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?

"He's a popular fellow, but I think this is the first time someone's come bearing gifts." Big Boss nods at the tin I'm hugging to my chest. Unfortunately, it's no defense against the X-ray vision beaming through those Clark Kent frames. Despite my diminutive proportions, he's figured out there's no bra between me and the navy Bar Harbor fleece. The eyes crash the smirk's cocky party.

How long has he been spying on my spying, anyway? Whatever lecture he's going to give, I wish he'd get on with it.

"Visiting us for the summer?" he says instead, his expression resembling one of those nemesis guest cats in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. If this moment were soundtrack-enabled, I'd hear the bassoon's droopy uh-oh.

The question is congenial but rhetorical. All the locals know each other, but this seasonal imposter nods anyway. Cue the hiccuping piccolo. 

"And bringing goodies everywhere you go?" He's leering as if he's caught me in between a shower and the towel. 

My nostrils flare in affront only to soak up a provocative aftershave, the same blend of forest and musk that slickened my panties whenever Mr. Kirby drifted by our row in algebra class. To my shame, the reflex hasn't forgotten and doesn't seem to care who's emitting it, even if the emitter has at least a ten-year head start on my former math teacher.

"You seem like a generous girl, though a fellow like him would require something... special. Wouldn't you agree?"

His stare percolates through the lenses as if cataloging every intimate detail of my trip down Memory Lane, panty color and all. The tiny hairs on my skin stiffen into needles. Subconsciously I step back only to be rebuffed by an accordion of cedar siding.

"Sam!" someone shouts from the parking lot. Big Boss waves at what must be another local big-shot slamming the trunk of a classic Fleetwood. 

But the Izod-branded fortress won't budge. "If you're ever in need of a little...guidance," the boss tips his head in Zander's direction, innuendo thick and repulsive as blackstrap molasses, "I'd be more than happy to help." 

Finally, the wall pivots and loses its logo. He's walking away. Five feet. Ten feet. The breath I've been damming starts to trickle. 

"Till next time," he winks over his shoulder. A parting shot? A promise?  

Through the adrenaline thunderstorm that pounds my ears and muffles the men's golf club gossip, I fumble for my bearings and creep toward the overhead door where I last saw Zander. 

On cue, Salt Beard casts off from the golden island; the wrong man has left the right one alone. Adonis' presence, glacial and clean, is pure air purging the subversive scent from my sinuses, sunlit amnesia erasing the previous minutes' filth.

I step forward, trembling as if I'd just metabolized a handful of Acme Earthquake Pills. But before I can catch his eye, he turns away.

Dawn

Reid doesn't know which way to look as we close in on him: the fluffy-titted blonde wearing an off-duty thong or the sleek redhead etched in a tan line bikini. His weathervane points straight ahead, refusing to commit.

When Casey begins to kneel, I ambush her with a shove onto the bed and climb alongside, silencing her startled giggles with kisses that deepen as my hand makes her silky thigh its bitch. Her tongue tastes of Reid's deprived, leaking hard-on and the anticipation that it will soon taste of me. 

Puckering from her whisper-light touch - so unlike Reid's hamfisted mauling - my nips rake her palms for more. I lean closer with a slumber-party whisper.

"Are you as turned on as I am that he has a girlfriend?" 

"Mmm-hmm." She dabbles at the evidence dribbling from my cunt.

"You won't tell a soul about this, will you?" 

Her russet waves wag side-to-side.

"Sure about that?" A fingertip wriggles in and out of her belly button. 

"Course I'm sure." Her voice is tiny, pleading.

"She's waiting for the wedding night." I lower my head and nip her left boob-cherry. "She wouldn't like it one bit," as I swoop over the freckled plain to the right one, "that you were tonguing his cock," nibbling under the curve, "and sucking him off," mouthing a rib, "or that he's bursting to fuck you right now."

I hear Reid's grunt of assent as I pause a half-inch above her smoldering notch. 

"But I get you first, okay?"

The kiss migrates a degree south, turns French. 

"Ohmigod, yes," she wails.

Reid gurgles like a hungry lion cub. He's standing over us, an observant tree with a very deviant branch.

"Open," I murmur, ignoring him. "Show us how pretty you are." 

She obeys, and her thighs fan into a semi-lotus pose.

Her mound gleams from its first Stateside shave earlier this morning while she balanced on the bathtub lip. I'd used a Daisy and clouds of foam, asking leading questions about our dirty deeds behind the latched bathhouse panel, the naughty compulsions that followed her home afterward, and the digital acrobatics she performed to relieve them. During the razor's fine-sanding passes, her pussy pouted, dewy enough to receive and engulf my thickest toy, a brute I reserve for extreme relief. I took my time easing it in and out, listening to her mewl for more when the snow-globe tip slipped from her opening for good. She teetered on the edge of the tub and a denied climax as I mopped her clean with a damp washcloth, carefully avoiding the fiery nub no matter how much she begged.

With enthusiasm his teachers would have coveted, Reid studies the peachy flush crowning Casey's thighs. I rest my cheek on her tummy and look down, alive with the zing of what it was like to nibble those butter-lettuce folds just enough to keep her on the brink. 

Reid doesn't dive, though, self-centered shit that he is. And I'm confident that even Moose Bridge Harbor's most massive dick can't make her howl the way she did an hour ago as I plied her with Brawny Brutus and off-centered nuzzles. 

"Hospitality," I smile at Reid and then his bobbing bough. "She made you feel nice, didn't she? I'm just showing a little gratitude. It's only polite."

His Adam's apple dances a hopeful jig. "Can I help?"

"You'll get your turn - right after I'm through." I peel the thong until it clears my toes and toss him the twisted loop. "Feel free to amuse yourself in the meantime."

While I'm up, I straddle her shoulders, crush my tits into her midriff and lower my hips until the dizzying rotation of her tongue clicks my button to the 'on' position and cranks the volume. 

I'm so distracted it's a moment before my fingers flutter to her keyhole and dip into the lap pool, deepening her blush from peach to plum. Her crevice's mild, slippery brine stiffens my following tongue into a weaponized feather that darts in ever-shorter strokes as it acquires the target.

"Please," Casey whimpers.

Her moans trigger a syrupy surge from my achingly teased cunt; her licks quicken to contain the flow. My wetlands are so saturated I barely feel them.

Satisfied Reid will taste me while he's fucking her, I reverse my position to kneel and colonize the space between her thighs, tongue probing without mercy, ass raised for Lissa Brewer's boyfriend to take the hint, screw me first and screw me deep. 

A hard bulb senses my desperation, laps at my wetness, and retreats. 

"Fuck me," I breathe on Casey's throbbing slit. 

The warm, solid bulb brushes again. Presses into my dent like a burglar testing for a bolted door. 

Finding no lock, an ever-thickening bulk eases in until it feels like I'm plugged with a radiator hose and a hot Brillo pad is scouring my butt.

It's trying to hold still, but under the clenching counterassault of my she-devil sleeve, the invader waves a white flag of short, squelchy strokes that tickles in all the right places.

Eager to pay it forward, my tongue dives for a honey refill and paints the stalk of her clit while two fingers burrow into her superheated cooch. They spread and curl, invisibly inciting pelvic riots.

Casey's breath freezes in rapt acknowledgment before shattering into microbursts. Aimless clutches pillage the bedcovers around her. Propelled into her squealing release by repeated, runaway thrusts, I quiver with an optimistic trill and get ready to join the chorus.

Before I can sing the high-C, the thick conductor deserts the orchestra pit, leaving my snatch as empty as Lissa Brewer's head. 

Shit! 

Pile-driven by demons from frustration purgatory, I lunge forward, boobs pouring a marshmallow and toffee topping over Casey's single-scoop delights, and grind my unsatisfied puffiness against hers. 

Her throat squeaks in amazement at the sensations awakened by her new smoothness. Though her bristly thatch had scrubbed me to tingly bliss in the bathhouse, this feels much hotter. Plus, we can redirect the energy spent keeping our balance to joining our juicy mortise-and-tenon at the most pleasurable angles.

"That is so... fucking... hot," I hear Reid groaning.

He plants warm hands mid-thigh and shoves my knees farther afield, presumably for a better view as our slits swivel and gallop together until the glassy friction coaxes a flurry of equestrian leaps from our hips. 

But through our trifecta of screams and glutted collapse, the heated bulb doesn't return for seconds. 

Oxygen-deficit panting and the chatter of chickadees dominate the room's sudden stillness. After ungluing myself from Casey's honeytrap pelvis, I roll over to find a fuck buddy I don't recognize. 

Reid is gently rubbing the base of his newly acquired willpower, determined to save himself for the fresh glove. His eyes ping-pong between Casey's popcorn-puff nipples before camping out over the drizzled bloat of her pubic mound. 

Like a good sport, I oblige him and settle into the abandoned chair. 

"Your turn," Casey smiles at him.

Bracing himself on either side of her freckle-flecked tan lines, he gasps when her fingers guide his loaded missile toward what multiple comes have enraged into a livid watermelon slice. His grimace broadcasts the strain as he wills with all his might not to detonate ahead of schedule.

I snag the camera from the desk, fill the frame with impending insertion, and press record. 

"What're you doing?" he snarls at the telephoto's grind, backing off a few inches.

"Just your dick, that's all," I answer, all wide-eyed innocence. Casey's caress keeps him rigid and ready for his close-up. "Something to keep me company when I'm alone and horny." 

For insurance, my legs perform their homage to the Easter Cove swingbridge, a maneuver that made Jimmy Swift jizz his CKs during our first hookup. Reid can't help gawking at Casey's cum mingled with mine and smeared halfway down my thighs, and his cock leaps when the strange hand regathers it.

The autofocus sharpens just in time to capture the jerk, shudder and splat as Reid's prick ejects a tapioca rope through the donut hole of the new girl's forefinger and thumb onto her tits. His second shot silly-strings her navel and dollops her clit. The rest dribbles down his wilting shaft like a day-old milkshake.

"Shit," he pants.

Good. Now we're even. I bite my lip and let Casey dub the giggling for me. 

He frowns at the bedside clock. "I have to be at Sean's in about an hour. Do we have - ?"

"Great! You can give Casey a lift. There'll be plenty of time for a fire-road special on the way." I wink at her sly grin. We're both envisioning her tongue cruising his revitalized stickshift. "Here's one for the road, okay?"

Casey and I lie side-by-side on our backs, feet spread on the floor, fingers prying at each other's pussy lips while careful to avoid still-tender clits. Once in a while, we smile indulgently at Reid's chair-flopping fatigue. 

By the time we start to kiss, we're aware of an enlarging fuck-tool knocking at our portals. It slips inside as if to boast of its revived stiffness and alternates strokes for each of us. Thinking how we're spoiling Mr. All American with a double live porn fix almost makes me come again when it's my turn for a skewering. 

He checks the time, sighs, and hunts down the discarded pants. Still naked and dripping, I kneel as he steps into them and give his bobblehead one last kiss on the tip. 

Casey gets a full-body hug with a double French kiss as both sets of lips entwine and grind. If she can meet me tomorrow, I can put off Teri with an extended toothache. 

Reid watches us, blissfully ignorant of plans that won't include him. The untucked t-shirt does little to hide his partially zipped hump, which Casey will assuage en route and in the manner of her choosing.

Forty-eight hours from now, our new friend will be gnawing rubbery enchiladas on a Qantas headed for home. She's earned a parting gift. And why shouldn't Reid benefit from another quickie before having to hold hands with Lissa the Virgin again? 

Teri

"Zander?" After the disturbing encounter with Big Boss, I can only manage a sparrow's peep. Thanks to a whining drill, the sacrilege goes unheard. 

"Zandahh!" booms an unseen Louise. There's no mistaking the grizzled secretary's Yankee drawl. "You have a visitahh."

Before I can bolt like a startled lemming, the object of my affection immobilizes me into Headlamp Bambi with a mere glance. A spark of recognition animates his eyes. Not for me, but the spoked rival parked nearby.

"I know I've seen that bike before." He strides over with a grin that knocks my IQ into the red. "But where's the helmet?" His brows lean into a judgmental handshake when he spots the bandaged knees. "That was part of the deal, you know."

"Hi," I utter stupidly, holding out the tin. "I didn't get to say thank you for yesterday. That was really nice of you."

"Oh! You didn't have to - " The lid pops loose, which he catches with a magician's reflexes, and I cringe at the premature reveal. 

"They're whoopie pies. Homemade," I babble as if that justifies the misshapen cake saucers stuffed with slovenly white blobs that look like the mutant offspring of a UFO and a half-smashed Devil Dog. "My aunt's recipe. They taste much better than they look." If I talk any faster, I'll be getting a call from Guinness.

"They look delicious." The grin has returned with compound interest. In the sunlight, his clipped waves reflect all the colors of a halo. "Can't wait to try one. Thank you, Tuh-ray-za." 

Here's my cue to mumble, 'You're welcome' and get out of his way. But I can't bear to leave the sunny windowsill of that smile, not yet.

Ask him a question, you dork. That'll buy another minute or two.

"Have you worked here long?" 

Oh, that's brilliant. Ruin the moment with a banality straight from Siobhan Raung's hack scriptwriter. It's not like you have a besotted cinematographer in tow to ensure perfectly backlit hair, a luminous complexion, and flattering angles 24/7.

"Oh, no," he drawls. "I teach high school math back home."

He what? While you had to settle for Mr. Kirby? Life is so unfair.

"Had a chance to do an apprenticeship here for the summer," he explains. "I do a little recreational sailing, so it's a good opportunity." 

Sailing. Yachts. Yikes! 

"There's a guy behind me in the parking lot," I blurt out, hating myself for sounding so pathetic but needing to know, "the one in the white polo shirt. Do you know who he is?"

The sea-sapphire eyes sweep starboard to port but fail to register a target. "There's no one there," he says, two perfect lines of puzzlement etching his brow.

His calmness swaddles my panic attack and puts it down for a nap. "Oh." A paranoid peek reveals only a row of cars on siesta. "Never mind." 

Now what? 

"Have you been to Maine before?" 

There, was that so hard?

"First time." He beams with approval. My knees wobble a four-point-five on the Richter scale. "I can see why the natives are so protective. This place grows on you, that's for sure."

Dawn was right; he's not a local. His accent conjures a warmer shore, both in climate and attitude. It explains the sweetness minted in his soul.

"It does." Instead of dulcet-toned sincerity, all that pops out of my mouth is the bleat of a lame sheep. "I always hate going home. Where in the South are you from?"

His laugh is buoyant and surprising and to be treasured. "To a Yankee, everyone west of the Hudson River sounds like a Southerner, right?" 

Seeing my face burn like an Atomic Fireball, he relents, "North Carolina, Teri. Might be heading there much sooner if I don't get back to work. Thank you for the treats. And thank your aunt for me too."

"Oh! Sorry. I - I don't want to get you into trouble." The afterglow of giving darkens into a melancholy ache as I realize I'm out of things to offer this man. "Thanks again for fixing the bike. See you around."

Couldn't you shut up after 'bike'? Now he'll think you're a stalker or something.

The sun wilts behind a cloud and fails to temper the harbor's goosebump breeze as I slink away and straddle the seat's cold discomfort. How on earth am I going to crank the Raleigh up this steep driveway when my heart hurts too much to get its anatomical job done?

"And wear a helmet!" his voice booms behind me.

Hurt? What hurt? Starlit euphoria races through my limbs and jump-starts my stride; the pedals swivel effortlessly. My mind's echo of the friendly shout boosts the rest of the climb with a gale-force tailwind. 

It wouldn't be cool - or given my track record, safe - to look back. 

***

A few hundred feet up the road, the belching sportscar that blew by in the same direction lurches onto the shoulder with tail lights glaring and a screech of brakes. The rusty fungus lodged in its fenders must date from the pre-EPA era, as might the mud-splattered dealer plate.

While I'm coughing up a cloud of hydrocarbons, the driver flips down the sun visor with one hand and maneuvers his female passenger's head over his lap with the other. 

It can't be Dawn, can it? She's bragged about driving guys wild all sorts of ways - and places. 

No, she's at home today nursing a Novocain withdrawal. Unless?

I check for traffic and brake to steer around them, the bike's purr masked by a dieseling motor's rattle.

The couple is too wrapped up in what they're doing to notice me approach their open window. 

It's wrong to look, but I can't stop myself. 

The first thing that grabs my attention is a cat's cradle of trousers and boxers slung midway down the driver's hairy calves and gaping as carelessly as his knees.

I'm afraid to peek at his lap, but it's impossible to miss the russet-tressed modesty gathered and guided by an enormous fist. Beneath frantic yo-yo strokes, a more delicate hand weaves supplemental webs. 

The girl with the invisible face and magic touch is wearing a tight tank top and nothing else. Her bare legs scissor over the cracked leather seat and intermittently squeeze the hand glued to her crotch.

She's not Dawn, but whatever she's doing with her mouth, it's enough to elicit the ultimate compliment: "Fuck!" 

Geez, are you the only girl in Moose Bridge Harbor without skills?

Oh, shut up. What would you know?

The all-too-brief porno blots out the remaining miles of pines and sea, roughens the seat, and twists my lower belly with that crazy, billowing-firecracker sensation. To my distress, it even eclipses the vision of Zander munching my pitiful cakes and licking his lip of cream filling a la Mel Gibson's Tim.

Fearful the secret, reactive ripples might spill into telltale thigh trails, I pump without standing, pant, and downshift until the car-less cottage driveway crackles under the tires.

With predatory acumen, the Izod wall weasels back into my compromised thoughts: the weathered commodore, lean fingers drumming sinewed arms, the decadent ease with which he divined my low-profile bralessness. 

What exactly did he mean by 'guidance' and 'happy to help?' 

And why does the offer I found repugnant less than two hours ago make me want to shuck clothes and feel urgent self-exploration in their place as I ponder the possibilities?

Eww. Too disgusting. I'll head for the beach - right after changing into my swimsuit. How often does the sun shine in Maine, anyway?

The quiet cottage stirs with my intrusion: the whoosh and splash of washed hands, a fridge seal's smack, a metallic snap chased by gusty guzzles, the tap-tap to my bedroom, a bumping dresser drawer, the ruffling of its contents.

In the full-length mirror, a naked teenage girl grapples with a scrap of Spandex in search of the first leg hole. She pauses when her eyes drift to where Big Boss' stare had scorched the fleece. 

I see the petite vanilla breasts with their winking tips as he must have imagined them, and a sudden curl in my loins fills me with raging empathy for his boldness.

Just this once. Get it out of your system, and you won't have to think of it again.

Seduced by the flagrant lie, I drop the bathing suit, watch a reflected hand alight on a moon-pale chevron, and fervently hope Aunt Denise won't be home for a while.

To be continued.