She looked back over her shoulder. Paul was following, stumbling as he let his shorts drop and kicked them loose. She threw herself into the ocean, right into the force of an incoming wave, and she nestled in the foamy shallows as she waited for him. She panted with lust and she kept stroking her hot wet tits and their stiff, poking nipples. “Hurry,” she said languidly. “Hurry before I melt.”
He joined her at the waters edge, his arms surrounding her like a spider web. “Right here,” she announced. “Fuck me in the surf. Just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY.”
“They didn’t even take off their bathing suits,” he pointed out as Caron got her fist around his stiff, hungry cock.
“Then they must have been uncomfortable as hell,” Caron laughed. She lay down on the sands, a target for the incoming waves which washed blue and foamy across her. Her legs were spread and she touched herself between them, fingering her eager slice.
He looked back up the beach. For Sheila? Oh, damn it! Caron thought. Sheila was busy with her painting. God love the girl, at least she had a hobby, even if she didn’t have much else to call a life. Twenty-six years old, going on twenty-seven, pretty as could be, and she’d never even been in love, never known even the peculiar thrill that heartbreak could leave in its softening aftermath. “Don’t worry about Sheila,” Caron advised, and she reached for his cock, where it pointed up from the patch of hair between his legs. His prick was smooth and hard, like the rest of his body. She liked that. And, God, what it could do to her! Caron pulled on his dick and he slid down atop her. She spread her legs to accommodate him, and they fought in the foamy waves, both of them battling toward the same end. The very point, of him touched her juicy cunt lips, parted them, and then he came down hard, burying himself in her churning depths.
“Aaaaaaagggghhhhhhhhhh!” Caron squealed, her arms and legs flapping in the water. “Oh, God, Jesus, do itttttt!” He’s only just started, she thought, and I feel like I’m ready to come! What other man had ever done that much for me?
Lou certainly hadn’t. Sex with him was a dim, dreary memory, one she called to mind as infrequently as possible. When he crawled upon her in bed, it was for a perfunctory fuck. She made the right noises, the right moves under him, but he had a tendency to stroke hard and fast, pumping till he came, then rolling off her, weary. Maybe, she thought as Paul began to pound her hard in the surf—maybe getting abandoned was the best thing that ever happened to my marriage!
She’d been cold when she was Lou’s wife, but now she could almost climax just by remembering Paul’s cock and the cute way his knob reddened and swelled up and coated over with a thin film of moisture when she was really turning him on. And that turned her on. Oh, God, did it ever! She was turned on now, and she didn’t have to remember or pretend or fantasize. Her ass was making little hollows in the wet sand under her, and not even the constant inflow of cool waves rushing over the intertwined couple could chill or dampen the fires in her pussy. The only thing that could quench Caron’s lust was the injection of Paul’s seven-inch rod, and she was getting a full dose of it right now. He sank deeper and she began to moan, writhing under him.
She gasped as he touched a responsive place inside her. “Oh, God, do it again—in-out, in-out, in-out, fuck me fast, fuck me hard! It makes me jelly inside! Do it darling, do it again, do it again, oh, do it do it do it do it.”
He did it. His cock sawed into her juicing cunt and she bucked in delight at each fast, sure stroke. Not even the Atlantic Ocean itself was as wet as the inside of Caron’s cunt right now, and the waves seemed to sizzle and steam as they broke and foamed over Caron and Paul’s hot, mingled bodies. She lifted one leg high into the air, kicking like a prima ballerina, and then she brought that leg down and tied it around Paul’s thighs in a knot. He had a good body, a man’s body, a body to be tied to. A hair under six feet, which made him not quite three inches taller than Caron. No flab, no puffy white flesh—she fucked him on the beach so often he was nearly as brown as she was. He worked out regularly, and not just with Caron. He was smooth, a patch of hair across his broad chest, thickest around his nipples, where, she loved to nuzzle and burrow, tickling her lips on his curly hairs. Thicker around his sopping mat of pubic hair rubbing against her body now, each time he plunged deep and held on, allowing her to feel the full weight and majesty of his prick inside her. The taste of sea and sand filled her head and she loved it, too. When he was officially dead, maybe they’d set up housekeeping here on the island. Their own private playground. Sheila would be going home to Connecticut after the ceremony; she’d only come down to lend moral support, and she was a darling for thinking about Caron, but sometimes she did get in the way. Just a little. And never so much that she’d mention it or even hint at it. She saw her sister so little as it was. But with Sheila gone home, Indian Head Island just might become Orgy Island, an orgy for two players.
Oh, God, the way he filled her! Not just her pussy, her entire being! She only wanted to be with him, to be fucking him and loving him and drowning him in the melted butter of her orgasmic soul. He was all she thought of.
He fucked faster, till her cunt was afire with lust, and she was clutching him with arms, legs, pussy muscles, pulling him deep into the craving core of her body. The tip of his cock brushed repeatedly at the mouth of her womb, and she felt the uteral opening expand, as if it wished to suck him totally home.
A giant wave came rolling in, almost drowning them in water as they were already near drowned in lust. Paul sputtered, and his cock strokes fell off. Caron was sputtering too, her nose full of water. “Let’s move out of harm’s way,” he suggested, pointing to the dry sand just beyond them. Caron nodded.
His cock slid out of her greasy snatch, and immediately she felt empty and abandoned. But not for long! She hustled out of the water, crawling on hands and knees up the beach, spitting out salt water as she moved. And Paul was behind her, his hands busy on her ass. He got one of his fingers between her legs, started massaging the itchy slice of her cooze. She didn’t feel so empty, not when his finger wiggled into her hole and started to explore her interior. She made a happy, whimpering cry, and fell onto her belly, legs spraddled.
Paul got his hand under her stomach, lifted ha so that her ass jutted up into the air, and then he came in from behind, his prong straight, hard, and horny! He stuffed it into Caron and began to fuck the living shit out of her. She pound her knees and her hard hot titties into the sand and her ass wiggled from side to side as she absorbed the hot fevered thrustings of his tool.
“God Christ!” she moaned, “don’t stop!! Give it to me!! Give it all to meeeeee!” Ships at sea could have picked up that hot wailing cry but she didn’t give a good Goddamn. She was being fucked and, baby, that was where it was at!
The angle from which he entered her was absolutely divinely perfect. The underside of his dick, the thick hard vein of his urethra, was able to slide like sandpaper in the vicinity of her throbbing clitoris. Caron’s head began to swim.
Sheila, she thought. Why can’t she find herself a man like Paul? God, she’s going to be thirty in a few more years! It seems so Goddamned fucking unfair that I should have everything and she has nothing except her paint brushes and her canvas. Maybe, she thought, maybe Paul knows someone who’d be right for my little sister.
The thought was intriguing, and it sent little twitches of interest running through Caron. Had Sheila ever been with a man? But hadn’t everyone been screwed at least once? Sheila couldn’t be a virgin. Not today, not in 1977, not at twenty-six. But she’d never even been serious about a man. Had she sublimated all her natural longings, all her womanly passions to paints and canvases?