Chapter 4
The next morning Callie awakened early enough to see a crimson and gold sunrise staining the sky through her open bedroom window.
It was going to be a nice day, for already the sky was starting to turn a clear, cloudless blue. Callie stood there for a moment watching the street lights go out one by one, considering her problems with a calm determination. Yesterday's exciting but despicable events had faded after a long, very hot shower, and luckily, Aunt Lizabeth had remained away from home long enough for her to sober up and get her confused mind sorted out. She had had a good eight hours of sleep, and though her situation was as desperate as ever, she now felt capable of facing the future. Never again would she allow herself to sink so low as she had the day before, she vowed.
Quickly jumping up and making her bed, the young artist considered the options open to her. After her totally unpromising job hunt of the previous day, she had little hope of finding employment here in Charlotte. Also, she didn't think she could bear staying with her aunt very much longer, or living next door to young Tommy Eamon. But what could she do? Wasn't there anyone else she could turn to?
Since she'd been kept from dating and attending high school functions by her strict aunt, Callie had no real friends from that time, certainly no one she could turn to for help at a time like this. Her parents were long dead, and Callie knew her only other living relatives were an uncle on her father's side, who was a hopeless alcoholic, his son, and his daughter, who had run away from home at an early age and was rumored to be living in Florida with a wealthy older man.
There's no one else, Callie sighed. I'm all alone in the world!
There seemed no alternative to trying once again to find a job here in Charlotte. Surely, surely there must be something a healthy, willing young girl could do to earn money.
Sighing again, Callie unzipped her battered plaid suitcase and stared at her meager wardrobe. Aunt Lizabeth had donated all of the clothes Callie had left behind when she had run off to Greece with Jacques to the church. Today, she decided, she'd wear something less revealing than yesterday's dress. Maybe she'd unconsciously provoked Barth Owens's animalistic attack.
Pulling her modest white nightie over her shapely naked body, she stood shivering in the unheated room as she rummaged through the suitcase. Her nipples tautened into two puckered pink buttons in the chill morning air, and the tingling sensations that pulsed through the innocent young blonde's proud, softly jiggling tits made her remember the obscene way she had finger-fucked her pussy while Sheila's little brother had fucked her ass-hole. Quickly she snatched at her longest skirt and loosest pullover, a relic from high school days, plus the bra that did the most to try to hide her huge sensuous titties.
Suddenly her eyes spotted the wrinkled envelope Tommy had thrown on the bed the day before as he was leaving. She had forgotten all about it in her drunken shame. Picking it up, she stared at it blankly, still absorbed in her worries about the day's forthcoming job hunt, but then a slow smile spread over her beautiful heart-shaped face and a joyful little cry burst from her lips.
"Jacques must have gotten in touch with her," she cried aloud, ripping the envelope. Bridget, his sister! But why was the letter postmarked from Edgarstown, Massachusetts? The last she knew, Jacques had said she was living in Paris.
"Here's two hundred dollars," the letter read, and Callie's big green eyes grew wide. "When you get tired of being a starving young artist, why don't you come up for a visit? Nick and I are living in a lovely home on Martha's Vineyard. Nick's busy painting for his one-man show this fall in New York. Take the money and come; we're looking forward to seeing you soon. Love, Bridget and Nick."
The half-naked blonde's eyes sparkled hopefully for the first time in over a week as she stood reading the letter over and over and thinking about what Jacques had told her of his younger sister, Bridget, and her boyfriend. He was apparently very well off, she recalled, having inherited a fortune from his father.
"Bridget is great," her brother had said. "Kind of a sex-kitten type, doesn't like art or music and all, but a real good gal. And her old man's outasight: rich, and a damned good artist."
Callie's hands trembled with excitement and tears of joy sparkled in her eyes. She was so overjoyed that she scarcely noticed that her Aunt Lizabeth had walked into the room.
Only when the older woman snatched the postal order from her hands did she look up and explain that she was going to visit some friends, whose existence she'd not wanted to mention before now. As it turned out, Callie ended up by giving her parsimonious aunt thirty dollars for "room and board."
The next afternoon, in the midst of another violent rainstorm, the fair-haired twenty-year-old caught a Greyhound bus for New Bedford, Massachusetts. From there she would take the ferry to Martha's Vineyard. Her stomach rumbling from hunger, relief, and excitement, the voluptuous blonde unwrapped a Snickers bar she had bought from a machine at the depot and bit hungrily into it. The candy bar tasted stale, but Callie O'Hara couldn't have cared less as she sat happily peering out the window. She offered the rest of it to a well-scrubbed five-year-old boy who was holding onto his crotch and squirming in the seat next to her. He said his name was John Bowles, he was on his way to visit his grandmother Simpson, and he had to pee really bad. The Snickers bar seemed to keep him from wiggling too much and as he munched on it happily, the voluptuous green-eyed blonde stared out the dusty bus window, her pussy tingling, totally oblivious to the interested backward glances of an older man sitting in the seat ahead of her, excited at the prospect of starting a new life, and blissfully unaware of just how new and different her life would be in the next few weeks.
At the same moment that Callie O'Hara was dreaming of her new life, petite, raven-haired Bridget Lamothe was yawning and stretching beneath the satin sheets of the giant double bed she shared with her lover. Nick was already gone, she noticed sleepily, then she cuddled back down under the blanket and tried to fall back into her lost dream. She'd been stripping naked in front of an audience of excited men who were calling out provocative obscenities, and she had finally become so excited she had pulled one of the men up on stage and let him fuck her in front of everyone. Oh, what a marvelous dream it had been! If only she could fall back into it.
But try as she would, sleep eluded the voluptuous French girl. Finally, sighing with resignation, she dragged her voluptuous twenty-two-year-old body from beneath the warm coverlet and made her way to the mirrored bathroom.
I understand that Nick is a creative person, the curvaceous brunette told herself as she soaped beneath her huge naked tits under the hot shower. It was, she well knew, the best bathroom in all of Martha's Vineyard. And I'm so lucky to be living with him, her thoughts continued as she delicately sponged away the encrusted white cum which clung to her smoothly curved ass and darkly curling pussy hairs, and he's a real lover! At night. In the daytime, it's paint, paint, paint!
Bridget Lamothe had an almost insatiable cunt and so was often annoyed when Nick wasn't always around to fuck her pussy any time she got hot, but the voluptuous French girl was prone to excuse her boyfriend's often maddening habits by telling herself that anyone who was so creative was bound to be a bit imperious and neglectful of normal niceties such as tact and consideration for society's various petty rules. Of course, he wanted to be first in all things, needed to be king of the mountain and greater than Picasso and Dali. She really didn't mind, despite her occasional complaints. As a typical passionate Scorpio, she wanted her man to be strong and lordly, more domineering than she herself.
All the same, though Nick Craven was the perfect lover and all-male, there were times when Bridget felt well and truly fed up with his boundless passion for art. It wasn't, after all, as if he needed to sell his work for the money.
The huge-titted, five-foot-three brunette stepped from the shower and toweled her ripened figure dry in a fluffy yellow bath towel which was nearly as large as her whole voluptuous body. In the sparkling wall-panel mirrors that adorned the luxurious bathroom, she could see her sexy, cock-hungry body reflected back to her from all angles, and a familiar feeling of pride shot through the beautiful French girl.
Yes, she thought confidently, he can run around all he darn well-likes, I know he'll come back to me. She sprinkled powder over her pussy curls, then rubbed some into the rather large rose-pink nipples of her huge naked titties. And in the meantime, even though I love Nick more than life itself, I'm still young and pretty enough to have lots of fun getting fucked by other men-and women-on the side.
Bridget's ass-cheeks undulated provocatively as she swiveled from the bathroom to the adjoining master bedroom. Even when alone, she tended to move with almost unconscious seductiveness.
Just as she was deciding on which of her many sexy and wantonly revealing outfits she ought to wear, the naked young French girl heard Nick's loud steps on the downstairs threshold.
"Get your derriere out of here!" Bridget shrieked as Nick appeared in the bedroom doorway. "I just took a bath and I'm all naked!"
"Now don't you talk about my derriere like that, woman," Nick Craven bellowed in his customary resounding tones. "My ass happens to be real cute." His glance roved hungrily over the seductive lines of Bridget's softly quivering naked tits, little fires of arousal smoldering in his dark eyes. "And it's one hell of a lot more faithful than yours is, you little cock-teaser!"
Bridget could tell by the sound of her handsome boyfriend's voice that his harsh words meant absolutely nothing. They teased each other this way constantly; the words masking their true affection. Smiling happily, she pulled a lacy, low-cut black brassiere and matching bikini panties from the dresser drawer and pulled them over her naked ass with the enticing slowness of a strip-tease artist. In fact, in her wild and intemperate youth in Paris, she'd made her living for a short time, after she had run away from home, by working in a night club.
Mon dieu, she thought as she wiggled her ass-cheeks back in lewd invitation at her eagerly gaping boyfriend, am I ever lucky. Sure isn't every woman whose man actually digs it when she lets other men fuck her cunt.
The bedroom, like the bathroom, was paneled with mirrors when Nick had redecorated their luxurious beach home. As she pirouetted around the room, Bridget was most aware of each and every wriggling motion of her curvaceous young ass, and she glowed with excitement as she felt Nick's eyes burning into her half-naked pussy.
"Hey, now, lady, stop putting on a show," the muscular thirty-one-year-old artist growled with false ferocity. "I got some work to do before I fuck that teasing little ass of yours silly, but I wanna tell you the news first."
"Oh?" Bridget asked excitedly. She stopped undulating her hips and matter-of-factly put on a see-through print blouse and a pair of skin-tight French jeans. "What could be more exciting than my pussy?"
"She's coming today," Nick explained.
"I cum at least five times a day, cherie ...", and then suddenly her face lighted up in a pleased smile. Of course! Jacques's girlfriend! How on earth could she have forgotten? How good it would be to have another fille around to talk to, especially on this dull east coast island. All the locals disapproved of her.
"Callie!" she cried excitedly, pronouncing the name "Cal-eeeee" and hurriedly fastening her thick luxuriant black curls at the nape of her neck with a silver barette. "Fantastique."
"When's she getting here?"
"Tonight, about seven," Nick replied, his huge prick jerking sensuously in anticipatory lust. "On the last ferry. She called when you were in the bath."
The handsome artist's face glowed with excitement as he stalked into the bedroom and pulled the lovely young French girl into a bear-like embrace. Bridget grinned up at him impishly, realizing that her sexy lover was thinking of the sketch they'd received from Jacques of his young love. In the drawing, Callie had seemed a remarkably sexy young woman.
"We'll go pick her up, of course," she murmured into Nick's ear, giving the earlobe a teasing little bite. "That's what I said in my letter, honey."
"Sure," he muttered. Bridget's lavender-scented, silken-soft hair rubbed against his bearded face, and as her eager cunt and sensuously throbbing tits scraped enticingly against his muscular chest, he almost decided not to go back downstairs to his studio but to throw her down on the unmade bed and fuck the piss out of her hot little pussy instead. Christ, she was really the sexiest thing going, that was for goddamn sure.
Bridget, sensing his quickening pulse and feeling his obscenely throbbing prick grow harder and harder against her grinding cunt, pressed her cunt even more seductively against his cloth-covered cock. There was nothing she liked more than fucking at odd times of the day, unexpectedly, spontaneously.
"Yeah, we'll pick Callie up at seven," Nick Craven muttered hotly. But much to Bridget's disappointment, her all-American artist-lover pulled away from her. Why doesn't he fuck my pussy? she despaired. I'm sure his dick's feeling all sexy after seeing me naked and thinking about getting into Callie's little white panties. Why does art always have to come first with him? Mon dieu!
"Sorry, Frenchie," Nick apologized, planting a lingering kiss on Bridget's eagerly pursed lips. "Gotta work. After lunch, I'll give that horny little pussy of yours a good fucking. You just make sure it's all nice and juicy in the meantime."
"Okay, cherie" Bridget mewled.
After living with Nick Craven for two years, she'd learned the futility of resisting her creative lover's desires. She watched, a slightly sad smile on her pretty face, as he strode out of the room and down the stairs. Well, she'd get Callie's bedroom ready, and fix something for dinner-perhaps she would prepare a boeuf bourgignon and some homemade French bread with a big salad. And even if Nick didn't come back from his studio in the back garden that afternoon to satisfy the throbbing craving in her always hungry cunt, maybe she'd call Mr. Rockman, the mailman, a kindly older gentleman who had been lusting after her hot little French pussy ever since he had laid eyes on her.
Smiling wickedly to herself, Bridget Lamothe wiggled her hot-to-fuck ass down the hall to the large guest bedroom, fluffed up the down-filled pillows and Danish imported quilt, dusted off the antique dresser and bedside table, set out a clean towel and washcloth. Callie would feel right at home here, the poor petite fille. How pitiful, how unjust and corrupt of the policia to put her darling brother behind bars-to deprive him of his precious freedom.
Here she'll be safe and happy, Bridget thought as she rearranged a fresh bouquet of daisies on the table by the window. If she is half the voluptuous femme Jacques wrote me she was, we will be closer than ever.
Bridget's lush pink lips pursed up in hungry anticipation at the vivid image as she remembered Lillian Keller, a voluptuous widow from Boston. Lillie, a stunning, huge-titted actress, had tongue-fucked Bridget's pussy so well that she thought she would die of pleasure and would never forget how exciting it had been. Perhaps, merde, certainly, if she just worked things correctly, such an obscene liaison could be established with the beautiful young Callie O'Hara. Her pussy was all hot and Nick's cock was aching for some too, she could tell; and she, too, longed to once again squeeze and suck on silken-soft female titties and taste that tantalizing fragrance of another woman's delicate cunt.
"Oh, la la," Bridget murmured hotly as she gave the guest bedroom a last surveying glance.