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Don Russell: The dog ballers

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She backed silently away from the railing and tiptoed to the open door of her room. "Damn fool," she muttered to herself. "Daydreams about Jim and Ward aren't enough! You would have to come up with a dumb idea like that! Now I'll be having daydreams about being a Goddamn bitch-wolf!"

She fingered her clothes with distaste. Being alone had done nothing toward quieting the hunger that was eating at her. It had merely served to focus her attention and make her more sharply aware of the dangerous state they had all gotten into. She was vibrant with desire right now, she realized; she would get through the rest of the day only partly aware of what was being said, waiting to be alone with Rocky, legs clasping him and cunt beating against him. And in the morning, after all the fucking Rocky could survive, she would still be quivering with need.

This morning had been that way. Yesterday morning had been that way. "God!" she whispered. "It's going to be like that all the time we're here! Maybe we'd better bug out while we can!"

She studied her panties and bra with growing irritation, thinking of the deadening restriction they would subject her skin to. Finally she grabbed them and stuffed them into the hamper, hung her tight dress in the closet, and got out a soft, loose smock. Shrugging into it, she squirmed before the mirror and watched the soft folds slide against her tits. The friction delivered the kind of sensations she wanted. She conceded to herself that she was inviting trouble; pampering her appetite was the least likely way to gain control over herself. She would be feeding the flames, in a manner of speaking. But she was beyond caution.

The afternoon had gotten away from her. She heard voices from outside and hurried downstairs to the big room that made up the entire ground floor. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, the color of ripe wheat and gleaming from the hundreds of thousands of brush strokes she had given it over the years. It seemed half to float, half to bounce, as she deliberately exaggerated the movement of dropping to each succeeding step. Her breasts, firm and ripe and taut-nippled, bounced also; that was what she was trying to make happen. She liked the abrupt surge of pressure at the bottom of each bounce and the dry, rustling stroke of her nipples over the inside of the smock.

Now engrossed in her body, she emphasized the sensuous sway of her hips and tuned her awareness to the complicated grind of her buttocks. Slim-waisted, long-legged and big-chested, she knew how well she made out in the "sexy" department. She liked that always had and knew no temporary tension was going to enable her to hide her sexiness on a moment's notice. She was five feet two of appetizing female – a hundred and five pounds of it – and she was stuck with the fact.

To her surprise, Rocky was already in the house. He was pacing with the light-footed springiness that was so characteristic of him, his expression as troubled as she had felt.

"Rocky! I didn't know you were back! How long?"

"Oh… half-hour, maybe."

"Damn it! Why didn't you holler? Or come on up?"

"Huh?" He eyed her ruefully. "For a quickie, you mean?"

"Honey, I don't know what's come over me! Yes, a quickie! Anyhow, a half-hour would have been time enough to make it pretty good."

Rocky laughed uncomfortably. "Guess so. Figured you'd gone for a walk. Didn't hear a sound."

Bonnie came in, kicking her feet against the doorstep to knock the dust off, and Ward followed her.

"How's the spring?" asked Rocky.

Ward snorted. "Plugged. Take a whole day to get it cleaned out, I'll bet."

"That bad?"

"Yeah. Seeping some, but that's about all. Hey, Jim and Leanne still out?"

Myra nodded.

"Hope to hell they know what they're doing." Ward looked worried. "I hate a Goddamn cave with a passion. Never know when it's going to cave in or something."

"But that bluff's solid rock!" Rocky protested.

"It's got cracks. And it's not real hard rock – more like sandstone or something."

Myra heard Leanne's voice outside, bubbling with laughter. The moment Leanne and Jim came in, she noticed their satisfied expressions and semi-exhaustion. They didn't waste the afternoon, she reflected. They knew what ought to come first!

Bonnie seemed to have caught the same symptoms. "You guys find the cave interesting?" she asked, a note of skepticism evident in her voice.

Leanne looked embarrassed, but Jim chuckled comfortably.

"Sure!" replied the lanky man. "Interesting as hell! Big pile of seaweed like grass at the back. Been there so long there weren't even any bugs around it. Like a haystack, if you like tumbling in hay."

Ward began to laugh. "You two never could get near a haystack without trying to make out!"

"WARD!" Leanne blushed furiously. "For God's sake!"

Jim grabbed his wife's hand. "Come on, babe. Maybe we've got time for a shower before supper." He grinned broadly. "Itchy as hell, after wallowing in that seaweed."

Myra helped Bonnie prepare supper. She heard only half of what the other chattered about, her imagination trapped in fantasies about stacks of seaweed in the backs of caves, and of Jim's long, slender body pressing her own into the salt-scented masses.

Supper was somewhat confused; all six showed the strain that Myra had been concerned about. Again and again, someone would start to say something, then choke it off self-consciously. Myra herself bit her tongue barely in time to stifle a remark that would have been inexcusably suggestive. When that happened a second time, she trembled and felt perspiration dampening her smock. She bolted the remainder of her food and excused herself from the table.

It seemed to her to be a tense, nervous group that gathered at the bar after the dishes had been washed and put away. Ward played host, pouring drinks to order, then took his own to the corner where his guitar was stored. He plucked quietly at the strings, listening and twisting tuning keys, then began to strum a weirdly discordant rhythm. He hummed, the melody a strange one to Myra, but one that made her flesh prickle.

"What was that?" she asked when he fell silent.

"Damned if I know," he said musingly. He turned toward Bonnie. "Didn't we hear something like that down in Mexico last year?"

She frowned briefly. "It was in that temple, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. That's it. Some kind of fertility thing."

Before she quite realized what she was saying, Myra blurted her protest. "Hell of a thing to play hen we're all so damn horny!" She gasped and jerked her hand to her mouth. "Omigod! What am I saying?"

Bonnie broke the uncomfortable silence, her hostess instinct apparently working. "Look, Myra's right. What's wrong with us? We're good enough friends to get it into the open."

"I don't know if I want to run around with mine out in the open or not!" Jim snickered.

Leanne shot her husband a poisonous glance. "Leave it to you to make it as bad as you can!"

But Bonnie interceded. "Don't let's fight," she pleaded. "Not now." She stepped onto a small, circular hooked rug. "Come on… magic circle! Everybody on!"

They converged on her, hesitantly but with grins. Myra felt a surge of apprehension. The magic-circle routine had been fun when things had been normal. It had furnished moments of delicious groping and anonymous appreciation. But nothing was quite normal this time. She joined Bonnie on the rug. The six of them crowded together, bodies pressed into a tight, warm mass, knees working and hands slipping around waists and over hips.

For a time, the only sounds were those of increasingly heavy breathing. Myra thrilled to the sensations of body contact and writhed as one hand and then another found sensitive spots. Her smock was so loose that it seemed the same as having nothing on at all. The hands she couldn't see molded themselves to her contours and sought out the privacy of her cunt. If Bonnie's intention had been to use the magic circle as a safety valve, she had seriously miscalculated. Nobody was going to come out of this bout with the tension lowered, Myra decided. But it was a kind of relief to express her growing affection in a way that offered at least some concealment.

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