Her thumb was busy too, rubbing the button of her clit. The little nub was erecting from its shield of flesh, all slick and hot and Jesus Christ almighty, so sensitive it made her skin crawl! She pushed it like a button and white-hot pain sped through her body, but the sweetest kind of pain imaginable. It hurt, but she enjoyed hurting like this. Her thumb came down again, and by now her clit was fully extended, as big as a ripe pea, so tender and raw she couldn’t bear to touch it directly.
Not that it stopped Sheila, in any case. She made circles with her thumb, all around the base of her trigger, rubbing with her thumb, pushing, poking, prodding, rubbing, her throat was raw from raspy breathing and there was a throb behind her eyes that seemed on the verge of popping her head open. At the same time she kept plunging fingers into her pussy, and it occurred to Sheila that at least one good thing had come of her encounters with men. She didn’t have a hymen to make it hurt, to block the passage of her fingers. She could really get into herself. One thing she could thank the race of men for. The only thing.
As she played with herself, she had a quick, sickening flash of memory. Her defloration. “It won’t hurt, Sheila. I promise.” That’s what he told her. Kevin, his name was Kevin Brown. She was now prejudiced against men named Kevin no matter how nice they were. She’d failed an art student unfortunate enough to have been christened Kevin.
His cock. Hot and hard and thick against the mouth of her pussy. Sheila squirmed atop the blanket, felt the sand shift under her. Stop, memory! she wailed mentally. Stopppp! She didn’t want to think about it. No no no no noooooooooo!
His cock shoving at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked innocently, face flushed with the intensity of his desire. His desire to get his dick into her pussy. Her pussy was the only thing that counted, to him. She was giving him her cherry and, as far as he was concerned, she could have been any girl on the face of the earth. He was above her, in the male superior position, naked, struggling. “Loosen up, Sheila! Somebody has to bust you, for Chrissakes!”
And then he pushed, and instinctively she pulled up her legs, and he sank into her twat and she could feel the ripping of flesh, the flow of blood as he broke her, tore her, ripped apart the wail of her cherry, stabbing his proud cock into her depths. She was ravaged, and it hurt, oh, God, Jesus, it hurt! Pain everywhere, her pussy in agony, his cock moving in and out despite the moans and wails of protest she tried to make, despite the agonized way she twitched under him.
But it didn’t hurt now, and the memory began to fade. It was fingers in her, her own fingers, gentle, bunched, stroking as she wanted to be stroked. Not a thick stabbing prick. She was loving herself. She wasn’t being screwed in the bushes outside her high school auditorium while a rock band blared away on the other side of the wall and all she could hear was someone imitating David Clayton-Thomas shouting, “You’ve made me—so —very —happy…”
“No,” Sheila moaned, “no, not that, me, me, me, Sheila…”
Her fingers plunged into the knot of her rippling cunt and her juices were like a fountain and her asshole tightened against the finger that prodded it, too, and she began to gasp and moan and rock about on the blanket, eyes wide open but not even seeing the yellow ball of sun in the sky to westward. She curled into a tight ball on the blanket and she hugged herself, knees to chest, and she fucked herself, and she whimpered through her come until her wrist ached and her pussy ached and her whole body was a mass of satisfied tissues and nerve endings and she was like a cello that had just been played on by Pablo Casals. Slowly, Sheila Ross uncurled, stretched on her blanket, and her fingers eased free of her juicing twat, and she lay panting, satiated. For now. But how long would it last? How soon would she feel the need, the irresistible need, to love herself again?
But when you came down to it, what did you really have, ever, but the moment? It was all there was. When it was gone it was gone and you couldn’t bring it back, you could only wait for the next one. Well, she’d made the most of this one.
Sheila came out of it slowly. Even as the glow faded she knew that it was only a temporary glow, that she had no one but herself to thank for it. Was there anything in life sadder than that? Sheila wondered. Having no one but yourself? Oh, God, she thought, wanting to cry. She sat up, shivering, as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. The sweat on her sun bathed body was cold, and her crotch and armpits were damp and clammy. She reached for her clothes, hurried into them. Damn Caron and Paul! She was going home. If they weren’t finished with their afternoon games, they could Goddamn well adjourn to the bedroom or to a motel or whatever they considered private enough. She was tired and hungry and her body ached with a longing that not even sleep, not even food, could hope to fill.
She covered the portrait of Claire, wondering if she’d ever finish it, tucked it beneath the seascapes, then put everything into the carry-rack on her moped. Walking or bicycling was better exercise, but she liked the feel of the buzzing bike between her thighs, almost like a vibrator. She was just putting the paint box into the basket when the sound of an auto engine drifted up into her ears.
Paul? she wondered, looking down at the road below.
No. It was a red Volkswagen, coming toward the island, not away from it. Sheila put her hand on her hip and stared at the VW convertible, top down, speeding over the causeway from the mainland. She leaned over the bluff and looked down, curious. A couple of people in the car, she could see, even from this high up. A man, bald and moustached, his shiny head gleaming in sunlight, and a girl whose long blonde hair streamed in the breeze. Who the hell are they? Sheila wondered. Nobody came out to the island unless they had some business here. Of course not. The whole island was part of the Archer family estate. Caron would inherit it, once that worm Lou was safely and legally dead. Salesmen? Sheila shrugged. She didn’t really care. She had no interest in buying anything, unless someone was selling a lifetime’s worth of love with a money back guarantee. Caron would send them packing. And at least there’d be someone else to interrupt whatever games Paul and Caron might be up to right now. Before she got back to the house and did the same. That made Sheila feel better. She got onto her moped, fired it, started back over the dunes toward the house.
She parked her bike behind the house, loaded her arms with canvases and paints, entered the house by the kitchen door.
Someone was in the refrigerator. “Hi, Caron,” she said. “Get me a beer while you’re at it, okay? Need any help with dinner?”
The door swung shut and Sheila was staring into the face of a stranger. A blonde girl, tiny but stacked, oh, Jesus! Wearing a mane of silky silver-yellow hair that fell down her back and shoulders, green eyes that glittered like emeralds. A t-shirt reading HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD, if the nipple bulges weren’t enough to distract any normal eye from the printing. And blue jeans so tight Sheila’s hips and ass began to ache in sympathy. Oh, my God, she thought, I have never seen such a slutty-looking girl in my entire life! Not even in that struck stop on the Boston Pike. She ought to be singing country and western songs in a truck driver’s bar. And what was she doing in the refrigerator? Here? Had Sheila walked into some kinky replay of the Manson massacre? And was her heart turning upside down inside her because she was scared or because.