I held Dana by her hair, working my cock deep in her throat, until Marcy was able to make it to her feet. I owe her that much, right?
Owe which one, you say?
They circled.
“I heard what you said,” Marcy said. “But he picked me, didn’t he? Not you.”
“You know, the first time I fucked Ron was two months after your wedding, Marcy," Dana said. "You hadn’t written all your goddamn thank-you cards yet. When did you first fuck Nick? Why don’t you tell us both?”
Nick again. I couldn’t help it. Marcy loves it best from behind, on her hands and knees. In my mind, I saw Nick fucking her like that. Her hair was in her eyes and she was moaning, the ways she does before she cums.
“Nick’s a toy. A plaything.” Marcy said. Something about it wasn’t convincing. “The same way you treat him, bitch.” I noticed she used present tense. Son of a bitch.
They clashed, body to body. I’ve noted before that Dana has bigger tits but at this point both women’s boobs were so swollen and bloodied that the difference hardly mattered. In a mutual bearhug, they staggered across the room, grinding together. The pain cut lines in their faces, aged them, but neither tried to shirk it. They hit the glass doors to the terrace. Marcy twisted, broke the hold, pinned Dana’s tits-first against the door. She drove her knee into the base of Dana’s spine, then into the meat of her ass, then her back again. Every shot smashed and spread Dana’s tits on the glass. I knew Marcy hoped it would shatter, imbed its shards in Dana’s flesh. It held, though, and as Dana slumped, it glistened with blood and sweat.
Marcy fumbled with the lock. The door swung open. She dragged Dana out onto the deck, slung her against the waist high railing. She hit her in the face with a lashing backhand that spun and bent Dana over the railing, the edge of it just beneath her dangling breasts. Marcy grabbed the one closest to her, dragged it back and forth on the rough wood. Dana moaned as splinters stabbed into her. She reached back, got her arm around Marcy’s neck.
They tilted, up on their toes, then toppled over.
I rushed to the railing. The deck was built to the dunes, so they’d landed in the sand and marram grass and tumbled down the beach side. It was late night, off season, private community, unoccupied houses well-spaced. And my two cats were now beyond screaming. They struggled to their feet as I came down the beach stairs. It was high tide, the waterline only about twenty feet away. The long shallow beach dampened the waves but there were still small breakers.
They clubbed at each other, sobbing. Fists missed or landed, hitting faces, shoulders, breasts. They stumbled to the water’s edge. They fell, rolled. The first wave slapped them apart, but they smashed back together like cruel gravity drove them, the salt water burning every cut and gash on their bodies. When the second wave hit, one of them was astride the other. The impact jarred her but didn’t dislodge her. Knees braced wide, she punched, drew back, punched. The ocean didn’t care how many times
She finally got up. In the moonlight, she was a goddess. The next wave lifted the still body between her feet slightly, then let it drop. She dragged it the few feet necessary to clear the high-water line, and came to me, her dark hair matted wet around her face, her body washed clean.
When she sank onto my cock, it was like a blood-warm sea swallowing me. I spurted my own primeval life-fluid deep into her and she shuddered with her own orgasm. She relentlessly squeezed me, held me, milked my cock as she came again, and again, using me for so long as any hardness remained.
I told my parents to sell the beach house; only I ever used it, and I no longer wanted it.
