, Sheila thought, she imagines I would be shocked to know she's fucking Paul. So what. I don't care. But I have to play my part of the game too, and I suppose it would embarrass both of us if I were to come strolling in while she was blowing his tool or doing something else equally disgusting.

It's not disgusting, she reminded, herself. It's Caron's way. She chose the straight path, and I didn't. Ten to one – a thousand to one – she'd be shocked out of her proper little mind if she knew how I considered sexual time well spent. That gay working at Caron's shop – he knows. I could tell as soon as he saw me. We're both outsiders. We can smell our own kind, I guess. And he says there's no action locally – not my brand, at least. All for the best. I'd probably fall in love again.

So there was no real hurry to get back. In fact, it might be better to wait around, see if Paul's car left the island. That way she'd be sure not to disturb them at their fun. Sheila sighed, began to unbutton her shirt. The sun warmed her and made her feel that life was almost worth living. It certainly wouldn't do to go back to Connecticut after a month at the seashore without some kind of tan.

Anyway, she thought, dropping her shirt and leaning back, offering her tits to the sunlight, the coppertone look really goes over big with truck stop waitresses. And what about the girls who worked at the local McDonalds? She'd already been dumped by barmaids and secretaries and once by a minister's daughter. She still had a long way to go before she hit rock bottom. The world was literally full of sluts, each of them a potential new heartbreak for Sheila Ross. Oh, goodie goodie goodie! she reflected cynically, undoing her jeans and stepping out of them. I can hardly wait to see who screws up my life next!

She hesitated a moment before taking off her panties. They were the only undergarments she fooled with. Her tits were small and she didn't really need a bra. Maybe, she thought – maybe that's the reason I go so hard for the girls who are stacked like milk cows. Sheila raised her hands, felt her little breasts, rubbing till her nipples were warm and stood up against her palms. Men seemed to go apeshit over girls with big boobs. Why shouldn't I? And, God, it was so delicious to feel your face absolutely buried in plump, moist titties! Like Claire, and those heavenly, jiggly, D-cups of hers! Not the biggest Sheila had ever had, but the most recent and, consequently, the sweetest in memory. She looked at the painting, and her heart did a little flip-flop inside her. I'm good, she thought. With a paintbrush, at least. Too good. I can't even look at the picture without remembering how great it all was, being with her, loving her.

Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She looked around. Prying eyes couldn't disturb her here. From the causeway and the road, her painting 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, Sheila 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 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 it last? How soon would she feel the need, the irresistible need, to love herself again?

But when you came down to it, what did you really have, ever, but the moment? It was all there was. When it was gone it was gone and you couldn't bring it back, you could only wait for the next one. Well, she'd made the most of this one.

Sheila came out of it slowly. Even as the glow faded she knew that it was only a temporary glow, that she had no one but herself to thank for it. Was there anything in life sadder than that? Sheila wondered. Having no one but yourself? Oh, God, she thought, wanting to cry. She sat up, shivering, as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. The sweat on her sun bathed body was cold, and her crotch and armpits were damp and clammy. She reached for her clothes, hurried into them. Damn Caron and Paul! She was going home. If they weren't finished with their afternoon games, they could Goddamn well adjourn to the bedroom or to a motel or whatever they considered private enough. She was tired and hungry and her body ached with a longing that not even sleep, not even food, could hope to fill.

She covered the portrait of Claire, wondering if she'd ever finish it, tucked it beneath the seascapes, then put everything into the carry-rack on her moped. Walking or bicycling was better exercise, but she liked the feel of the buzzing bike between her thighs, almost like a vibrator. She was just putting the paint box into the basket when the sound of an auto engine drifted up into her ears.

Paul? she wondered, looking down at the road below.

No. It was a red Volkswagen, coming toward the island, not away from it. Sheila put her hand on her hip and stared at the VW convertible, top down, speeding over the causeway from the mainland. She leaned over the bluff and looked down, curious. A couple of people in the car, she could see, even from this high up. A man, bald and moustached, his shiny head gleaming in sunlight, and a girl whose long blonde hair streamed in the breeze. Who the hell are they? Sheila wondered. Nobody came out to the island unless they had some business here. Of course not. The whole island was part of the Archer family estate. Caron would inherit it, once that worm Lou was safely and legally dead. Salesmen? Sheila shrugged. She didn't really care. She had no interest in buying anything, unless someone was selling a lifetime's worth of love with a money back guarantee. Caron would send them packing. And at least there'd be someone else to interrupt whatever games Paul and Caron might be up to right now. Before she got back to the house and did the same. That made Sheila feel better. She got onto her moped, fired it, started back over the dunes toward the house.

She parked her bike behind the house, loaded her arms with canvases and paints, entered the house by the kitchen door.

Someone was in the refrigerator. "Hi, Caron," she said. "Get me a beer while you're at it, okay? Need any help with dinner?"

The door swung shut and Sheila was staring into the face of a stranger. A blonde girl, tiny but stacked, oh, Jesus! Wearing a mane of silky silver-yellow hair that fell down her back and shoulders, green eyes that glittered like emeralds. A t-shirt reading HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD, if the nipple bulges weren't enough to distract any normal eye from the printing. And blue jeans so tight Sheila's hips and ass began to ache in sympathy. Oh, my God, she thought, I have never seen such a slutty-looking girl in my entire life! Not even in that struck stop on the Boston Pike. She ought to be singing country and western songs in a truck driver's bar. And what was she doing in the refrigerator? Here? Had Sheila walked into some kinky replay of the Manson massacre? And was her heart turning upside down inside her because she was scared or because.

The blonde girl smiled, shook back her wealth of hair. How would I paint that hair? Sheila asked herself. How would I make the silver and gold highlights stand out? "Hi," the girl said. "Did you say you wanted a beer too?" She was holding a six-pack in one hand, swinging it idly, and her tits were bouncing inside her clinging t-shirt as her arm moved. Sheila felt vaguely seasick, watching those tits jiggle. The carton rocked against the girl's leg. She was young. Oh, God, she was young. No more than seventeen? And her pants were so tight Sheila could almost see the pulse beating in the blonde's thigh. Sheila clutched her paint box and canvases.

"I'm Melissa," the girl added. "Melissa Chase. Wow, this is really a weird situation, isn't it?"

"What is?"

Melissa shrugged, then smiled roguishly. Sheila's eyes began to water. That smile… "Come on in to the living room. I guess they're still talking about it. There's plenty enough to talk about."

Breathing hard, Sheila followed the girl through the swinging doors, into the living room. Did hips really have to swing that fluidly? The way Melissa's swung? Not even the doors had a swing like that.

Caron and Paul were sitting on the couch, pale, drawn-faced, holding hands intently. A man sat in the chair facing them, and he stood up as Melissa and Sheila entered the room. The couple from the VW, Sheila thought. I should have recognized, the hair on the girl. So what was all this about? The man smiled, and his moustache lifted, showing his teeth. One of them, in the lower jaw, was noticeably crooked. Sheila frowned. She looked at the man, bald and barrel-bodied, with a huge moustache, and she knew she had seen him before, but she couldn't remember where.

"And who is this?" the man said, leaning his head to one side. "As I live and breathe, if it isn't little Sheila! My God, you're not so little anymore! What are you, five-nine? At least. Mmmm, Caron isn't the only pretty one in the family, either. Well, hell, Sheila, aren't you going to give your brother-in-law a hello kiss? After seven years I ought to rate a hello kiss from somebody."

Seven years, Sheila thought. Crooked tooth. My brother-in-law. "Ohmygod," she said, quickly. "Ohmygod." It was Lou, Caron's husband, come back from the grave, come back for God knew what. The only thing Sheila knew was that it could not be for any good. She felt weak in the knees and, if Melissa Chase hadn't caught her, she'd have toppled. The blonde girl's frame was small, warm, soft, upholstered in all the right places, and surprisingly strong as she held Sheila upright. "I think I'm okay," she said, straightening up, wondering why she hated not to be touching the little blonde. Then she looked at Lou Archer, and if looks could have killed, he would have died on the spot, grin, moustache, and everything.