Dawn
If absence makes a dick grow impatient, the proof blasts through my bedroom window from the dick's muffler-challenged Camaro, twenty minutes early and fumigating the yard with thunderheads of exhaust. Every bump in the driveway extorts a creaky toll from the rustbucket suspension as gears grind to a prowl, then clunk into 'park' by the back door.
My topless companion sports dreamily slitted eyes and a wrist tent in her shorts while I diddle her in time with the post-ignition flamenco that clatters under the Camaro's hood. The finger scribblings meander from her headwaters to lasso a tiny pebble upstream, flaming her cheeks to match the frizz spraying the pillow.
"Ah, yees. Daohn't stop." Her thighs give way until the fabric clamps my palm to her milky heat. "Can I tyke 'em off yet?"
Outside, the carburetor sputters the last of its afterlife. A high-octane stench hitchhikes on the breeze that balloons the drapes, followed by a slam and chopping gravel.
I put the brakes on what I'm doing. "Uh-uh. Patience."
Their penmanship exercise suspended, my fingers drag a slick trail from well-primed kitty lips over eight buttery inches of belly before jilting her waistband with a snap. The green eyes frantically widen into 'Go' signals, to no avail.
Footsteps pound the porch. To a college-bound guy who hasn't gotten laid lately, the screen door's pop in my parentless house must generate even more anticipation than a freshly cracked keg.
"Anybody home?" His call is neighborly and neutral, one last sweep for potential chaperone mines.
"In here," I chant.
"Hope you're ready, Hotcakes," rumbles from the hallway, "cause I've got a hard-on that needs your swee - what the -?"
Reid freezes in the door frame like slasher film fodder, the speeding-bullet reflexes that dazzled UMaine's pigskin recruitment now firing blanks. On parole from girlfriend-enforced detention, he's broody as a telenovela rebel in a snug t-shirt, front-loaded khakis, and a brow designer-furrowed by the House of Dean.
When he phoned last night to say we could finally hook up, I didn't mention there'd be an extra girl decorating the duvet, but it's hardly a reason for him to look so perplexed. Ordinarily, he's all over me like the flatlanders that swarm Cadillac Mountain in August. You'd think with double the fun on tap, he'd be doing a naked dive between us instead of standing there gaping like a gaffed marlin.
"What happened to the Vette?" I decide to play cat to his rat a little longer and start a game of Itsy Bitsy Spider high and inside the redhead's thigh, which stretches across my lap for a petting.
His tone sprouts quills. "At Mac's for the week. Broke a tie rod." The sullen gaze snubs my bra-bound headlights for the other girl's top-down chassis.
"Oh, Reid, this is Casey." I palm her closest boob into a comice-proud hello. "She's visiting from Queensland."
"G' day." Lean, Gold Coast legs stretch toward him with feline arrogance. Her smile says I've undersold him, big-time.
Saying 'hi' is too much of a challenge while busy calculating cup size, I suppose. Reid's pulling the same neglected-puppy face as before the last time we hooked up when Lissa Brewer was off communing with Cape Breton's gannets for a week.
"We met at the beach," I explain as if the newbie were joining us for a root beer float at the Hungry Buoy Diner.
Casey giggles. Like me, she's not thinking of sand or lifeguards but the dim bathhouse cubicle where she'd spied me, briefs like Day-Glo ankle bracelets, caught in a self-administered undertow. The seam of my shorts snuggles into the same place her tongue had nudged with such finesse once I'd accepted her offer of rescue. But back to current events.
"While she's here, I promised to show her some of our... bigger local attractions."
Our tourist pops my front bra clasp, which recoils from a double punch. Predictably, Reid's attention shifts to the breakout payload.
"Can I talk to you a minute?" he mumbles as if tits could understand English.
"We're listening." The nails of my thumb and fuck-you finger start making out over one of the guest star's nipples.
"I mean, in private."
"We're in my bedroom, for fuck's sake."
He shuffles, paces, heaves you-don't-understand sighs. What's he waiting for, an engraved invitation from Pornlet Page's MILF of the Month?
I counter-sigh, roll away from my new friend, and quickstep the old one out of the room. "So talk to me."
His hands dangle at his sides like spent bungee cables, an unprecedented state considering the proximity of open-faced tits. Petulance fattens his lip, but all I hear is a cricket symphony.
"Oh, now you don't want to talk? The fuck is with you, anyway?"
The crickets explode. "What'd I do? You tryin' to punish me or something?"
No more than usual. "Um, no. Why -"
"Look, you know I couldn't get away from Lissa any sooner. Now that I finally get to spend some time with you..."
"You're here, and we are." I gather his chin and brace for one of his sandpapered smooches.
Though he doesn't push me away, his lips remain sealed tighter than a banker's wallet. "You could've told me you already made other plans."
Huh? A bit slow at the snap, aren't we, Goober?
Guess it's time to fire the heavy artillery. I lean, boobs-first, into Mr. Melodrama's chest and stripper-grind freeform tic tac toe grids through his t-shirt. "You are the plan. Did you already forget what we talked about last time we fucked?"
Judging from the vacancy sign blanking his face, I'll have to get more specific. "You know - you, me, and another girl?"
From around the corner, I can hear Casey snickering.
Whether he recalls the proposition I made while he joyrode me doggy-style in the woods or how explosively he shot off right after hearing it, the 25-watt bulb flickers.
"Jeez, don't you recognize a present when you see one?"
The mention of 'present' steams the creases from his forehead and repurposes them as dimples. He's still in shock, but a different kind.
"C'mon." My hand tugs his. "You don't want to miss the unwrapping."
He pulls me back through the door as if I were an overstuffed Samsonite through Logan on Easter weekend.
Casey's a human jungle gym arching from the bed as she shoulder-bridges her hips into a semi-backbend. With an acrobat's agility, she wriggles the shorts clear of her derriere cleavage, then upslope until they hula down her calves and reveal the whole luau.
"You mean -?" He's staring at the pantiless peach as she gradually loses altitude and bounces onto the mattress. Her folded legs flatten like commuter-friendly drawbridges, toes arching outward until shiny commas peep from the closed parentheses.
"For you." My thumb unhitches his trouser button. "If you want."
Lissa Brewer's boyfriend's mouth could double as the front end of a wall-mounted grouper as he nods.
"Don't try to talk just yet. Casey knows you're here for a hot lay, not a pep rally. Right, Case?"
At the allusion to Reid's cheerleading but extra-virgin high school sweetheart, he stiffens in more places than one.
"Relax. No one'll find out," I soothe, fingers Eve-like and serpentine in the wake of his parting zipper. With a conscience all their own, his hips buck a concrete speed bump into my getting-reacquainted strokes. He's one needy fucker.
"Easy! It's been a while," he huffs. But the Chippendale shimmy with which he shucks his t-shirt says he's warming to his audience.
"Not my fault," I sweetly remind him and step away. "Casey. You like?"
She exhales a whistle that jogs the foothills of his biceps and pauses to worship at the un-zippable ridge. "Me likee."
The third-party boost to Reid's ego - as if it needed one - sends his khakis in freefall to the hardwood. Sensing imminent defection once he finishes toeing off his sneakers, I jiggle the tan-striped cream puffs for maximum effect.
"Help me lose what's left of this bra first?"
He sulks at the interception but fumbles the shriveled coils from my shoulders. On the downstroke, his wrist strikes a flinty nipple, which his fingers can't resist ganging up on before the bra can hit the floor.
To my competitive satisfaction, other old habits overtake him, and this time his mouth is the one that tries to make a meal of mine. His hands backslide to their former grasping ways and group-hug the swells they'd rejected moments ago, spurred on by the vigorous buffing my palm lavishes on his boxer tent.
While our lips attempt to pin one another for a ten-count, Casey's centerfold-posed mojo drives our tongues and gropings to a depth they've never reached on their own. Inspired, Reid releases one boob in favor of an ass cheek, where warm fingers curl under the frayed shorts and bite into bare skin. My non-cock hand milks his hip pocket for more buffing leverage.
I can hear the rustle as the Aussie sits up to watch our reunion from the edge of my bed - and the slurp of lime-manicured talons kissing the juicy rim of her fruit cocktail.
Reid's lusty exhale convinces me he's made his choice for the appetizer, but just as I think he's about to grab the fork, I'm suddenly empty-handed and tonguing the breeze. Appetite whetted, he kicks aside the crumpled khaki wad and follows his distended utensils to the dish from Down Under.
"Go get her," I growl, going with the flow... for now.
Teri
You know the old saying: When you fall off the bike, get right back in the saddle? I'm taking it one step further by returning to the crime scene, pedaling past the 'Welcome To Narwhal Harbor' sign for the second time in twenty-four little hours. Fittingly, Esther Phillips' spirited cover of 'What A Difference A Day Makes' thumps my mental jukebox to celebrate much more than a lifting of the coast's ubiquitous fog.
While there are no rainbows, sunlight rekindles the village's window-box hues, the marina has shaken its flat diesel apathy and brims jewel blue again, and shorts have evicted sweatpants. Unlike yesterday's disastrous ride that pitched me over the handlebars and warped a wheel, the bike coasts toward the boatyard with a confident whir, thanks to the intervention of a Spoke Whisperer who just happened to work there.
Who just happened to be Adonis. From-The-Beach Adonis. The thirty-something fox you've admired from afar - okay, obsessed over - for a week and a half. Can you believe it?
Not only was he as gorgeous dry as he was wet, but he was friendly and kind and went out of his way to fix the broken bike. He offered first-aid, which I declined. The endorphins from his nearness were all the healing I wanted.
Who would've thought you'd meet him before Dawn did - even if it took falling on your face to get his attention? You think it's some kind of karmic makeup call for the Marc breakup debacle?
For the hundredth time since Adonis spoke to me twenty-three hours ago, consciousness jumps ship and leaves the rest of me to navigate on autopilot.
Guys like him always notice Dawn and her onyx-eyed surfer-model blondeness and Banzai Pipeline curves before the Plain Janes. It's an immutable principle of life, just like gravity and taxation.
Yes, and speaking of irresistible forces, she would've charmed the Levis off him in a debt-clock click, after which he'd be hers forever - or until she got bored.
Oh, she'd get bored - after spoiling him rotten by setting the bar so high, average girls like you need a telescope to spot it.
But Dawn doesn't know a thing about what happened while she lay in the dentist's chair with a gurgling tube shoved under her tongue. Like his real name - Zander - or where he works.
And if you have any sense of self-preservation, you're not going to spill the beans about discovering him in his non-beach habitat.
Absurd as it sounds, he brings out my protective streak. He's too sweet and down-to-earth for Dawn's raunchy worldliness. Plus, anyone with his looks has a significant other or three somewhere. Sure, he's out of my league, but if I keep his whereabouts a secret, he'll be safe from at least one volleyball-boobed townie whose hobbies include naked hit-and-run games, right?
How about 'delusional rationalizing'? Too bad that isn't an Olympic sport; your ex-boyfriend would grit his teeth at your gold-medal grin every time he poured the Wheaties.
My pulse skids to a halt a few beats before the bike does.
Framed by an open overhead door, Adonis/Zander inclines his tousled head in consultation with a salt-bearded supervisory type. Beneath the cream soda clouds that dust his forehead, attentiveness molds his features into an arresting sculpture. A sky-pale denim shirt parts below his throat, enhancing a sliver of downy caramel chest before snuggling inside his jeans -
Hey, don't go repeating history when you couldn't stop taking hunk-inventory and ended up sandblasted by roadside rubble. First things, first.
The kickstand pegs asphalt. I unstrap a tin from the rack and scurry behind the doorway, my breathing a few decibels short of a skill saw.
Look. You've planned this all night, agonized over every detail to the point where your dreams were one continuous checklist. Right?
Right. So why does it feel like there's a pissed-off tarantula where my breakfast is supposed to be?
Breathe, dummy. It's simple. Wait for the wrong guy to leave the right one alone. Think you can handle it?
Dawn
"Think you can handle this?" Reid swaggers between Casey's flung-open knees, halts when his dowsing rod gets within licking distance, and prepares to whip it out of his drawers.
"Hey, not so fast." Tucked cross-legged into a side chair, I'm toying with an imaginary referee's whistle between my boobs. "Reid, where's your manners? Show our guest some hospitality, won't you?"
Both his heads jerk with impatience as the upper one sifts through layers of gridiron stats for the definition of hospitality. After an extended time-out, the football mitts pat Casey's girls like a Best In Show judge gauging a Pomeranian's withers. I can tell he's underwhelmed, but hey, any tits in a storm.
On the other hand, when I scoop up my Great Pyrenees and windshield-wipe the nips into rock candy spikes with my thumbs, he can't resist checking out the sidelines. Giving him my sultriest side-dish smile, I let my fingers snowboard downslope. The zigzag through Cleavage Valley should spin his cheating jock libido in a ten-eighty.
Casey's angled away from me, but the goosebumps prickling her arms prove Reid's doing his best to transcribe my self-caresses onto her pokies. He makes no move to kiss her. For no particular reason, that pleases me.
"Go ahead, Case." Uncoiling my legs, I make sure he can hear the purr of an unraveling fly. To Reid, "Let her do the work, okay?"
Tease that she is, Casey launches her expedition with a poke at base camp, then flits switchbacks across Reid's straining Matterhorn during the ascent. At its peak, she traces the Rohrschach blot inking his drawers, careful not to stray inside the edge, with the repetition of a skater's blade perfecting school figures.
His fists ball at his sides, cording his forearms with the effort of self-restraint.
Sometime during the third drawing, she tosses me a loaded glance that says his broomstick is her voodoo doll - and my inflaming slit, the intended victim. As proof, her tongue flicks the wet spot and remotely creams my panties.
Giving in to her black magic, I lean back and mimic her path over the gaping-zipper zone until my fingertips encounter the devil's dent, as I've called it, the place that takes me to heaven below heaven. It feels a lot hotter than heaven about now.
Reid's attention wanders again when I lift my cheeks from the seat and ease down the steamed denim. He might be feeling up her strawberry cupcake tits, but his eyes are ripping off my thong.
Casey ups her game, and methodically as an archer, her fingers hook, undermine and drag boxer briefs down from his abs. Instead of an arrow, a rolling pin - minus the handles - springs to a solid, upright quiver. Her head jerks back in a self-preservation reflex before leaning in like a stalking cheetah.
Judging from the noise that pops from his gullet, it's safe to assume the business end of his wishbone is probing sugared-mint lip gloss. As the ginger waves bob, miniature Slinkies walking in place, his surprised grunt mellows to a moan.
I shuffle the chair for a better view. From beneath, my knuckles agitate the cotton triangle into a decibel meter on metalcore.
Her lips engulf more of his stout high-rise with each swallow and then swoop upward, an express elevator that stops at the observation deck. I know from his unfocused stare the vaudevillian tap dance her tongue is performing on the hidden inch and my clit throbs in envy. His quarterback grip clamps her temples to keep the act center-stage.
Before his hypnotized lids can fall and shut the two of them into a world of their own, I tug the scanty leg band to trip the alarm clock.
"Good, isn't she?" I draw out 'good' like a burlesque queen peeling away opera gloves as I finish tucking the sticky gusset to one side.
His expression mingles disbelief and ecstasy, goaded by a deep plunge into Casey's concave-cheeked suction. It looks as if a tree trunk has grown into her mouth. Like benevolent bouncers, her nails schmooze the few inches of veiny girth that haven't been able to squeeze past her velvet rope and onto the dance floor.
"Hmm, you haven't blown your load yet? Someone must've jerked off last night after we talked."
The dark eyes dart guiltily to mine before sinking into the cherry sundae. "Uhn-uhnn."
"You're such a liar."
Casey's waves lose their bounce, her head retracts, and Reid's next thrust bottoms out in a void. His ornery, mouthless hard-on is bloated as a beached humpback.
"Spill - if you want her to keep going."
"Mmmf...Mmm-hmm..." The wordless confession scalds his tan. Quick to reap the rewards of her reconnecting tongue, the whale sounds with a sigh of relief.
"Thought so." I hug a chair arm with each knee and lightly sketch vertical lines through slick, unheavenly heat. "Me too. Did that ever occur to you?"
Always eager to penetrate something during our rushed encounters, he's never seen me touch myself. With the newbie's snugly wrapped lips acting as an effective buffer, I feel free to flaunt the waxed goods and give him an educational peep show. Will he take the hint? Hell no, but it'll deposit some major Clitcoin into his wank-bank.
"Uh, yeah."
Another fib, but I'll let it pass. My bird-flipping finger skirts the right side of the button, retracing its favorite comma.
"How long did it take you? Less than five minutes?"
Another lobster-faced nod.
"Less than three?" The finger prods double-time, driven by his fixation and the sight of Casey's jaw struggling to cover the gargantuan results.
"Rrrrnnnhh!"
"Ever watch a girl cum before?"
Doubt it, and he's beyond the point of answering. I should try this again on Mr. Danforth sometime. On second thought, there's no way Danforth could hold his firepower long enough to let me finish a solo act.
"Well, you're about to." The harder I rub, the harder it is to talk.
As if Red Riding Hood gobbling the Horny Bad Wolf wasn't enough, the thought of the druggist's average but Viagra-stiff dick spewing white goo all over his self-service pump stirs a firestorm in my belly that sucks away any more words.
"Nnnh! Oh, fuck!" Reid splutters.
Casey's oral wonderland disgorges the monstrous, glistening rod before it can short-circuit. Rearing angrily in drydock, it weeps precum streams at the ankle-flailing climax, my first non-faked in its presence.
As much as I'm aching to press for seconds, I heave myself from the chair onto liquid legs instead.
"Come over here."
He glares at me as if I've said it in Sanskrit.
"Take my seat," I translate. "Since you jumped the gun and shot your wad last night, it's gonna take both of us to suck you off, right?"
In the words of the village auctioneer: "Sold!"
Unlike good old Mr. Byrnes, I'm not above a little bait-and-switch.
Teri
"In the market for a new sloop, Miss?"
The low, close question shatters my concentration and nearly ejects the package from my grasp. I whirl and blink into a white Izod wall crisscrossed with confrontational arms.
"Or are you interested in something bigger?"
Looking up to accommodate the stranger's height, I take in the spectacles, weathered patrician features, and pewter-edged pomade. The air of a yacht club commodore bolsters his posture, but the smirk hails from a midshipman on weekend leave.
Zander's boss!
He has to be. I'm screwed.
"Bet I can guess who you're looking for?" The ooze of familiarity could deep-fry an order for twelve at Flip's Clam Shack.
Panic drills my feet into place. What am I supposed to say? That I'm conspiring to distract one of his employees again after costing him at least half an hour of productivity yesterday?