Chapter 8
"Sorry I'm late, John. Ken was telling me about his adventures in Brazil."
"It's only nine-thirty," John said with surprising equanimity. "For you, that's right on the dot."
Melody noted that Carol, freshly showered, was tented inside John's plaid bathrobe. The green tartan made her hair seem more fiery than usual, and she looked surprisingly young and innocent-even to Melody-with her face freshly scrubbed. She and John sat on opposite sides of the living room, but they looked like a pair of cats that had shared a canary recently.
"How was the food?" Carol asked.
The question seemed directed at Ken, and he answered: "Not bad. Pretty authentic."
"If they wanted to make it really authentic, they could put cockroaches in the tamales," John laughed. "I'll never forget the time I bit into-"
"Please. John," Melody gagged, holding her stomach.
"All right, all right. Would you like a drink, Ken?"
"Fine. Beer, if you've got it,"
Carol made a move to get up and play the hostess, but Melody was already on her way to the kitchen. She returned shortly with a beer for Ken and a cherry cola left over from the picnic for herself. She saw that John and Carol were polishing off the bottle of Chablis that Carol had brought for the picnic.
"It turns out that Ken is one of your fans," Melody said, and she noticed that Carol shot John a knowing look. She perched casually on the arm of the chair that Ken had taken.
"He doesn't look like one," John laughed. Then he added: "Maybe I ought to explain-"
"Melody told me what you think of your fans," Ken interrupted. "But by downgrading them, you're underestimating yourself."
"That's what I keep telling him," Carol said.
Ken continued: "I thought that Where the Bones Are Buried was a damned clever mystery."
Melody shifted her eyes toward Ken. That was the book he'd discussed with her, the one that had strengthened his belief that Leila had been murdered.
Her attention turned back to John, and she listened with something akin to horror as he said: "It's funny you should mention that. It was sort of autobiographical."
"You don't say," Ken said mildly.
"Well, maybe 'autobiographical' is too strong a word, but I got the idea from something that happened to me. You see, when my second wife died, the authorities made no real effort to determine her cause of death. Her symptoms resembled those of a disease that had killed some other people in the area, and so they assumed that she'd had it, too. I got to thinking about how a murderer might take advantage of a situation like that."
Melody was immensely relieved. John hadn't realized that he was walking in a minefield, but she didn't believe he could have said anything better calculated to disarm Ken's suspicions if he'd known about them.
"I think I'd feel a little ... ghoulish, using my painful experiences like that," Carol said.
"Artists are an unscrupulous lot," John said. "Thomas Wolfe wrote about an actor -who heard that his mother had died. For a moment he felt a genuine pang of grief. So he ran to a mirror to see what genuine grief looked like. Sometimes, it's not such a good idea, using your experiences like that. For instance, the book I'm supposed to be working on now. I incorporated some of Leila's-that was my second wife, Ken-some of Leila's characteristics, idiosyncrasies, whatever, in one of the characters. And now, I sometimes find myself reminiscing about Leila when I ought to be writing the book."
Melody could have cheered. She knew by now that John was half drunk. That was why he was being so expansive and genial. He certainly wasn't making any points with Carol, to judge by her frozen expression, in waxing slightly maudlin about Leila. But he was doing a beautiful number on Ken.
Ken rose so abruptly that he nearly spilled Melody off the arm of his chair. His face was ashen, and the smile he gave John was truly horrible, a grin from the rack.
"I ... I have to go now," he said, and without any further ceremony, he went. Melody stared after him with amusement.
"My God," Carol said into the bewildered silence, "do all your fans act like that?"
"Maybe it was the Mexican food," John chuckled. "Damned if I can figure it out. What's the matter with him, Melody?"
She fell back into the chair he'd vacated, letting her legs hang over the arm. She shrugged and sipped her cherry cola.
"I'm sorry to pull a Ken Burke," Carol said, "but I've had a busy day. I think I'll turn in now."
It developed that Carol was spending the night, sleeping in John's room while John, supposedly, would be sleeping on the couch. While he was settling Carol in bed, Melody went to the bookshelf and pulled down a copy of Where the Bones Are Buried, by John Creighton. The lurid cover of the paperback depicted a blonde woman fleeing in terror from a shadowy figure who had apparently just stopped in the act of digging with a spade to notice her. She was leafing aimlessly through it when John came back to the room.
He examined the empty wine bottle and mixed himself a gin and tonic. "You suppose he'd like me to autograph him a copy?" he asked, noticing the book.
"I'm sure he'd love that."
He looked at her uncertainly. She sat up and took off her shirt: partly because the night was hot, partly to disconcert him further. He came forward, stirring his drink, and sat cross legged on the floor near her chair.
"The jig is up, John. All is known," she said in a portentous voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"That was Leila's brother who just ran out of here. Ken Burke, Ken Bymes? Fiendishly clever, isn't he?"
"Jesus ... Christ!"
"Don't spill your drink."
"This is not some kind of joke?"
Melody lowered her voice to a murmur as she said: "Nope. He thinks you poisoned his sister. With, strychnine. He got the idea out of your book-" she tossed it toward him-"and he's come here incognito to get the goods on you. He really must be a fan of yours, because that sounds like the kind of plot you'd think up for a book."
John's brown eyes sometimes reminded her of those of a sad hound dog. They did now. "He isn't far from the truth, is he," he stated.
"He also thinks you murdered my mother by not going for help fast enough, if not also by poisoning. It's a good thing he didn't confide in Carol. How do you plan to do her in?"
"Let's not make jokes, shall we?" He looked at her hard for a moment and his voice cracked slightly when he said: "You did poison Leila, didn't you?"
"You did murder my mother, didn't you?"
"I ... All right."
He got up, made a slow circuit of the room, came back to sit where he'd been sitting before. He sipped his drink.
"What the hell are we going to do?" he whispered.
"Nothing. He's already talked himself out of knocking you off, and I think you just about demolished his theory tonight, by pure accident. A murderer wouldn't sit there jabbering about what a great idea for a book it gave him, or how much he missed the victim. Even if he still believes it, he has nothing to take to the police. About the worst he could do would be to tell Carol and maybe screw up your romance, but I don't think she'd believe him. The only thing he's still got against you is the fact that you beat me so much."
"You aren't ... you wouldn't ... I mean, Carol ... "
"I like Carol."
He stared at her in disbelief.
"No, I'm serious. I like her a lot. So stop looking at me as if I was Jack the Ripper. You knew it all along. If I hadn't done something about Leila, I'd be in Kansas and you'd probably be in the bughouse."
He sighed. "You're right, of course. I should have done it myself."
"Except that you had a thing for Leila, apparently, and I didn't. How is Carol?"
"What?"
"Is she better than I am?"
He averted his eyes in embarrassment for a moment, and then said, "No, she isn't."
She gazed at him coolly for a long moment, and then said: "Ken isn't as good as you are, either,"
He made a horrible sound in his throat, something between a sob and a stillborn scream, as he rose to his feet. He stared at her wildly as she raised her finger to her lips. Then he choked: "I'll kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands!"
"And hell kill you with the pistol he bought for the purpose. Cool off. How do you suppose I got him to bare his soul?"
John turned away from her. He raised his glass with a jerky motion, about to hurl it through the window, but he checked himself.
"Oh, shit," she said.
"What's the matter?" he asked dully.
"The only night I'm really dying for a shower, and you have to stick your ladylove in the bedroom. I think I'll go for a swim."
"Not at night. Sharks."
"Shit."
"Go ahead and take a shower. She's probably still awake."
"Reliving the events of this magical day."
"Don't-" He cut off his angry words, then said evenly, "I guess I owed you one, didn't I."
"You owe me more than one," she said, rising and embracing him from the back. "Unfortunately, nobody else appeals to me very much. Not even the Junior G-man next door. Not even Carol."
"Huh?"
She pressed closer, molding her bare breasts to his back. "You should have seen us this afternoon. You didn't know your fiancée was a frustrated dyke, did you?"
Carol hung suspended between sleep and wakefulness, and bright visions flashed on the insides of her eyelids. She saw the white beach so clearly she could discern the individual grains of sand. The pictures changed rapidly, like cards in a rapidly shuffled deck. Sometimes she saw faces, people she knew, people she'd never seen before. Often Melody's face turned up in the riffled deck, different angles, different expressions, most often expressionless and catlike. John's face, too, leaning inward to kiss her.
Sometimes, drifting buoyantly upward, she heard the murmur of voices in the next room. Could they be fighting? No, that seemed unlikely, and the voices resumed their murmurous drowsy drone.
She was loved by two wonderful people, an embarrassment of riches. How could she juggle her affairs, keep them each from knowing about the other? She couldn't give them up, not either one of them. John had proven tonight that he could satisfy her as completely as Melody could, if not even more completely, but not even his lovemaking could make her forget the golden afternoon, the golden girl with her crown of braids and her taut, silky skin.
She slid her hand down her bare body to finger her cunt. She forked two fingers over her clitoris and began slowly and leisurely rubbing. Her fingertips nudged against the inner petals of her vagina, squeezing it open with each downward stroke. She thought of Melody and thought of John and wondered if anyone in the history of the world had ever been as wicked as she was.
She heard a soft tapping at the door. She smiled a slow, lazy smile and squirmed to a more comfortable position, still not ceasing to rub her cunt.
"Come in," she called softly.
The door opened and closed.
"John?"
"It's me."
"Melody! I was just wishing-"
"I only want to take a shower. That won't disturb you, will it?"
"No. No, of course it won't."
Melody slipped into the bathroom and snapped on the light, smiling. She was amused by the note of disappointment that Carol hadn't been able to keep from her voice. Maybe she could go to Carol's bed after taking her shower and ease some of her disappointment.
She undid her braids while the blast of the hot shower filled the room with billows of steam. The thought of Carol lying frustrated and alone in the next room was surprisingly tempting, but she forced herself not to think about it. She had more important concerns.
Despite what she'd said to calm John's fears, she was worried about Ken Burke, as she persisted in thinking of him. She wasn't worried about his suspicions: a doddering old country doctor had signed Leila's death certificate, the authorities had approved it, she'd been cremated, and that was that. Nor was she worried about his potential for violence. If John had been available when Ken had first convinced himself that his sister had been murdered, then Ken might have killed him; but she didn't think he was the kind of man who could nurse a murderous grudge for months, plot coldly, and then act.
But the problem was now complicated by the fact that Ken was crazy about her. She'd sensed it in everything he'd done and said, mostly in what he'd not said, this evening. Letting him fuck her, letting him know that she wasn't the innocent little princess he'd imagined, hadn't turned him off: it had nailed him down more firmly.
She stepped under the hot blast of the shower, gasping as the fiery needles drummed on her flesh. She stood it as long as she possibly could, until she was almost ready to scream, before she added a little more cold water and made the torrent slightly less unbearable.
It was John, really, that she was worried about. She loved him, but she knew his limitations. She knew that he fell apart under pressure. Ken would continue to hang around-perhaps not to play detective anymore, but to be near her, to be available if she needed protection from the brutal father who made her scream at night. She laughed aloud.
But it wasn't funny, she told herself. Ken's continued presence would be a constant source of pressure on John, and he would eventually go to pieces. He might attack Ken and get himself killed. He might even confess. And what if she forgot herself and screamed during an orgasm, Inspiring Ken to come bursting in with a gun in his hand? No, Ken had to be persuaded to go away; or otherwise disposed of.
She stepped out of the shower, briskly toweling her hair. She began thinking about Carol again.
John thought about mixing himself a second gin and tonic but decided against it. He was a little tight already, and he knew that he ought to think things through with a clear head. Instead he took the last of the sodas left over from the picnic.
The picnic. He snorted, sardonically amused with his own innocence. It had been a good day. He'd written almost four thousand words. When he hadn't been working, he'd been thinking about how pleasant it was that Melody and Carol were getting together, making an effort to know each other.
A good day indeed: soured a bit by Melody's date with Ken, but then it had progressed to a new peak with Carol's unexpected complaisance. In the evening he'd felt warmly disposed toward the world, even toward Burke.
And then Melody had taken a sledgehammer to his pretty bubble-one, two, three-Ken's identity, her submission to him, her lesbian liaison with Carol. He didn't know which fact tormented him most.
He walked to the window and stared at Burke's darkened house. Perhaps Burke was staring back at him from the darkness. Byrnes, he should say. It was ... unthinkable. That fact alone numbed him. Leila had often spoken of her big brother, the one who could jump higher and run faster and fight harder than any boy on the block, the high school football star whose celebrity had rubbed off on her, getting her invitations to parties, bids to join organizations, that she might not otherwise have gotten. He hadn't been able to return from South America in time for Leila's hasty funeral, and so John had never met him, Until now, of course.
He knew that he ought to be thinking about defensive strategy, perhaps thinking about fleeing somewhere and covering his tracks well, but all he could think about was Melody. He thought of her with an uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling. He recognized it. He realized that he was scared of her.
A snake could have given her lessons in human warmth. She'd coldly given herself to Ken to gain his confidence. She'd given herself to Carol on a whim, to amuse herself. Worst of all, of course, she'd murdered Leila. He'd lived with that fact for a long time, but the fact had been comfortably insulated by a thin layer of uncertainty. Now the insulation was gone.
He told himself that he had no right to judge her. He'd killed Jean by not going for help as fast as he might have. Any jury apprised of the facts would convict him of manslaughter. But Jean's doctors had told him that she was suffering from irreversible mental degeneration. She would have spent the rest of her life in and out of hospitals, mostly in, eventually turning into a vegetable while the medical bills ate away her money and most of what he would ever hope to earn. It wasn't quite the same thing as slipping rat poison into your stepmother's tea, or however Melody had administered it.
He toyed with an idea that he didn't like, an idea that he always swatted down whenever it came unbidden to his mind: that Melody had inherited her mother's condition. The doctors had assured him that the disease could not be inherited; but those were the same doctors who had been powerless to treat the disease in Jean, who had been divided on its cause and treatment. It was strange that they should be so positive on that one point while confused on all others.
As usual, he rejected the idea of an hereditary curse. If Melody was what the shrinks would call a sociopathic personality, there had been plenty of influences in her environment to explain it. Jean had resented her birth. She'd believed that the baby was wise beyond her years, that even from her cradle she was mocking her, teasing her, tormenting her. In some of her bad spells, she spoke of changelings-offspring left by demons in exchange for human children. From infancy, Melody had been screamed at, cursed at, even beaten. Jean had alternated those episodes with effusive affection that Melody had seemed to find equally unwelcome.
And then, Jean's death. Melody had been there. She'd known what was going on. The incident would have given a sensitive child food for thought, to say the least. Add to all this a rather passive father, a man of no special moral convictions who wrote pornographic novels and was too disorganized to keep them out of his daughter's hands, who didn't have the will or the guts to kick her out of his bed when she'd first crept into it ...
Yes, he was scared of her; and he was scared for her, thinking of what she would become. What would she be like at eighteen, at twenty-five? She'd already learned all there was about manipulating people, and she played with them like toys. Maybe she had a right to. Maybe she was the next step in evolution, a creature as far beyond man as man was beyond the chimpanzee. He checked that line of thought. He was romanticizing, perhaps generating an idea for a novel, not coming to grips with his problems.
The biggest problem, the insurmountable one, was that he was in love with Melody. And his carnal love hadn't blotted put his paternal love. The two forms of love coexisted, feeding on each other, reinforcing each other, creating an overwhelming force that he could neither understand nor resist.
Something tickled his cheek. It occurred to him that it was a tear. He saw that he had crushed the empty can of soda in his hand. He let it drop. His fingers hurt when he unclenched them.
He realized that he hadn't heard the sound of the shower for a long time, but Melody had not yet returned from his room.
Carol was wide awake now, with no hope of sliding back into the halfworld of bright images while Melody was in the next room, naked under the shower. She wondered if John had gone to sleep on the couch. Maybe. He'd drunk a lot.
It would have been bad enough, lying here and imagining Melody's sleek nudity separated from her by only a thin wall; but the sound of the shower revived fresh memories of sensual delight. She remembered leaning forward under the rain of hot needles, gripping the towel bar, feet spread on the wet tile, while John slipped his big cock in and out of her. Something about the wet warmth of the shower had added a new dimension to the deliciousness of the experience, and she found herself reliving it now.
She resumed the slow stroking of her cunt that she'd begun while half-asleep, but now she did it deliberately, courting release from the excruciating tingles of desires that rippled through her body. The object of her desire was uncertain, wavering: first she thought of John fucking her in the shower, then she imagined embracing Melody there, and they alternated in a licentious dance through her head.
Then she moaned aloud as her desire reached a new pitch when she pictured all three of them locked in a lascivious embrace. It was a crazy idea, she knew that even while she entertained it, but it was almost unbearably sexy. She nibbled harder, her wrist flailing, as she toyed with the possibilities ... eating Melody while John fucked her ... eating John while Melody ate her ...
The cessation of the shower shocked her like a crash of noise. She pulled her sticky fingers away from her pussy and lay still for a moment. She pulled the sheet up over her naked body, suddenly ashamed of her lubricious thoughts and actions.
The bathroom door opened. A wedge of light fell into the room. Melody stepped into it as into a spotlight, looking into the darkness at Carol. She wore only a towel styled like a Egyptian headdress over her hair. This touch made her look even more exotic than usual; and by hiding her hair, the towel riveted attention on the strangely feral bone structure of her beautiful face.
"Do you want me?" she asked in a very low voice.
"Oh, God," Carol groaned. "Yes!"
Melody poised a finger delicately at her lips, cautioning her to silence, and padded quickly toward the bed with sinuous grace. Carol threw the sheet down, turning to meet her, and in the next moment they were locked in a close embrace, kissing eagerly.
Even while gripped by a raging excitement that left little room for thought, Carol marveled at this further step she'd taken in depravity: John was in the next room, probably not yet asleep, and here she was making love to his daughter on his bed. The thought added a special spice to her excitement as her questing fingers groped their quick way to Melody's cunt.
Melody nudged and guided, obviously with some specific goal in mind; Carol, passive, followed her lead. Soon Carol lay on her back with Melody on top of her, kissing her, holding her tight with one arm.
Suddenly, shockingly, Carol felt a thickness of rigid flesh pushing into her cunt. It squeezed the lips wide, pushing deeper. Alarmed, now knowing what to believe, Carol hastily grabbed for the thing that was burying itself in her cunt.
She almost laughed with relief. Melody was holding the thumb and fingers of her right hand closely together in a rigid bundle. With the back of her wrist against her pubic mound, she was holding her hand at right angles to her body as if it were a cock, pushing all of her fingers into Carol's pussy. She pushed with her hips and withdrew, pushed with her hips and withdrew, until the illusion that she was actually fucking her was complete.
Carol encircled her with arms and legs, giving in to this curious masquerade. It was thrilling, but it was weird. Melody's face was at hers, she was kissing her, Melody's hips were moving, fucking her.
"Fuck me, yes, fuck me!"
"Shhh!"
John had turned out the lights in the living room. The bedroom door was outlined in dim light, and he believed that it was the light from the bathroom beyond it. He stood outside the door for a long while, feeling oddly helpless. It was the same sort of feeling he'd had as a child, when his parents had excluded him from grown-ups' doings.
He wanted to know what was happening in there. He wanted to be with them. But he didn't want to interrupt an innocent session of girl-talk. However he was certain that that's not what was going on in there. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard nothing at all, and that convinced him that they had taken up where they'd left off this afternoon.
Ashamed of himself even while he was doing it, he knelt by the door and put his eye to the keyhole. He could see the open door of the bathroom, confirming his guess about the source of the light, but he couldn't see the bed. He got up hurriedly, feeling foolish.
He extended his hand toward the doorknob but withdrew it. He couldn't honestly tell Melody that this was wrong, nor could he rebuke Carol for her behavior. But he had to admit to himself that it wasn't as an outraged parent or a shocked fiancé that he wanted to enter the room. He wanted to join them.
The temptation was intense. He recalled the day when he'd been fucking Melody while talking to Carol on the phone. That had been a strangely exciting experience, talking to one woman while making love to another. But it paled beside the thought of making love to both of them at once. His cock stiffened as he thought about it.
That decided him. He removed his clothes quickly and tossed them carelessly aside. He hesitated. What if they were both fully clothed, engaged in a friendly conversation, and he walked in there stark naked with his stiff prick sticking out in front of him? But he was sure they weren't. They'd been in there too long, and he could hear nothing at all through the door.
He put his hand to the knob and turned it slowly. He was prepared for the disappointment of finding it locked, but it wasn't. He didn't breathe. He was able to unlatch the door without a telltale click, and he let the door drift partially open.
He heard sounds then, a rustle of sheets, a faint complaint of bedsprings, a wordless whimpering that he recognized as Carol's. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and as he sidled through the door he could see with relatively clarity by the glow of the bathroom light.
Carol lay on her side, her back toward him. His eyes traveled down her back to the pale, voluptuous fullness of her ass. Melody's head, her hair unbound and dark with dampness, lay in the fork of Carol's legs. He saw the glitter of saliva on her tongue as she lapped steadily and daintily, like a cat at a dish of cream.
His eyes traveled back to Carol's head, bobbing rhythmically in Melody's crotch. Their hands wove patternless tracings on each other's naked body. He drew closer. Carol's whimpers came clearer, and he could even hear the wet sounds of their greedy licking. His excitement became painful as his cock hardened like an iron bar.
A glint of light caught his attention. It was the light glinting from Melody's eyes as she watched him. Her teeth gleamed in the dimness. She was smiling at him. The hand that had been caressing Carol's ass was lifted, beckoning.
Carol felt the bed sinking behind her. She didn't know why it was doing that, nor did she care. She felt only a vague irritation at being forced to shift her position, to move over to avoid falling out. She snuggled closer to Melody.
She felt a hot, thick firmness pushing into her cunt while Melody continued to lap her clitoris. She murmured with pleasure, thinking that Melody was again playing that trick with her fingers. She had made her come once already that way.
Then she felt the body behind her, the hairy chest pressing her back, the big hands caressing her. She stiffened and began to struggle, but she was trapped between father and daughter. Melody gripped her head with her thighs, holding her face in her crotch. John's cock was already deep inside her, pinning her. Slowly, fearfully, she relaxed.
John stroked her back gently, sensing the tension that had vibrated through her when at last she had sensed the truth of the situation. He fondled one of her big breasts, noting that the tip was as hard as a ruby. He felt her going limp as he squirmed closer, burrowing into her with his steely-hard prick, and he reached out to stroke Melody's sweating buttocks.
He felt a delicious sensation that he couldn't at first identify at the base of his cock. It was a moist tickle, unlike the surges and squeezes that Carol's pussy was lavishing on the hot length of his prick. Then he realized that an inch or so of his phallus must be protruding from Carol's cunt-lips, and that Melody was licking him.
His suspicion was confirmed when he felt her tongue moving lower, probing through the hair of his balls. When he unsheathed part of his cock from Carol's cunt, she went to work on that, too, slurping Carol's hot juices from his cock as he pulled it out.
After John had joined the party, Carol thought that nothing on earth could ever shock her again; but she'd been wrong. Melody was still down in her crotch, moving her head, apparently licking something, but Carol could not longer feel her tongue. It took her a moment to figure out that the girl was licking her father's balls.
If anyone had described this situation to Carol, she would have been sickened and repelled. She could never in a million years have imagined herself participating in such an orgy. But now, even though she was shocked, she accepted it. However surprised she might have been at first, this was simply something that was happening, and whatever was happening here was good and beautiful.
She had to work up her courage to do it, but she finally managed to say: "Don't forget to lick me, too, Melody."
Melody stifled a laugh as she pictured Carol's reaction in the morning, when she would wake up and remember all the incidents of this eventful day. She might decide to run and keep running when she recalled all the things she'd done and said.
Melody thought that would be a shame. If John had to marry somebody, or thought he had to, it might as well be Carol. Not only was Carol beautiful and sexy, but she also was easily led. Now that she'd been initiated this way, she could hardly raise a fuss about sharing John- unless, as Melody feared she might, she reacted violently against her initiation in the morning.
She tried to prevent that by pleasing Carol now, pleasing her so much that it would be impossible for her to rebel against what she's done. While John fucked her at a steadily increasing pace, Melody took the hard little button of her clitoris between her lips and lashed it with her tongue, making Carol moan with delight. Her clit swelled slick and hot while Melody licked her and John fucked her.
John leaned forward to kiss Carol on the cheek. She was sucking Melody's cunt, but she paused momentarily and turned her lips to meet his. As his tongue tangled with hers, he tasted a hint of the flavor of Melody's pussy, and felt the slickness of his daughter's juice on Carol's lips. He leaned forward a little further until his face was in Melody's crotch, and he kissed her cunt, too.
He wasn't doing it to see what Carol's reaction would be. He was doing it because he wanted to kiss Melody's cunt. But he was pleased to note that Carol's reaction was a low, throaty chuckle. She turned and kissed him again as he withdrew, and then she returned to eating Melody.
Carol's cunt felt a lot hotter to John than it had when he'd screwed her in the shower. It was looser and wetter, too, a slobbery little geyser of sexual ooze. Apparently Melody had worked her up more thoroughly than he had. He wasn't jealous of that, though, since his prick was deriving the benefit of his daughter's preliminary actions.
She was more active, too, squeezing and rubbing her pussy around his cock with innovative zeal. He fucked her faster and drove his prick deeper into the hot squeeze of slithery jelly. Melody would occasionally lean in to give his cock a few licks, but most of her efforts were concentrated on Carol, too.
Carol was no longer entirely sure what was happening. The steady, rhythmic hammering of John's cock had become like the heartbeat of the universe, overpowering, all-compelling. She was aware of the strokes of Melody's tongue as a kind of counterpoint to the main theme, but one that sometimes burst forward and became even more important than the driving, surging pulse in her vagina.
"Oh, God!" she moaned. "Both of you-you're both-doing it-I love you-now! Ah!"
John winced as Carol's moans grew louder, wondering what Ken would think if he heard her screaming, too. But she proved to be not as uninhibited as Melody in her orgasmic cries. Her moans dwindled, became sobbing gasps.
When he was sure that she was satisfied, he pulled the slick length of his cock out of her pussy, meaning to cool it off for a while before starting on Melody, but she eagerly seized it in her mouth between Carol's legs. Carol propped herself on her elbow to watch as his daughter sucked his cock, but he was surprised and pleased to see that she was smiling as she watched. She withdrew her legs and curled them beneath her, giving Melody more room to suck Mm off while he knelt on the bed.
Carol wasn't content just to watch, though. While Melody blew him, she reached out and took the exposed root of his cock in her thumb and forefinger, jerking it quickly in a rhythm that syncopated the pumping of Melody's lips.
"Want a turn?" Melody asked, releasing John's cock from her mouth for a moment.
"Mmmm," Carol assented, leaning forward from the waist and lowering her face to John's prick.
They took turns for a long time, one sucking his prick while the other licked his balls, Sometimes they would lick it from either side, giggling when their tongues met around the stiff shaft between them.
John wished it could have gone on all night like that, but the scalding bath he'd received in Carol's superheated box had put his prick on a thin edge of control. While Melody was sucking him, he realized that he could no longer hold onto the rampaging eruption that was about to boil over. He grasped her shoulders, growling with pleasure, as his cock began pumping its hot load of seed into her sucking mouth.