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

CHAPTER FOUR

This was one of the classic situations, Sheila thought, and in a kinky, sick, way it was a kind of a privilege to be a part of it. Someday, she reminded herself, we'll laugh about all this. But it was a little too soon for laughter.

Caron cried all through dinner; afterwards she swallowed four valiums, which at least seemed to dry up her tears. Mostly she sat with Paul, holding his hand tightly, her face, drawn and pale. While Lou made himself right at home, as if he'd just gone out for cigarettes rather than returned from seven years of oblivion. He walked Melissa around the den and living room, showing her family heirlooms, antiques, telling her funny little stories, and she giggled in all the right places like the silly little girl she was. And through it all, Sheila couldn't take her eyes off Melissa.

I'm the worst part of it all, she thought. I ought to be allied with my blood-born sister, helping Caron put that son of a bitch into his place, helping her destroy him. And all I can think about is that cheap, tarty, dumb, stacked teenaged sun bunny, about the tits inside her t-shirt, about her legs, about her sweet swinging ass. I want to bite her. I want to sink my teeth into that tanned flesh. I want to find out if California girls taste different.

Lou was showing off the portrait of his seventeenth century ancestor but Melissa's attention span was short. She lifted one little hand and touched the painting beside the one Lou was talking about. Sheila's heart sang inside her body. It was one of Sheila's paintings, a scene in the Berkshires. "That's really nice," Melissa said. "Look at the clouds." She touched them. She might as well have been touching Sheila, who fidgeted nervously on her chair. "You can almost feel the rain starting to fall. I wish it was raining now." Her hand fell away. "I'd take off all my clothes and dance up and down the beach. I love rain." Sheila's eyes misted over. Oh, my God, she thought, I want her!

Lou peered closely. "Oh," he said, "whose name do I see in the corner? I didn't know you were an artist, Sheila."

Sheila sniffed haughtily. "There are a lot of things you don't know, Lou. You've been gone a long time."

"So I have," he agreed, slipping his arm around Melissa. Sheila hated that gesture of possession. "But maybe I've come home to stay."

Valiums or no valiums, Caron burst into tears then. She collapsed onto Paul's shoulder. Sheila wanted to run to Caron, help comfort her sister, but she couldn't. She couldn't move, not while Melissa was walking liquid-hipped across the floor, her bare toes digging into the pile carpeting. "What's this?" Melissa giggled, bending over. Her ass stuck up and out, rounded and smooth and so delectable…

"It's me!" Lou said, taking the picture from her hands, the same picture Caron had placed on the floor while she and Paul were 69-ing. "This is what I used to look like."

Melissa hooted. "You've changed a lot!"

"Lots of things have changed," Lou observed. He was still holding Melissa's waist, but he was looking at Caron. Sheila's brow furrowed and she didn't like the gleam in his eyes. She didn't like it one bit.

Paul and Caron spent a long time at the door. It was obvious she didn't want him to go, but he left anyway. When she turned around, her face was livid with rage. She came across the floor staggering like a drunk, pointing her finger at Lou. "Goddamn you," she said, "if you think that you can come in here and…"

Lou was lazing on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table. "The house is still in my name," he pointed out. "If it wasn't you'd have divorced me years ago. So the least you can do is show a little hospitality." Melissa giggled. Inanely, but lovably. Sheila's emotions were being torn to ribbons inside her.

Caron got hold of herself. "You can sleep on the sofa," she said, grimly, with determination. "Sheila's in the guest room. But tomorrow you're going. Paul is drawing up divorce papers tonight and you'll be served tomorrow. There is not a judge in this state who will let you walk out of court with a Goddamned thing left to your name. I'd been planning to celebrate your funeral, but this will be almost as much fun. Goodnight." She turned and stormed out of the room, Sheila hurrying after.

"No," Caron said at the door of her bedroom, "I'll be okay. I'm going to take a sleeping pill. If that man thinks he can come back into my life after what he's done to me – oh, God, Sheila, I am going to get him! I am going to get him so good!" She put her hands on Sheila's shoulders, kissed her sister on the mouth. There was an unexpected warmth and moistness to Caron's lips. Sheila closed her eyes, reveled in it. A woman's mouth tasted different from a man's. Even her sister's. Oh, with those warm sweet lips against hers, she could almost forget it was her sister she was kissing. She felt the tiniest pang of regret when Caron drew back, smiling, and went into her room, closing the door behind her. Sheila sighed and went back out.

"Let's camp on the beach," Melissa was saying, eyes aglitter, obviously excited. "We can build a fire and everything." She looked up at Sheila. "You wanna come along?" she asked. "We could drink beer and sing songs and dance and everything, you know?"

Sheila flushed. She shook her head. "No, I don't want to come along," she said, but deep in her heart she did, she really did. If only that son of a bitch Lou weren't sitting there, grinning like a hound dog with a mouth full of shit. Men! She hated them, and she hated this one more than any of the rest. Without bothering to say goodnight, she left the room. She hoped Caron would be all right. A sleeping pill was no cure, but at least it would help her sister get some rest. And Caron would need plenty of strength for tomorrow.

Sheila came out of the bathroom wearing her nightgown. It was flannel – nights could be chilly on 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. Sheila felt the slight chill and she went to close the window, but before she did, she happened to look out.

Lou and Melissa were camped on the beach. They'd built a small fire and Lou sprawled on a blanket, sipping from a can of beer. Melissa stood by him, the tire 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 metal music she held on a string.

Sheila sank to her knees, still staring wide-eyed through the window. Dear God, she thought, oh, dear God! She's even more beautiful than I'd dreamed she could ever be!

Melissa was as tawny as a lioness in the firelight, her body shining as if it had been waxed. Her breasts shook as she danced, and they looked even larger naked than they, had straining inside the too-tight t-shirt. They moved now with a freedom and bounce that Sheila found hypnotic.

Melissa turned in profile and her nipples were taut and stiff, thrust out in eye-catching erection. With her free hand she caressed herself while she danced, felt her tits, played with her nipples. She leaned her head back in a sigh of contentment. Her body twisted again, gyrating with the music, and she was poetry in motion. It was a kind of art that could never be captured, not even by anyone as talented as Sheila Ross. Sheila could only stare. And lust. And envy.

She was short, yes, and built, but there was no fat on Melissa's frame. Her tummy was small and softly rounded, hollowing down into an inviting crotch set between firm, taut-muscled legs. Dancer's legs. Her ass was smooth, swinging in wide exciting curves, and her own curves were nothing to sneeze at, either. She stuck out behind nearly as provocatively as she did from the front, a nicely symmetrical effect, and she kept turning round and round with the music, turning until Sheila had seen her bare gleaming body from every possible angle. But Sheila wanted to see it again, and again, and again. She didn't want to stop looking. She couldn't stop looking.

Still on her knees, Sheila reached down with a trembling, nervous hand. She lifted the hem of her gown, reached inside. For a moment she caressed herself with shaking, quivery fingers, stroking her twat through the nylon of her panties, until juices oozed into the slit and soaked the fabric, and her hips began to shake a little. She realized that she too was moving with that music from down on the beach. Infectious music. And an infectious sight.

Sheila pushed harder at her slit until finger and panties alike slipped into her tender, love starved crease. She moaned through clenched teeth at the sudden pressure on her clit, and she was astonished to find her nubbin as erect as it was, so stiff and so lust-raw she could hardly bear to touch it. But somehow she couldn't make herself stop touching it, just as she couldn't, look away from the sight unfolded before her eyes down on the beach. Erotic jolts of pain burst through her cuntal region as she masturbated, and her eyes were glued upon Melissa, dancing. Desirable Melissa. She watched, she desired.

Melissa began to chant along with the music, humming and trilling in a soft, slightly off-key voice, like a little girl child just learning to sing and not entirely sure of her pitch. Chills ran up and down Sheila's spine and she pressed her chin against the window sill, watching.

Melissa wasn't much of a singer, but her voice was haunting and evocative all the same. And there was damned little she had to learn about dancing. At least, about erotic dancing. She has to have been a go-go-girl, Sheila thought. Maybe a topless dancer in some cheap and dingy LA bar. Oh, wouldn't that just be perfect! And I thought it was still a long way to rock bottom.

Her body moved with a sexual, feline intensity, arms lifting high above her head, tits shaking, ass swinging from side to side. She swooped low, down to the sand, legs spread in a split that a ballerina would have been proud of. She humped against the sand for a moment, her hair loose and free, shaking around her face and down her tits, and she husked like a woman in the throes of sexual passion. When she stood up, sand coated her crotch.

She was bare between the legs, bare as a baby, her slit vivid and well-defined, a long neat crack running through her plump swell of crotch. Sheila's mouth began to water as she watched that crack, saw it tantalizingly revealed by the motion of Melissa's legs. And then the girl, giggling, lifted one foot impossibly high into the air, toes pointing upward as if they meant to stir among the stars. Lou Archer reached up from his blanket and for a long moment, a despairing moment to Sheila Ross, he clutched Melissa's plump pussy, flexed his hand on it, squeezed until the girl moaned, "Ah, Godddddd…" and danced away.

She stopped a moment, catching her breath while the song on her radio crashed through its final chords. "Mmmmmm," she purred, rocking on her feet through a commercial or two, and it was plain that she was anxious for more music. The next song started, softer, disco-shit, and she began to move with it.

She did bumps and grinds, soft, sexy, sinuous, disco-style bumps and grinds. She did the hustle and the bump and a little of the hootchie-kooch too, and she was great at every one of them. She could move her body in ways Sheila Ross had never thought existed, and each motion showed her off in a new, exciting way, ways that cut through Sheila like a knife. Her knees trembled where she knelt by her window, and her hand was a crazed, passion-maddened thing operating on her mushy cunt.

"Oh, yes, now," Sheila whimpered at the very bottom of her throat. Her fingers pushed impatiently at the panties, got inside, onto the pussy itself, the pussy whose abundant drippings had already soaked her fingers and the ice-blue panties. Her lips were frothy with juice when she touched them bare, and she moved her fingers along the wet crease until her finger was sticky and moist and the aroma of hot excited pussy filled her nostrils where she knelt. She moaned, gasped, started working her fingers into herself, fucking her pussy with passionate groans that were torn from her heart, from her very soul.

Melissa was singing with this song too, if you could call it singing. At the very least you could call it sexy. If I had my guitar, Sheila thought, we could do duets. Even her sour notes sound good. One song drifted into another while Sheila masturbated and stared, and almost before she had time to appreciate the change, Melissa was down there, flatting only an occasional note as she joined the recorded voice of Debby Boone on "You Light Up My Life".

She went down onto her knees on the sand, dropping the radio onto the beach. She stretched a hand toward Lou and he reared up, his bald pate gleaming in the firelight.

Sheila stroked herself furiously as the tableau kept shifting before her wondering eyes. With her free hand she managed to unlace the top of her gown. She thrust her hand inside, eager to pinch and maul her tits. The nipples of her small hard boobs were firm and upright, and she seized them avidly, squeezing till her breath shortened and her whole body shook and ached with raging arousal. Drool oozed from one corner of her mouth. She couldn't control the flow of her saliva. She tried to swallow the excess; maybe that would help her tight, dry throat. But she had to stop, just short of choking on excess spit. Her finger kept socking in and out of her foaming pussy and she was feeling those strokes, all the stabbing way in, all the shuddery way out. Her muscles clenched and sucked, and her snatch was full of wetness. She hadn't been this hot in months. Not since – not since the last time with Claire. The last good time. And how long ago had that been?

An eternity. At least an eternity.

That had been their song, too. "You Light Up My Life". Sheila had learned it on guitar and she used to sing it to Claire, sing it in a quavering, loving voice. To hear it now, to remember it, as Lou and Melissa came together on the beach – oh, it was too much! She ought to go to bed, stop this degrading voyeuristic game she was playing with herself. But she couldn't. Her eyes were glued to Melissa's naked body down there on the beach, and she could try to make her mind filter out the disturbing presence of Lou. God, where had be gotten the girl? How long had Sheila been looking for someone just like Melissa? And how long had she been finding them, only to lose them? Lou was only a man, but he had Melissa.

The song went on, gospel-like piano chords emanating from the radio on the sand. Sheila's heart raced inside her bosom and her fingers raced inside her pussy. It was a toss-up who would win, heart or fingers. She was stroking herself hard now, masturbating furiously, her eyes following Melissa as she knelt on the beach, offering herself shamelessly to Lou Archer.

He was kneeling too, and their bodies rocked together. She was dry humping against him, doing it like a slut. She was a slut. Of course she was. Sheila had known that the first time she saw Melissa. "But I love sluts," she whimpered. "God, I love them!"

Melissa pulled back a little and, profiled in front of the fire, Lou was obviously hard in his pants. Sheila dug into her twat with three fiery fingers, pounding them like hammers on the anvil of her lust. She jerked them free, drove them home again, drove up her snatch until her throat tightened and her body seemed on the verge of becoming jello. That was how Melissa deserved to be loved. In the soulful, intense way that only another woman was capable of loving her. A woman like me, Sheila thought. A woman exactly like me!

Caron would strip Lou when the divorce settlement was finalized. She'd take his money and his property and everything except the clothes on his back. If they were lucky, and drew a woman judge for the case, Caron might also be granted the right to castrate her ex-husband in open court. She was entitled to all that, and more. But if it was me, Sheila thought, if it was me, I'd take nothing. Nothing but Melissa. That would hurt him where it really counted, in his pride, in his Goddamn balls. And what would it do for me? It would light up my life, oh, God, it would light up my life, brighter than that fire on the beach, brighter, than the sunshine at noon. Even if I knew I'd get my heart broken one more time. Even if I knew the pain would kill me, Sheila thought, I would take that girl and I would teach her to love, to be loved, I would take her, I would take her, I would take her.

Lou was stripping himself, with help from Melissa. She pulled the shirt over his head and shoulders, and then he reached down to undo his pants. She fell onto her belly on the sand before him, jerking at his jeans. His cock bounced out and smacked her in the face. The fire's glow made his cock look red as the devil's ass.

Sheila's heart recoiled at the sight. God, it was so big and gross! Ugly! All cocks were ugly, but this one was uglier than any other cock because it belonged to an ugly, vicious man. How could Caron have allowed him to use that ghastly thing on her, even if she had been married to him? How could she have let Lou degrade her with that tool, let him fuck her, let him… oh, God…

Melissa said, "Ooooohhhhh, honey, it looks good enough to eat!" She said it in that dreamy little voice of hers, a child's voice in a woman's body. Sheila closed her eyes a moment, trying to remember the name of that actress, the one she couldn't stand to watch, the one who always played teenaged sluts and did tit scenes in R-rated movies. Same voice. Soft and sweet and light as a feather, and as innocent as a ten-year-old asking for a lick of that tasty-looking pecker.

"Then eat it," Lou said, and Sheila wanted to crawl under a rock. She didn't want to watch this – she knew what was coming, knew how much it would hurt – but she couldn't tear her eyes away, even when she tried. She could still see it, plain and clear, Lou thrusting his cock into Melissa's sweet mouth.

Grabbing him by the legs, she began to eat him up and down, gobbling, swallowing, making loud, vulgar slurpy sounds. It made Sheila queasy. Until now she could almost have pretended that Melissa's erotic display was for her benefit, for Sheila's own private arousal. But not now. She understood the game that was being played on the beach, and she understood that she could only spy on it. No one would ask her to join in.

The tears flowed more freely as she watched Melissa humiliate herself, make her mouth a receptacle for that man's throbbing prick, as she watched Melissa apparently reveling in her own shame. It was Sheila's shame too. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't stop. She didn't want to fuck herself, but she couldn't stop her fingers from reaming madly in and out of her pussy. The sprawl of Melissa's busty, ripe frame on the sand, the curve of legs and hips, the thrust of tits – they were too much, God, too much! Sheila was excited and she was saddened, and she was so ashamed of herself for what she was doing, but she couldn't make her fingers go limp in her steamy jungle of a twat, and she couldn't force her pussy to stop snapping like a piranha at those fingers.

Her nipples were stiff, agony swelling and coursing in them each time her hand brushed the rubbery little tips. She knew that a warm wet mouth could make those nipples feel good – better than good – but she didn't have a warm wet mouth to suck on her, only her fumbling, aroused hand, clawing over her lust-hardened boobs, pinching viciously at her swollen, aching nipples.

"You gonna fuck me?" Melissa asked, wiping drool from her mouth as she sat up. She had a smug grin on her face. Forty feet away, Sheila could see that grin. Lou's cock jutted up with a slight curve in its length, giving him the appearance of a scimitar someone had tried, not successfully, to straighten out. Sheila was good at estimations. Space and proportion were part of her calling as an artist. And she knew that Lou was a well-hung man, that his cock was big and fat and long and thick, bigger than the average, bigger than any other prick she had ever seen. The knowledge fired her with rage. Was Melissa like other women? Did she think of nothing but length, thickness, stiffness? Did her every waking dream center around a stiff prick? Was she really just another Claire, after all, another Lucy, another Janice, another Melanie?

"It seems kinda kinky," Melissa observed, lying back on the sand, her knees up. "I mean, here we are. Your wife in the house and us on the beach. Shouldn't we at least invite her to join us?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?" Lou teased, coming into the spread of Melissa's legs. He put his hands on her knees, worked them. She tossed her blonde hair around. Obviously she was happy.

"Think she's sexy?" Melissa made a humming sound that meant yes. "You should have seen her when I left," Lou added. "She was a nothing. Student in one of my classes, used to come sucking around to me after class. Not much to look at, all stringy hair and knobby knees, but I wasn't much myself then. All I knew was Keats and Wordsworth and Shelley. We used to go to motels and recite poetry. It was a hell of a lot better than the fucking we did."

Sheila's ears burned. She was hearing something she had no right to hear, but it was not Lou's right to talk about Caron that way, either. As if she were a thing. She was a woman, and she was a good woman. She's my sister, Sheila thought. I ought to go out and kick his nuts. Get some use from the karate lessons I took. The fucking pig!

"Are you better now?" Melissa giggled.

"You know I am, baby. Know what? Something tells me Caron is, too. Would you really like to make it a three-way, get her into the middle?"

Melissa giggled. "I don't think she likes me well enough. But somebody else does."

"That boyfriend?" Lou wondered. "I saw the way he was drooling when he got a look at your jugs. And such sweet jugs they are, too. You oughta give him a taste, maybe keep his tongue from dragging on the floor." He reached down, squeezed her titties. Melissa squealed in glee and romped on the sand. Her knees scissored together on Lou and she pulled him down upon her. One of her hands, stroked his bald head and it looked as if she were licking his ear. "No shit," Sheila heard Lou say. "I never even noticed. You really think so?"

"Mmmm-hmmmm," Melissa purred. "Right on the carpet, if nobody'd been looking. And you know what else, honey?" She pulled his head close again.

Lou gave a mighty, bear-like guffaw. It went well with the new look he'd acquired. Jesus, Sheila thought, the last time I saw him, he was a sallow-faced turd with a spare tire big enough for a Mercedes around his middle, and he looked like the kind of guy who went to singles' bars every night but never scored. And now – big hard hairy body, barrel chest, broad muscled shoulders, big arms, strong-looking thighs – no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but no Lou Archer either. "No shit!" she heard him say. "Well, in that case, baby, I oughta give you a good one. Just to make everybody happy, hmmmm?"

Melissa hummed something, and her legs spread widely, and Lou came down upon her. There was a moment of fumbling and then the girl wailed out a cry of delight. Her legs shot up into the air, toes wiggling, and she moaned, "Oh, do it, Lou, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Sheila's eyes were full of tears now, thankfully misting the degraded sight she was watching, and there was a roaring in her ears, louder than the inrush of the surf further down the beach. "I could make you bloom," she whispered, still pawing her tits and frigging her hot box of a pussy. "I could light up your life. It wouldn't be the same after you'd been with me, darling. You'd never look at him again, never want to look at another man. You'd know how ugly they are, with their big hard cocks sticking out and all their brains in those cocks. You'd want me, me only. And I'd give myself to you, fully, completely. The only thing I'd want in return – the only thing I'd ask would be you, darling, just you. No, please, Melissa, don't – don't make those noises – don't moan – don't cry out – don't fold your legs around him. Tell him to get off you. Tell him, you don't want to do it. I'll come and help. Just scream. Scream for help and I'll be your help. Call me, Melissa. Call to me. I'll come. I'll come. I'll come!"

She wasn't far from coming now. She could sense it in every fiber of her being. Her fingers trembled inside her pussy, quivered tensely, and the lips of her slot, the walls of her tube – they were doing all the work, rippling, contracting like the speeded-up tempo of her breathing. Her clitoris throbbed and her tits were sore, aching lumps of abused flesh. She stared out the window, sobbing with frustration as she watched Melissa Chase writhe under Lou Archer, and she could feel the shame as each stroke of that fat thick cock pounded into the girl.

Melissa screamed wildly, rolling under Lou as if she were going into epileptic seizure. Her legs wreathed around him, and she said, "Oh, fuck me, daddy, really fuck me, fuck it to me, fuck me, fuck me…"

"Fuck it to you and a dozen more, the way I feel tonight." Lou panted, working hard above her. His bare buttocks shone in the firelight, and they looked hard and firm, like slabs of meat. Oh, she hated him, hated him because he'd married Caron and then broken her heart by deserting her, hated him because he'd come back now to complicate Caron's life, hated him more than any other reason because he was atop Melissa and his ugly cock was pummeling its way in and out of her sweet, sweet cunt. His body topped Melissa's beautiful frame and he used her the way an animal uses the nearest available female of its species. He didn't care about Melissa. He didn't love her. He couldn't love her. He only wanted someplace to dump his cum. If Sheila could have but one wish, it would be that every man on earth would wake up in hell tomorrow morning. And she hoped Lou Archer would be the man nearest the flames. The hottest flames. I'd go to hell myself, she thought, if only for the chance to stick a pitchfork up his ass.

"Do it, baby, do it to me!" Melissa squealed, rocking and writhing under him on the sands. She attacked him with hands and legs, but she wasn't fighting him off. She was enticing him to fuck her harder, to ravish her and brutalize her and fuck her. Sheila felt her heart breaking at the realization. It was worse than with Claire, almost, but it was also too late for Sheila to stop masturbating. She turned away from the window. She had shamed herself enough by watching this long. She would take care of her own needs now, the way she'd always taken care of them, the way she'd always have to take care of them. She staggered toward the bed, fingers still buried in her rippling snatch. Somehow she managed to throw herself down, collapsing onto the mattress with sighs and tears of frustration.

She rolled aver, and she could see the flames through her window and she could still hear the moans and giggles of Melissa as the slutty little blonde was fucked and re-fucked. Slut. That's what she was. A slut. Nothing but a slut. But sluts are my type! Sheila wanted to scream. I love sluts! And I love her! God, when I want to roll in garbage, I know where to find it! And I want to rolllll…

Her fingers thrust in and out furiously. She had her knees up, her panties down to her knees, and her nightgown rolled, up past her quivering tits. Her cunt seemed to buck up to meet the plunges of her fingers, and she fucked herself with a maddened determination. I don't need anyone, she told herself, and least of all that trampy twat Melissa. I'll never need anyone again. I've learned my lesson well. As long as I have myself, I still have more than most other people will ever call their own. And I have me. Oh, baby, I have meeeeee!

Her orgasms came thundering down upon her, one followed by another and still another. She rocked on the bed, not caring how much noise she made. Caron was doped into dreamland. The people on the beach had their own activities going. Yet through it all, through the whole sweet surrender to her own passions and lusts, she could hear plain as anything the sound of Melissa's radio, and, even clearer, the girl's sexual moans and cries, floating in with the breeze from the sea, through her open window.

And when it was over, she could still hear the sounds from outside. Weren't they ever going to stop? She wanted to close the window, shut out the noises, but she knew she couldn't walk over and do it, that she'd have to look, and that if she looked… Sheila Ross crawled under her covers, sobbing like a baby, and she covered her head with the pillow. And still those sounds hammered upon her eardrums, penetrating the pillow's shield the way Lou's cock must be penetrating Melissa's cunt. She rocked and tossed until a fitful, dream-haunted sleep stole upon her. It seemed to take hours, but her body finally fell, leaden, into the sea of slumber.