Message-ID: <2238eli$9707231048@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Subject: STORY: "The Beach Sluts"/MrSpraycan Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <199707231108.HAA04197@brickbat9.mindspring.com> Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This is fiction. All persons and places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea. Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit or store in public archives. Note: Fresh product, based on notes from last year's vacation. This is neither tasteful nor subtle. But those who like sluts, greasy sex, gangbangs, and damned good spankings will enjoy it, I expect. Feedback is welcomed. If you want the Aspen sequel, say so. /aka MrSpraycan THE BEACH SLUTS by MrSpraycan You've seen them yourself, at every East Coast resort and public beach. Maybe you know some personally. Could be you're married to one. Maybe you are one, yourself. Who? Women in their twenties and thirties trapped by the chores of motherhood, and the economics of being married to old-fashioned guys with huge incomes. But not so huge that the wives are truly free. Instead they are in a limbo between being expensive concubines, and child care providers. They associate the beach with their carefree childhood summers. With the sun, sea and sex of their teenage years. It's not a comfortable compromise. The two whose story we are going to discuss are sisters. Thanks to bigger-than-usual year-end bonuses, the family budget is flush enough to ensure they are going to be at the beach in southern Maine for the whole summer, Memorial Day through Labor Day. But with their toddlers, a pair each. Their dynamic, wheeler-dealer husbands will be away during the week in Boston and Montreal, at work. They'll visit at weekends, and promise to try to steal extra days when they can. But even this possibility leads to fresh disappointments for the sisters. The guys usually show up late, burdened with briefcases, boxes of files, laptops, cellular phones. There's always work conversation, shop talk, merger mumbling, due diligence dilbertizing, in which the two women are made to feel unimportant and dumb, for not instantly getting all the office politic nuances. Ms. Montreal is named Miranda. She's the younger of the two sisters, and much wilder. She's the nail varnish and make-up type, even on the beach. Her husband, Chester, is very straight and boring. Even by M&A lawyer standards he's a drone. Semi-balding and intense. Her sister Bea is a little more conventionally motherly. But still extremely good looking. They're both small, intense, slim, dark haired. Mistaken for genuine French, not Quebecoise. It's their clothes, the pair of Range Rovers, their expensive haircuts, their whole snippy demeanor. When they walk along the beach they get plenty of stares. They hear the crass, sexist comments from the boys. "Not much wheel wobble on that pair," "nice mud flaps on the custom truck." Even with the toddlers in tow, they are ogled a lot at the various lunch places, at the cappuccino shop, walking the main drag. Most unaccompanied males beyond thirty at this resort are gay, but a few of those with the residues of a bisexual spin try to chat with the two pretty sisters. Not all are immediately rebuffed. To be asked is nice, sometimes. The two take turns baby-sitting for each other. To preserve sanity, and so the other can shop. Miranda is the queen of this game: She shops constantly. After the third weekend, she and her husband have a big row about her extravagance. And he's quite angry about her latest buy, an 'inappropriate' black thong bikini she found in a tiny Portland boutique. "You're not wearing that when you're out with me, and I don't want to hear about you wearing it any other time. It's obscene!" She models it later for her sister, Bea, expressing amazement that he should care either way. Bea laughs. "If you were wearing any less, Miranda, you'd be naked. Chess may be an old stick-in-the-mud, but he's quite right." "Well, I'm going to wear the fucking thing anyway, Bea. You can't trade swimwear, can you? Crabs, stray hairs, the cuntsplodge factor, and all that." Later, she's alone. She stares in the full-length mirror. It's as minimal a bikini as you can imagine. A tiny top, with straps like boot laces. Just enough material to lift and plump her 36C breasts, and barely covering her big, well-nursed nipples. The bottom? Thongs. A triangle that just covers her chubby pudendum. Barely covers her labia, to be honest. She has spent hours in the bathroom with a hand mirror, shaving and waxing and plucking to improve her bikini cut. Enough to permit this item to be worn without gross displays of black stubble, tufts of fur. At the rear, she shows bare buttocks, the thong pulled up tight in her crack. Bea is right. She might as well be naked. And, frankly, she wouldn't mind that, at all. Her fondest teenage memories are of a wild couple of days in the Aegean, skinny-dipping by day, and fucking under the stars. Here's another reason she won't trade it: She's getting very, very horny, and the thong makes her feel good in mysterious ways. "I'm no mom type in this get-up. Wait till the beach punks see this outfit," she says to herself with a secret smile. "Then we'll see some boners in those baggy shorts, figure out which of these guys has a big prong." Bea argues with her, when Miranda shows up the next morning, pushing the baby cart, a loose toweling robe draped sluttishly over the obscene bikini. It's a lost cause. Miranda says: "Oh, shut up, Bea. He won't even know, if you don't tell him." Bea argues: "He will, because you'll have a tan that's everywhere but your breasts." Miranda snaps: "If we'd gone to France or somewhere like that, I could go topless, and that wouldn't be a problem. Don't you think we're going to look totally stupid after a few weeks here? Really. Great big white knockers against our tans. Men, and their fucking petty jealousies." "We were discussing you and this bikini, here," Bea says angrily. "Don't you listen?" "And don't you? I'm going to wear it, so get used to it," Miranda replies. At the beach that morning, she is tempting guys everywhere she goes, and starts blatantly flirting. They're doing a 'fur check', they're assessing whether her totally slutty outfit means she has designated herself a 'communal board,' and is 'fishing for a ride.' One of the most buggy-eyed of the voyeurs is Campbell, the oddjob guy for the apartment complex/condo where they're staying. He's always hanging around. Miranda finds him reasonably attractive, She teases him, talks to him. "What are you staring at, Camp?" she teases, adjusting the bikini, giving a wriggle as she pulls it up. He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. The idea comes to her one night, laying restless in bed. Why won't he make a pass? Probably scared, intimidated by her money, her flashy car, her older, super-straight hubby. I'll make him, she vows. He's good looking enough, at least, he'll do for now. The next morning, she awaits her chance. She's familiar with his routine. She arranges to show herself nude to Campbell, while she's fresh from the shower. She pretends she doesn't see him out there, hosing the pool. She wanders past the picture window, raising the blind slightly. She starts doing spreads, squats and bending over. He's staring, mouth open, hose drooping, dribbling in his hand. His other hose is as stiff as a vaulter's pole. Soon she starts to play with herself, hands very busy. After a while she turns away. Then, meeting his hungry eyes, holds up a piece of paper, clearly labeled: 'Tomorrow, 9:30am.' It's a repeat performance, but she gets down to masturbating sooner. She has a dildo, she's using both hands. He is there at the window with the clippers, tidying the bushes, dribbling on himself, a huge bulge in his pants. On a day later in the week when Bea has the kids, she decides he's probably ready. She'll invite him in. She does her show, then waves to him. He seems doubtful. "Get in here, you great big dork," she calls, opening the apartment door, quite angry at him. She's naked. He looks around guiltily, then pushes his way past her. "What do you, I mean . . . uh, do you really?" he's mumbling. "Come on baby, get your clothes off. I've had enough of masturbating. I want you to fuck me. I don't need to draw pictures do I?" It seems not. But sex, her style, is a major production. She's immensely frustrated, and he is a big healthy laborer type. She wants to fuck, in every position she can think of. To suck on him. To have him lick and chew on her. To possess her roughly, to drive her into a total frenzy. She's so greedy and uninhibited, she completely blows him away. When he leaves at noon, he's in a trance, his neck bitten and his back scratched, balls aching, but eager for more. Which is fine by her. What she has in mind is a big scene to get even with dorky Chester, and make up for his semi-geriatric reticence. Her new beau is summoned that evening, just before he leaves for home. She calls him into the kitchen. Bea has the kids again, and Miranda's wearing a robe, nothing under it. She hugs him, lets him touch, feel, squeeze. "Tomorrow," she promises. "Now," he urges. She gets on her hands and knees, sucks him. Then, when she's greedily swallowed a mouthful of his sperm, she begins to explain what she wants. He's given the job of rounding up friends for the day after next, to service her. She totally surprises him when she says: "I want to be gangbanged. Understand, Campbell?" "Oh, sure, me and some buddies, y'mean? Yeah. 'Salright. We could do that." "No. A real scene. Meaning, like fifty guys in a row." He's incredulous. "Fifty? Are you crazy!" "No, I'm not. And yes, at least fifty. I mean it. Why, don't you know anyone? You're local aren't you?" He nods. Oh, he can do it if he puts his mind to it. But how could she be so slutty? He starts listing names. "Listen, Campbell. Don't get into details now. Frankly, I don't care who they are, so long as they are, you know, reasonably clean, hygienic. Brush their teeth. Aren't horribly ugly. Oh, yeah, and have big pricks and no sense of shame. Know why?" He's shaking his head, can't keep up with her. "Because I don't have time for polite stuff. They're going to line up, and fuck me in public. I want everyone to know, and to talk about me after. Got it? I don't even care if there are photos, so long as I get copies, understand?" He's stunned. But, it sounds good to him. They discuss it some more. She's getting quite excited, and he begins to see the sense of it. She's adamant she won't get too sore, that can deal with this much fucking. He suspects, from his own experience, she might just be right. But they both decide on one element of discretion. They agree that bringing a ragtag band of beach bums, boarders and heavy metal kids to the complex by bus might be rather conspicuous. At least, the first time or two. Equally, they can't realistically get them all together on the beach, without creating some kind of scene. Too many passers-by, hikers, promenading old ladies. The solution is to go elsewhere. Where? He has several ideas. But they pick on Jack Straw's, a grungy drinking hole just a way inland. After all, Stephen King/Deliverance country starts a couple of miles in from the beach. It's a Deadhead/biker bar over an amusement arcade. She drives out to take a look, alone one afternoon. She's so excited, she has to stop at the roadside on the way home to masturbate. Here's a place where she can take care of a bunch of fantasies in a row. In her diary that night, she confides: "I can be raped and humiliated here, degrade myself in every way. And no one need know who I am, at least unless I tell them . . ." She arranges to show up with Campbell the next day, in a borrowed car. She wears a low-cut dress, stockings, high heels, trollopy make-up. He leads her in, and there's a moment's stunned silence. A couple of bearded thugs look up. "This her?" Campbell nods. "What's she waiting for?" She gets up on the tiny stage and strips slowly. She takes time exhibiting herself. She climbs down, circulates through the crowd nude, dispensing kisses, beer, and filthy encouragement. Then she cries out: "Come on guys!! All of you! I want to fuck!" So do they. She stretches out upstairs for a series of three-ways, taking all afternoon. The guys are lined up on the stairs, chattering, bantering. When she gets back home, walking a little bandy-legged, Bea is disapproving, sullen. "My god! Did you really go through with it?" "Yes. You bet." "I'm disgusted at you." "Jealous, you mean?" "Good God, no! Well, a little. But I'm not going to do it, Miranda." "Mommy, mommy, phew icko, you smell kinda funny." "Yes, Peregrine, I've been doing my aerobics." "Poo. Like seaweed." "Yes dear, now run along. Mummy's going to the bathroom." It's true. But not to bathe, immediately. To masturbate, to assess the soreness of her vagina, to pruriently sample the scent and flavors of the semen and goo draining from her. And finally, to shower and douche. Now Miranda has what she has wanted for so long. Freedom. Her dearest wish, she tells Bea, is to "sell myself, at a modest price, and make it up on volume." Why? Bea wants to know, angrily. A shrug. "Because. It's so unlike my marriage, wouldn't you agree? But so similar, too. Prostitution is very amusing." She'll be making herself available every Tuesday and Thursday. Right here at the condo complex, she decides. On a one-every-20 minutes basis, with bookings handled by a local phone-in service, through Labor Day. They get busy, phoning around, and word of mouth soon builds up a waiting- list-only trade. To fuck her costs $50, in cash. "That's 45 mins for a double, sir, $85, bring your own condoms." She plans to operate from 8am to 6pm, with her sister baby-sitting, and then, sneaking into a vacant next door apartment, or using the beach, continue from 10-2.30am. And she'll make herself available by appointment, other days. Bea shrugs it off. She has decided Miranda will get over it. And in the meantime is casting covetous eyes on Campbell, for herself. Does he really have as much dong footage as the bulge in his pants suggests? Miranda tells her with a laugh: "Enough to make your eyes go buggy, Bea. Do it, fer chrissake." What about her poor Chester, her husband? After the first couple of weeks of prostitution, she resolves, she'll rub his nose in it, literally. The fateful weekend rolls round. He'll arrive around 11 on Friday night, after an all-evening drive. She kicks her last pair of customers out at 10:50. She intends Chester to find her unwashed, sweaty, well-fucked and eager for more, in their bed, when he arrives. She's been at it, non-stop, since before breakfast. And that's just how it works out. She's naked, fingering herself as he rushes in, a big romantic smile on his face. He's horror-struck, falls on the bed, head in hands. The smell, the semen around her mouth, the snotty mess plastered in her hair. The filthy sheets, the discarded condoms and beer bottles all over the floor. "You can take it or leave it, Chester," is what she says, and sums up her entire attitude. "Either tolerate it, or I'm going." He's angry, lost, hurt. "Why? Baby, please. Why?" "Because I'm a fuckslut, that's why. That's what I am, that's what you married." He's so angry, he slaps her face, then storms out and sleeps on the couch. All the hotels are booked, he discovers as he calls around. Next day, the arguing begins early, before breakfast, and continues on the beach, as they walk alone. Ignoring his protests, she wears the obscene thong bikini, which has acquired some white stains at the crotch. She hasn't showered, she tells him, and won't even think of it until he licks her unwashed pussy. He's still stunned. But he also sees that she still wants to be with him, but on her own terms. That's something he can understand. They trade a few more insults and barbs. She's not backing down. Finally, he agrees. And on the deserted beach, waves slopping round their ankles, he presses his face to her crotch. She loosens both parts of the bikini, pulls them off. Drapes them round his neck and walks naked for a while, telling him in very blunt terms about some of her exploits and some of her new friends. Revels in the multi-orifice joys she has grown used to now. He's a little intimidated by this sexual liberation, but understands it. Why would she be happy as a possession, when she has so much energy? Why shouldn't she seek alternatives, if he's not here? After all, he fucks his admin assistants and paralegals, if things turn boring on late nights at the office. It's not like he's submitting so much as acquiescing. "Maybe next weekend, Chess? Would you like to come along? No one needs to know who you are, darling. You can dress scruffy, they'll think you're an autoworker if you don't start in talking about your fucking portfolio or some shit like that. Watch me getting fucked. You can join in, darling, or just sit and wank. No one'll care. Quite a few guys do. It'll turn me on a lot to know you're there looking at me, though." He stops her, kisses her deeply, says that he will. If it'll make her happy. "Happy?" she laughs. "Just feel my cunt. I'm dripping. Yes, that'll be worth waiting for, baby. I'm telling you, some of these guys have pricks you won't believe." And that surrender by Chester is what enables her to lose her final inhibitions. Because she has another deep ambition, that won't be denied. She wants to feel the paddle, even at the risk of being bruised and marked, and having to be a bit restrained in her choices of beach wear, for a while. She's whispered this fantasy to Chester once or twice in the past, but he's not taken it seriously. And what she wants is really more: she wants to savor the crop and the whip, and to yield her body to bondage and other insults. Chester knows she can't be stopped, but asks her to be careful. But doesn't try any further to dissuade her. She shows up at Jack Straw's one afternoon. There are several thuggish bikers who have a reputation for delighting in brutalizing women, and who already conveyed that wish to her and to Campbell. When she walks in, nude, there's no need for the subject to be defined. But she falls to her knees and urges them to take her, and spare her nothing. Soon she's bent over a table, being spanked until she's black and blue. Until she's crying out, until genuine tears are produced. The bikers are amused to see that her sexual response to this thrashing is quite unequivocal. She comes a couple of times. There's thick milky juice dribbling down her thighs. When her hands are freed, she masturbates shamelessly for them.. After the previous week's disgraceful performance, several of their girlfriends have expressed curiosity about meeting this masochistic, self-abusing woman. She's accosted by them after her beating, while she's still absent-mindedly wondering where her clothes have gone. Her hands are roped behind her. There are six of them now. "Take the bitch outside," one orders with relish. And soon she's in the car park, draped backwards over the hood of a truck, experiencing her first fistfucking. It's none too gentle, but that wouldn't have been her choice, anyway. They take turns, and are gleeful to see how aroused they make her. She's rewarded in kind by being allowed to groom them with her tongue, each in turn squatting in the tailgate of a parked truck, shielded by her companions, offering her bared genitals to Miranda's eager, thirsty tongue. Next morning, back at the condo, she stretches out naked on the lounger for her tanning session, and to hell with who sees the vicious stripes and bruises. And there are several more visits to Jack Straw's. Chester shakes his head with despair when he sees her bruised and welted ass, the completely shaved pussy, the big gold rings she's had put in her labia, navel and nipples. "M&A, S&M, what's the difference?" she gloats. "It's all about an exchange of power, about possession, about trust." He pleads: "I understand. But don't get hurt." "I won't," she smiles. "How do I know?" "Then, be there, Chess. Would you enjoy that? Seeing me beaten? I think you might. And, how does seeing me getting used by women appeal to you?" "A lot, to be honest." "Can you imagine seeing a fist shoved in my cunt?" "No, I can't, honestly. Is it really big enough?" "Ha ha. My big juicy hole!? You bet it is, baby. Some of them get in up to the elbow, almost. And I just love it. I get fantastic orgasms out of it." "I'd love to see that." "You will." A manic laugh. "And I want you to see how much I like sucking on other women's twats, too. It's so good to have a big hairy slit parked on my face." She studies his expression, chuckles. "Ah licks ebberywhuh, honey chile, till mah mouth gits numb." A laugh. "Cunt, clit, pisshole, asshole, back and forward, till my mouth is just filled with glop." "Don't you find that disgusting?" "No more than you do, darling!" "Yes, I shouldn't be surprised, should I?" "I just like them a lot dirtier, I suppose. But I like disgusting things, because then it makes being punished feel so good. I mean, I like feeling I've been totally degenerate and vile and I just have to be rewarded for my perversity. You understand, don't you?" "I don't know, really," he tells her, quite sincerely. "But if it's what you want . . ." "Oh, it is!" "I don't think I could stand to see you being whipped, though." "I've told you before, you'll like it a lot. And you've just got to, baby. Please? It's important to me. I want you and Bea to see it." "Alright." "Promise?" "Yes, but I can't speak for Bea . . ." "I can. She'll do it, if I ask properly." "If you say so . . ." "I do. And I mean whipped, Chess. Not just my backside, or my thighs." "No?" "No. I want you to see my twat paddled, my back whipped, my tits slapped around. A real humiliation, a real punishment . . ." "Isn't that too much?" "I want to bleed, baby. I've got to . . ." she groans. "I want you to see it, smell how cunty I get . . ." "If you must, darling." She kisses him. "Thank you. I won't disappoint you. And baby, thank you for a great summer." "Oh, and you," he groans. "Don't be bitchy, Chess. You should be proud of me. I'm the toast of the coast, beach slut extraordinaire. And next? Who knows?" "Ever been to Aspen?" "Sounds good to me," she chuckles. "But I want to teach you all about spanking me yourself before we get into another scene. Deal?" "Done deal." Contact, e-mail: or -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /