Roberta Taylor - Nasty Sharon

Oh, she felt remorse over seducing Buddy, but she easily assuaged her guilt by justifying the act.

She felt pretty sure that Nancy Forbes had a weakness for young boys. Suppose Nancy flipped over Buddy, and the big boss, Bud Connoly, caught her fucking on duty? Who would then become night manager?

Sharon arrived at the boulevard, palm-lined. Sea Avenue, which followed the contour of the beach but was cut off from it by solid rows of stores, apartment buildings, and motels. Her pace quickened. She had a half-hour before reporting to work. Ahead was Harris Motor Sales and the little white convertible she was crazy for.

Usually she gazed forlornly into the showroom at the car, like a penniless kid pressing a button nose against a candy-store window. But if she got Nancy's job the payments would be within her reach. She decided to go inside, maybe even sit in the driver's seat.

Tom Thornton, the ace salesman at Harris Motors, was a cynic, or else, he thought, a deceived innocent who thought the best of women until proven wrong, and he always was.

He had seen many a black-furred twat give lie to a blonde hairdo. And he had with great success used expensive gifts to steam open cunts that had not responded to his charm or good looks.

He hoped the redhead entering the showroom was different.

He had learned that her name was Sharon Wilson, that she worked at Bud Connoly's Sunland Motel, and that she was in love with a little white QXR convertible.

She was wearing a short, blue dress that matched her eyes. Over her shoulders tumbled a shawl of auburn hair. Tom drew in a deep breath, looking at her body – the high-slung, wobbling tits, the fine, lithe waist, the big, swaying ass. And those long, tapered golden legs.

Tom's prick rose in a single, throbbing surge. He felt as awkward as a teen-ager when he moved toward her, for tonight she disconcerted him more than ever. She seemed to have a cat's softness of step, and something feline about her gaze, supremely confident, knowing.

Tom asked, "Can I help you?"

"That white dreamboat, the QXR, I just want to look at it and drool."

Her voice, Tom observed, was low, throaty, despite her obvious excitement.

He followed her to the car. It was ivory, waist-high, with just enough space for two people to get in.

She caressed the black steering wheel.

He said, "We have a demonstrator. It's somewhat beat up, but it's the same model. I could take you out for a run in it."

She shrugged. "That's nice of you, but on my salary I couldn't meet the payments. Not unless I get a promotion."

"Look, car prices are subject to bargaining." Her gaze swung to him; paused. She seemed to be seeing him for the first time.

The cynic in Tom said that a girl with her voluptuous body must have had experience at arranging prices.

"Tomorrow morning?"

He nodded in agreement. "I'll be here by nine o'clock. Ask at the desk for Tom Thornton."

"Thanks, Tom."

As she left, Tom wondered if she would fuck to lower the price. He hoped not. She seemed different from those twats who spread their legs on learning bow much he earned as Harris' ace salesman.

But watching her ass wag out of the place, Tom figured he had better settle for what he could get out of this redhead.

The Sunland Motel was a huge, two-story, white oval-roofed structure surrounded by lawns manicured like golf greens. Palms arched gracefully up from flower beds. Crushed coral drives gleamed in the night.

As Sharon paced up the walk to the front entrance the little white car shrank in her mind to the dimensions of a toy.

What counted was this million-dollar layout. This was the action. This was where she must become somebody big.

She entered the motel lobby, a spacious circle walled with marble. To the left was the bar-restaurant section. The restaurant was already closed off by velvet ropes. To the right was a gift store and the Beachwear Boutique, both shut for the night. The room desk was ahead, on the corridor leading to the swimming pool where Nancy Forbes was now handing a key to a young couple. Arms about each other, they moved away down the hall.

They were quickies, Sharon guessed, here to fuck for a few hours.

Approaching the desk, she studied Nancy, a full-figured brunette of about thirty, with the large, dark, lustrous eyes of a mare in heat.

But on the job, Nancy was as coldly efficient as a machine and wasted little time on amenities. "Nice evening, isn't it, Sharon?" Her tone became severe. "I have only one vacancy. Quickies in units eight, twenty-two, and forty-seven. Watch them. The moment they're out the door, change the sheets."

Sharon nodded. She knew that in a full motel quickies were pure gold.

She asked, "Where is Harve?"

Harve Keely was, like Sharon, titled assistant manager.

"He's with a rough party in twenty-eight and thirty. He's already fished one drunk out of the pool."

Nancy's voice sounded brittle and her gaze flicked nervously about. Sharon guessed that she was not strung out from motel problems but from man hunger. Nancy was waiting out her divorce.

Sharon moved to the counter and pressed the girl's hand comfortingly.

Nancy blinked back a tear. She snatched a cigarette from the pack on the counter.

Lighting it with a trembling hand she whispered, "Three more months. I can't stand it, Sharon. Every man I see could be a detective sent by my husband to trap me, to bust my divorce suit. He let me sue him for mental cruelty, but now the idea of paying alimony has gotten to him. He's decided he cares more about the money than the shame of people knowing I cheated on him. He'd do anything to catch me fucking on the side."

Sharon knew the breakup of Nancy's marriage had been triggered when her husband found her in bed with another man.

Sharon had told Buddy to come to the hotel during the quiet, empty hours after midnight.

Nancy smiled wanly and said, "Thanks for trying to comfort me, Sharon. You're very sweet."

Sharon thought, We're all very sweet, Nancy. But you became manager by stepping on people's faces. Some say you fucked with Bud Connoly to get there. And now, being up the ladder, you piss on everybody below. I'll kick that ladder out from under you, Nancy.

She said aloud, "I know how it is to have hot pants. If you really dig some guy, I'll stand guard, watch for detectives…"

Nancy opened a drawer to get a box of tissues. Sharon patted her hand reassuringly, then headed out the pool exit to check the quickies.

The pool was an immense rectangle, like many things about the motel more luxurious than was necessary. Bud Connoly bragged that it drew people from the beaches.

The near end was lighted underwater. Sharon saw faint splashes in the distant, dark section, people probably trying to prove that it could be done underwater.

She found two of the quickie rooms still occupied. But unit forty-seven was open, the key in the door. Sharon flicked on the lights and hurried to the phone.

After ringing Nancy and telling her that forty-seven was available, she tore off the rumpled bedclothes. The under sheet was soggy with sex juice. She got out fresh sheets and began making the bed.

Just then Harve Keely appeared in the lighted doorway. He was a lanky, dark-haired, grinning boy of Sharon's age. He took in the scene and moved to the opposite side of the bed to fold the sheet Sharon had flung across it, while giving her his standard greeting, a thumb pressing his nose, fingers waggling.

She laughed. "Screw you, too, Harve."

"That's an idea! Let's!"

Giggling, Sharon asked, "How're your parties in twenty-eight and thirty?"

"Strictly yuk. I dragged this paunchy drunk out of the pool – he had his clothes on – and took him back to unit thirty. There I found a hairy-assed guy fucking a broad who turned out to be the drunk's wife. On the other bed a couple of cunts were squirming together like worms. The drunk started to tear up the joint. The hairy-assed guy just kept on fucking. Then the drunk passed out on the floor, and his wife asked me to bang her after the hairy-assed cocksucker was done."