Ron Taylor - Wife in the middle

"No," she said. "Please don't do this to me, Lou." He kissed her neck, then bit it, and his hands were on her tits, squeezing, pinching the hard taut nipples. She moaned. Again she could feel his cock rubbing the crease of her sex, stirring the soup that boiled in her twat. Caron closed her eyes, and then she reached down. She seized the shaft of his rigid peter and brought it to bear on her cuntal mouth. "Aaaaaaaaaggghhhhhhh!" she screamed, plunging down upon him, swallowing his dick in her pulsating pussy. He clenched on her tits and shoved, and they were fucking, and she couldn't understand why. But her snatch thrust to meet him and the juice was like a river inside Caron and she moaned, "Do it, oh, God, Lou, do it, fuck me, Goddamn you you son of a fucking bitch, do it do it do it do itttttttttt…"

Sheila was absorbed in her painting. The portrait of Claire looked so much better than it had yesterday. Part of that was due to the sun, which was still slightly hanging to eastward, climbing toward noon. The light was different, and it made the picture look different. Even the nipples were beginning to take on the roseate pink that had eluded her brush yesterday afternoon. God, at least she had this much! She could still paint!

Something about Claire's face nagged at her. She studied the painting, worked with her colors, used the brush to make an alteration here and there, then peered carefully at the results. "Oh, Christ!" Sheila said in exasperation. There had been nothing wrong with the face as she'd first painted it. What she was doing, what she had just done, was to give. Claire's features a slight but noticeable resemblance to Melissa Chase, as the girl had looked last night, dancing naked on the beach. The set of eyes, the particular pout of the mouth – it was Melissa she was putting onto the canvas, and not Claire. Sheila cursed softly, began to paint out her mistake. As the brush moved, though, she found that she could not forget the image she had witnessed last night. And what a picture it would make, she told herself. The fire, the blue-black sky with a trail of moonlight gleaming on the ocean. And in the forefront, Melissa, glorious before the blazing fire. Every detail of it was inscribed onto Sheila's memory. A year from now she could do that scene, with photographic precision. Her hand began to shake and she smeared some paint on the canvas. "Fuck," she said. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

"That's really nice," a voice said behind her, and she spun around. The brush fell out of her hand and she almost dropped her palette too. It was Melissa, a towel wrapped around her body, her hair and face wet, as if she'd just stepped from the ocean like Aphrodite. The towel barely covered her crotch. If she were sitting down, Sheila thought, and if she didn't think to close her legs, I could see it all under the edge of that towel. I could see it all. Sheila felt her heart do a pitter-pat and she found herself wondering if she could dig up some excuse for Melissa to sit down for a while.

Melissa came up, looked at the portrait of Claire, the portrait no one else had seen, no one else would ever see. It was a private picture, something that belonged to Sheila's personal life, but somehow she didn't mind the intrusion, didn't resent the curious interest as Melissa studied the painting, nibbling softly on her plump pink lower lip.

"It's gorgeous," Melissa said. "She's very sexy. But how can you paint without a model?"

"I don't need one," Sheila replied softly. "We used to be friends. It's from memory."

Melissa giggled. "You have one hell of a memory. Or were you really good friends, mmm?" She stepped back. "You know what? I'd really dig somebody painting me. I mean, I've modeled for photographs – I was the centerfold girl in HOT CHICKS, but you probably never saw that one, did you? I was lying on a bearskin rug, real tacky, and they'd rubbed my tits with ice to make the nipples stick out, and I had my fingers down here, you know, spreading myself. If you looked real close you could see my tonsils through the split. It was so tacky, but it was fun, too. You know?"

Sheila felt faint. She tried to imagine Melissa spread like that, in front of some photographer with a Hasselblad, and the trouble wasn't that she could not picture it, but that she could. In vivid detail. HOT CHICKS magazine. She didn't think she'd ever seen a copy. But maybe if she could find out which issue, one of the bookshops in Darien could dig up a copy from some back-numbers house…

"I used to do a lot of modeling, but the pay was so low – maybe five dollars or ten dollars an hour, and there's so much competition. You work steady for a few months, and every photographer in LA has a bushel of pictures of you, and nobody needs you anymore, they want new girls, you know? I was washed up at eighteen. Boy – you are really good, you know that, Sheila? Looking at that picture, I can almost reach out and touch the girl, she's so real, I'd like to pose for an artist, for somebody who could make me look that good."

Sheila cleared her throat. She felt madness crawling through her veins. There was no history of insanity in the family, but she knew that she was on the verge of setting the precedent. She was so close to Melissa she could smell the salt water that still clung to the girl and, even more powerful, Melissa's own natural body oils and odors. They were sweet, like rolling in a garden of fragrant flowers, and Sheila felt her head beginning to roll too. Her vision misted, as if heat shimmers were surrounding her on every side, and time after time she willed her nervous hand not to reach out, smooth the tangles from Melissa's golden hair. The skin, oh, God, the skin. Smooth, tanned, little bubbles of water decorating it. Her hand twitched and she wanted to crawl under a rock, join a nunnery – oh, Jesus, not a nunnery – a monastery – a Trappist monastery – anything – to get away…

"You're not interested in finding any new models, I guess," Melissa went on. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, back and forth, and her hips moved inside the towel that appeared to be her only garment. Sheila watched the rise and fall of those ripe haunches and she wanted to turn away, but she couldn't will herself to do it. Not even when she remembered last night, the whorish way Melissa had responded to Lou on the beach. It couldn't dim, couldn't cheapen the passion that swelled inside Sheila, swelled and flamed for this tally, trampy little girl.

"I – uh, I don't know," Sheila heard herself saying. "I – maybe…"

Melissa turned, green eyes sparkling like emeralds. "I'd really dig modeling for you, I think. I mean, if you could make me look that good…"

"I" and "me" seemed to be her favorite words. Narcissistic, yes, and hedonistic, really, dumb, but God in heaven, so desirable…

Sheila took the portrait of Claire off the easel. She picked up a blank canvas board. It gave her something to do with her hands. "Are you gonna let me audition?" Melissa asked delightedly. "Oh, wow!" She hurried around, stood beyond the easel, golden hair glowing in the sunlight. "I guess you want to see how I look without my clothes, huh?" she added, and the towel dropped in a flurry at her feet.

She stood naked, tits lifting as she breathed, and Sheila began to moan while her eyes seemed to blur and mist and her fingers clenched tightly on the brush she held, so tightly that the brush handle snapped in two and both pieces fell to the ground. Melissa cupped her lush full tits from beneath, and she held them as if in offering. The nipples were pink and rigid, big round nipples with fat thick teats set squarely at their centers, and those nipples stared at Sheila like earnest pink eyes. Her legs were slightly parted, and the glorious puff of her shaven cunt was on full display. Sheila could see the reddish-pink of the crease, could even see the tiny inner lips framed in the slash, demure hints of the sweetness and pleasure that lurked a little deeper within.