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Subject: STORY: "The Beach Sluts"/MrSpraycan
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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: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> or
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>



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