Roberta Taylor - Nasty Sharon

He had swung inland on the highway east when the first spatter of raindrops struck the windshield. He stopped the car and put up the top. Rain drummed on it now. Sharon slumped down in her seat, drinking beer and wondering what Lita had planned for the afternoon.

She had hinted that Sharon might not like it, but simply had to go through with it.

Tom said, "You stay too close to your job. You have to get away once in a while."

She smiled at him. "Maybe you're right."

"Now days there's such pressure to get ahead that people grind away at the job until they've lost track of what they're aiming for."

She had to agree. It described her perfectly. What, indeed, was she aiming for? She had the white bomb within her grasp. But having achieved that, her hands still seemed empty.

Thoughtful now, she finished the beer and popped another.

The rain hung in misty curtains about them. Straggly palm heads hung dripping and forlorn under the weight of water. In the fields hump-backed gray cows stood knee-deep in grass while placidly eyeing the passing car, ignoring the downpour.

Sharon listened to the singing of the tires on wet pavement, and the throaty growl of the motor. She felt good now, floating on beer, shut into the tiny car by the rain, and away, away from everything.

Shortly Tom turned off the highway into an asphalt road; then a gravel one winding through a live oak forest. They ended up on mud tracks at a shanty that hung over the banks of a pond. The shack was unpainted, but new yellow pine shingles indicated that it was decently kept up. They sprinted through the rain to the porch, half of which was sheltered by an overhang. The rest formed a boat dock. A rowboat half-full of water was tied to a piling.

Inside, the place was simply furnished, a bed, stove, a table, some chairs, and a quilted Sharon found the rustic simplicity of the place reassuring. She plopped down on the bed and kicked off her sandals.

Tom sat at the table. He popped a beer can.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"No. Not yet."

He tilted back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He gazed out the open doorway at the rain.

He said, "Later on we could go fishing."

She nodded. Rain pounded on the roof Tom, gazing out at the pond, seemed self-contained, demanding nothing of her.

She dozed, calmed by his lack of urgency. She awoke somewhat later, feeling the bed sag under his weight.

He was sitting on the edge. He asked, "Hungry now?"

Feeling refreshed, she smiled up at him. "No hurry." She stretched. She recalled a flicker of a dream, riding in a car, Tom driving, a comforting dream.

"Tom, I like being with you." He grinned. "Thanks."

"But you're kind of a mystery. What do you do with yourself?"

"I sell cars."

"You said you make good money. How do you spend it?"

"I take flying lessons, which really cost. You have to hire both an instructor and a plane."

This aroused her interest. She raised up on an elbow, studying him.

He said, "I have a lot to learn. Some day I'll buy a light plane for cross-country trips. Take along a sleeping bag, see the world."

"It sounds yummy."

"Want to go along?"

She nodded, smiling broadly.

He rose and went to the table. She heard a beer can pop. He brought it to her and resumed his seat.

She asked, "Tom, do you like me?"

"I like things I see in you. Your determination, for instance."

"Not my body?" She smiled.

"I was watching you sleep. You were turned on your side. I saw that you're not wearing a bra. One breast laid on top of the other. That started my randy thoughts. Sure, you make me horny. And you're awfully pretty. But, like I told you, pretty chicks flock to a guy like me who has a bankroll."

"I'd like to go flying on cross-country hops with you, Tom."

"Just one sleeping bag?"

"Two! I'm not the kind of girl you think."

But her eyes twinkled.

She gulped at her beer, then lay back holding the chill can between her breasts. Tom reached for it. His hand did not arrive. Instead his fingers slid under her halter and lifted it, peeled it up her body, baring her rosy-capped mounds. He pressed a fingertip to a nipple. It struggled to rise against the pressure. His finger roved, slowly circling the stiffening peg, teasing the aureole into a puffy growth.

He said, "I figured you were the kind of girl to work, help, scrimp and save. To buy a plane, for instance. Or whatever we wanted. See, cross country hops would be lonely unless I had the right girl along."

His fingers left her breast, closed on the beer can. He took a swig.

She said, "Don't quit what you were doing. It felt reassuring. Comforting."

"Why do you need reassurance?"

"I'm into something I'm not very proud of."

"Want to tell me about it?"

He cupped his hand on her breast, then bent to it and tenderly kissed the nipple. Sharon fingered the back of his neck, pressing him into the firm mound of tit. His tongue slowly circled the nipple. She smiled, closed her eyes. He licked about it, nibbled, at last sucked his mouth full.

Her breast felt huge as his lips and tongue worked on it. He drew in until her nipple lodged in his throat.

She caressed his curly hair, thinking about soaring in a light plane through blue skies, suddenly swooping earthward, screaming with terror, then winging over and rising like a gull on the wind.

He drew off, stretching the glistening nipple with his lips.

"Good?" he asked.

"Uh-huh. Dreamy. But my halter binds."

He helped her take it off. Her white breasts now mounded like pink-peaked white melons perched on her suntanned flesh.

She watched him suck the other breast. When he drew away, both nipples were sticking up like thumbs.

Sharon guessed she should be coy with a guy who had chicks chasing him, but she moved by instinct now, reaching to the zipper tab of her shorts, wrenching it down, exposing low-slung white panties figured with yellow flowers, down to the crotch, letting him see her fluffy pubic bush lift the loose panty material.

She watched his hand climb her thigh to her mound.

He said, "You don't seem like a girl that would need a separate sleeping bag."

"I was. I've changed my mind."

"I'm flattered."

She reached to the ridge of cock lifting his pants. She caressed the long, bony shank and squeezed the knob.

He said, "At last I've met an honest girl! You want it, don't you?"

She nodded. "Somehow I feel like being honest with you. But I warn you, Tom. I can be awfully shitty. Sometimes I hate myself. Like this situation I'm involved in. I feel ashamed."

He placed a hand over her mouth. "Shut up, woman, while I undress you."

She looked down her body. He tugged at her shorts and panties. Her belly hair fluffed out to a thick auburn bush. He whipped the garments away and then fingered between her thighs. She spread her legs for him. He squeezed her damp cuntlips between his fingers.

He said, "Your snatch is as hairy as I've ever seen."

"Do you want me to shave it bald?"

"No, God no. I like it. But would you?"

"If I loved you."

"You don't."

"A girl never knows that until she's felt the guy inside her."

He burst into laughter. "Okay. I can take a hint." He peeled off his shirt. His chest was thatched with dark, curly hair. She eyed his torso appreciatively – lean, hard, narrowing to small hips. His body was very different from Buddy's.

Buddy.

She cringed. No, don't think of him. Or of Lita. Just this nice, strong, lean, hairy man now wrestling out of his pants and shorts, a foot of cock curving up into view, hard, rigidly bent in an arc shaped to fit her cunt, tipped with a large knob that would need good lubrication to enter comfortably.

He climbed onto the bed between her legs.