Ron Taylor - Wife in the middle

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.

Caron Archer spent a lousy night, the rottenest of her life. The sleeping pill went to work, but it catapulted her into dreamland, and the dreams were as bad as being awake. In one of them she was with Paul, on the beach. They were fucking gloriously, the way they'd done this afternoon. He was mounting her from the rear, really giving her the dick, and he leaned close to kiss her on the side of the face and she could feel a moustache. "Oh, God, no," she moaned, turning her head round, staring right into Lou's face, the bald head, the big moustache. It was his cock ramming in and out of her, sending messages of delight from her pussy to her brain, and even as she understood she felt herself beginning to come, to come like a bandit, her body shaking and writhing under him, and he could feel it too because he stepped up his fucking and speared her with his tool and she couldn't stop, she could only lie there and weep and buck and climax, again and again.

She awoke from that dream with a cry of panic, but she was alone in her bed and the house was as silent as a grave. The digital clock by the bed said it was 5:17 and that had to be A.M. because there was only a chilly-looking gray light outside. Caron closed her eyes, sank onto her bed again, and sleep came stealing back. Her dreams were no more pleasant, but at least she didn't awake until the alarm rang.

She staggered out to the kitchen, loaded up Mr. Coffee, and her hand shook as she poured down the first cup, black and hot. Sleeping pills always made her nervous the morning after. She almost never took them. But last night it was essential. And tonight? Would she have to drug herself again tonight? She didn't know. She could only swallow the hot coffee in gulps that hurt her throat and shake her head. There was a note on the refrigerator, pinned up by a tiny magnet. Caron took it down and read:

"CARON – I'm sorry I didn't wait for you, but I had to get out of this house. I'm sorry. I'm desperate. Everything is so awful. Please don't hate me for not being here. I'm painting, at the cove. If you want to, come up and be with me. I had to go. Love, S."

Well, she thought, laying the note on the counter, who can blame her? I wish to hell I could get away from all this so easily. Maybe I should get my paints and brushes out of the attic. How long will it be till Paul gets here? God, I can hardly wait to sign the papers and to see the last, the very last of Lou Archer!

She'd wanted Paul to stay here last flight, but he wouldn't. "We don't have to go through the rigmarole of declaring him legally dead now, darling," he'd told her. "You can simply get a divorce and take everything but his moustache. That, too, if you want it. I'll draw up the papers tonight, and I'll bring them over tomorrow as soon as I've gotten my afternoon business out of the way. Besides – if I stay the night, he might get the smartass idea of filing a countersuit of some kind, and maybe charging us with adultery. It wouldn't be more than a joke, in view of his track record, but it would be a complication, and we don't need any more complications, do we?"

They didn't, but she had missed him, last night, and she had needed him. Someone to hold her in his arms all night long, to tell her it would be okay. Well, she'd have him tonight. Even if it did embarrass Sheila. Oh, maybe they'd all get drunk. Maybe Paul could find a date for Sheila and they could have a party to celebrate getting rid of Lou. Caron sipped more slowly at her coffee, brightening. The world was beginning to take on a rosier glow.