“Let’s camp on the beach,” Melissa was saying, eyes aglitter, obviously excited. “We can build a fire and everything.” She looked up at Sheila. “You wanna come along?” she asked. “We could drink beer and sing songs and dance and everything, you know?”
Sheila flushed. She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to come along,” she said, but deep in her heart she did, she really did. If only that son of a bitch Lou weren’t sitting there, grinning like a hound dog with a mouth full of shit. Men! She hated them, and she hated this one more than any of the rest. Without bothering to say goodnight, she left the room. She hoped Caron would be all right. A sleeping pill was no cure, but at least it would help her sister get some rest. And Caron would need plenty of strength for tomorrow.
Sheila came out of the bathroom wearing her nightgown. It was flannel—nights could be chilly on the seashore —and it was pleasantly frumpy. All she needed were curlers in her hair.
The bedroom window was open, and a salty mist of night air came fluttering in. With it came the sound of music. Sheila felt the slight chill and she went to close the window, but before she did, she happened to look out.
Lou and Melissa were camped on the beach. They’d built a small fire and Lou sprawled on a blanket, sipping from a can of beer. Melissa stood by him, the tire behind her, a transistor radio twirling from its thong in one hand. She was naked, stark naked, and she was dancing like a bacchanal to the heavy metal music she held on a string.
Sheila sank to her knees, still staring wide-eyed through the window. Dear God, she thought, oh, dear God! She’s even more beautiful than I’d dreamed she could ever be!
Melissa was as tawny as a lioness in the firelight, her body shining as if it had been waxed. Her breasts shook as she danced, and they looked even larger naked than they, had straining inside the too-tight t-shirt. They moved now with a freedom and bounce that Sheila found hypnotic.
Melissa turned in profile and her nipples were taut and stiff, thrust out in eye-catching erection. With her free hand she caressed herself while she danced, felt her tits, played with her nipples. She leaned her head back in a sigh of contentment. Her body twisted again, gyrating with the music, and she was poetry in motion. It was a kind of art that could never be captured, not even by anyone as talented as Sheila Ross. Sheila could only stare. And lust. And envy.
She was short, yes, and built, but there was no fat on Melissa’s frame. Her tummy was small and softly rounded, hollowing down into an inviting crotch set between firm, taut-muscled legs. Dancer’s legs. Her ass was smooth, swinging in wide exciting curves, and her own curves were nothing to sneeze at, either. She stuck out behind nearly as provocatively as she did from the front, a nicely symmetrical effect, and she kept turning round and round with the music, turning until Sheila had seen her bare gleaming body from every possible angle. But Sheila wanted to see it again, and again, and again. She didn’t want to stop looking. She couldn’t stop looking.
Still on her knees, Sheila reached down with a trembling, nervous hand. She lifted the hem of her gown, reached inside. For a moment she caressed herself with shaking, quivery fingers, stroking her twat through the nylon of her panties, until juices oozed into the slit and soaked the fabric, and her hips began to shake a little. She realized that she too was moving with that music from down on the beach. Infectious music. And an infectious sight.
Sheila pushed harder at her slit until finger and panties alike slipped into her tender, love starved crease. She moaned through clenched teeth at the sudden pressure on her clit, and she was astonished to find her nubbin as erect as it was, so stiff and so lust-raw she could hardly bear to touch it. But somehow she couldn’t make herself stop touching it, just as she couldn’t, look away from the sight unfolded before her eyes down on the beach. Erotic jolts of pain burst through her cuntal region as she masturbated, and her eyes were glued upon Melissa, dancing. Desirable Melissa. She watched, she desired.
Melissa began to chant along with the music, humming and trilling in a soft, slightly off-key voice, like a little girl child just learning to sing and not entirely sure of her pitch. Chills ran up and down Sheila’s spine and she pressed her chin against the window sill, watching.
Melissa wasn’t much of a singer, but her voice was haunting and evocative all the same. And there was damned little she had to learn about dancing. At least, about erotic dancing. She has to have been a go-go-girl, Sheila thought. Maybe a topless dancer in some cheap and dingy LA bar. Oh, wouldn’t that just be perfect! And I thought it was still a long way to rock bottom.
Her body moved with a sexual, feline intensity, arms lifting high above her head, tits shaking, ass swinging from side to side. She swooped low, down to the sand, legs spread in a split that a ballerina would have been proud of. She humped against the sand for a moment, her hair loose and free, shaking around her face and down her tits, and she husked like a woman in the throes of sexual passion. When she stood up, sand coated her crotch.
She was bare between the legs, bare as a baby, her slit vivid and well-defined, a long neat crack running through her plump swell of crotch. Sheila’s mouth began to water as she watched that crack, saw it tantalizingly revealed by the motion of Melissa’s legs. And then the girl, giggling, lifted one foot impossibly high into the air, toes pointing upward as if they meant to stir among the stars. Lou Archer reached up from his blanket and for a long moment, a despairing moment to Sheila Ross, he clutched Melissa’s plump pussy, flexed his hand on it, squeezed until the girl moaned, “Ah, Godddddd…” and danced away.
She stopped a moment, catching her breath while the song on her radio crashed through its final chords. “Mmmmmm,” she purred, rocking on her feet through a commercial or two, and it was plain that she was anxious for more music. The next song started, softer, disco-shit, and she began to move with it.
She did bumps and grinds, soft, sexy, sinuous, disco-style bumps and grinds. She did the hustle and the bump and a little of the hootchie-kooch too, and she was great at every one of them. She could move her body in ways Sheila Ross had never thought existed, and each motion showed her off in a new, exciting way, ways that cut through Sheila like a knife. Her knees trembled where she knelt by her window, and her hand was a crazed, passion-maddened thing operating on her mushy cunt.
“Oh, yes, now,” Sheila whimpered at the very bottom of her throat. Her fingers pushed impatiently at the panties, got inside, onto the pussy itself, the pussy whose abundant drippings had already soaked her fingers and the ice-blue panties. Her lips were frothy with juice when she touched them bare, and she moved her fingers along the wet crease until her finger was sticky and moist and the aroma of hot excited pussy filled her nostrils where she knelt. She moaned, gasped, started working her fingers into herself, fucking her pussy with passionate groans that were torn from her heart, from her very soul.
Melissa was singing with this song too, if you could call it singing. At the very least you could call it sexy. If I had my guitar, Sheila thought, we could do duets. Even her sour notes sound good. One song drifted into another while Sheila masturbated and stared, and almost before she had time to appreciate the change, Melissa was down there, flatting only an occasional note as she joined the recorded voice of Debby Boone on “You Light Up My Life”.
She went down onto her knees on the sand, dropping the radio onto the beach. She stretched a hand toward Lou and he reared up, his bald pate gleaming in the firelight.
Sheila stroked herself furiously as the tableau kept shifting before her wondering eyes. With her free hand she managed to unlace the top of her gown. She thrust her hand inside, eager to pinch and maul her tits. The nipples of her small hard boobs were firm and upright, and she seized them avidly, squeezing till her breath shortened and her whole body shook and ached with raging arousal. Drool oozed from one corner of her mouth. She couldn’t control the flow of her saliva. She tried to swallow the excess; maybe that would help her tight, dry throat. But she had to stop, just short of choking on excess spit. Her finger kept socking in and out of her foaming pussy and she was feeling those strokes, all the stabbing way in, all the shuddery way out. Her muscles clenched and sucked, and her snatch was full of wetness. She hadn’t been this hot in months. Not since—not since the last time with Claire. The last good time. And how long ago had that been?