Gulf Shores

GULF SHORES

Chapter 1

July-- 7:35pm -- Biloxi, Mississippi

The Camaro idles in the AMC theater parking lot, its black shell gleaming under street lights and the neon glow of the theater's sign, engine purring--a low, throaty rumble that vibrates through Connor Mayhew's bones.

At 24, he's all sharp edges--blond hair tousled, calluses rough from construction gigs--his dirty jeans stretched tight over lean muscular thighs. His girlfriend, Beatrice Jones, 20, sits next to him, her flip-flops abandoned, pink-painted toenails flexing against the dash's warm vinyl. Her Forever 21 sundress--frilly, floral--clings to her sun-kissed skin, bunched up, revealing the soft swell of her thighs, fabric kissing her flesh.

Her laugh spills out, high and bright, as she flicks his arm with glitter-dusted nails. "You're such a dick--it was cute!" she squeals, voice high and playful.

His gravelly chuckle cuts through, dark and warm, as his hand slides up her thigh--fingers rasping over her smoothness, tracing the tan line where her dress ends. "Come on, it was sooo fucking corny--I'm picking the movie next time," he drawls, smirking.

Sabrina Carpenter's "Please, Please, Please" thumps from the radio--bass pulsing through their chests as Connor drives off. Both of their voices screaming lyrics into the muggy night. Her hair whipping across her face, a dirty blonde tangle catching the breeze, while his knuckles brush against her knee--deliberate and slow.

Across town, Bob Jones sweats over a bubbling pot in an upper-class kitchen, his Ole Miss tee stained with sauce and time. The wooden spoon in his hands scrapes the pan, a dull grind, as garlic and tomato waft thick and sharp through the room, steam beading on his brow.

"Bob, can I go to Jamie's?" --Lydia, his 15 year old stepdaughter's voice rings from the balcony above. Lydia leaning over it.

"Ask your mom," he grunts, wiping his hands on the Bud Light towel slung over his shoulder, sauce splattered across the counter top. Lydia stomps off into the master bedroom where her baby sister, Finley, bounces in her jumper--drool sliding down her chin, "Baby Shark" blaring from the iPad in a tinny loop that grates the air.

Amelia Jones, their mother, stands before the mirror, critical of her reflection. She's poured herself into a tight red satin dress, sheen molding to her hourglass--breasts full and unbound, tugging the neckline low, dusky peaks teasing the fabric. Her hips flare wide, thighs brushing with each shift--a ripple of flesh she despises. Her chestnut curls tumble wild, catching the light, and her amber-flecked eyes smolder, shadowed by crow's feet she sneers at.

I'm a mess

, she thinks, spritzing herself with cheap CVS perfume--floral and sharp--over her décolletage, the scent a cheap mask.

She slicks on deep cherry lipstick, her plump lips a fleeting asset she clings to. She's 45 but still just as sexy as ever, no matter what she says about herself--the looks she still gets from other men (and some women) say it all. She's still a fox. The looks of a Golden Age Hollywood star trapped in her own harsh self criticisms.

"Mom, Bob says--" Lydia starts, but Amelia cuts her off, "I don't care, he's got Finley. I thought he might want some help. Do whatever, just be back by 10 tomorrow morning so you can pack."

"Kay. Thanks, Mom," Lydia says as she bolts, texting furiously, leaving Amelia to smooth the dress, its hem whispering against her calves.

Outside, the Camaro buzzes in the street, a few feet away from the Jones' house. Bea straddles Connor's lap, sundress hiked high, grinding slow against his jeans. Her tongue flicks his mouth, lips tasting of Strawberry ChapStick and popcorn salt.

"Let me come over tonight," she purrs, hips slowly rolling against his lap. Hot breath against his neck. He groans, hands slipping beneath her dress, nails biting into the plush curve of her ass--firm yet yielding, a ripe handful quivering under his grip.

"You know I can't tonight baby. I have to work early tomorrow," he rasps before her lips crash into his--wet, loud, sloppy--gloss painting his chin as she moans into his mouth. His cock twitching against the denim.

"But I'll see you after I get off, right? Gulf Shores, here we come."

"I'm so excited that you're coming with us!"

"Me too, babe. It's gonna be great. Doing nothing but relaxing with my girl, chilling, smoking, and most importantly getting lucky on the beach."

"Oh, you think so, huh? Maybe with your other girlfriend because I am not fucking on a public beach."

"It'll be dark."

"Not happening."

"I'll have you convinced by the middle of the week."

"Not likely."

"It's a bet."

They shake on it, her giggle spilling free as she opens the driver's side door and slips out of the car. Turning back towards him before shutting it: "I love you, you know that."

"I love you too," he responds, firm, stating a fact. She leans back in and collects one last kiss before she walks away, sundress swaying as she bounds up the driveway, flip-flops slapping.

He watches her go, ass bouncing with each step, his smirk softening into something fragile, then guns the engine, the Camaro's growl fading down the street as Bea disappears inside.

Back inside, Amelia descends the stairs, Finley on her hip, drool seeping into the satin.

Her dress clings tight, outlining her unrestrained breasts--they shift with each step, spilling over the low neckline. Nipples press like pebbles through the satin, betraying the lack of support beneath--a choice made for allure, not comfort.

Bob turns, sauce spoon mid-air, eyes widening. "Whoa, look at you! Where did you say you're going again?"

"Just out with Tori and Miranda--girls' night," she says shoving Finley at him. The toddlers sticky fingers smearing her arm. "Jealous?" She teases, sensing his eyes lingering on her curves.

Bea strolls in at the front door behind them, kicking off her shoes. "Whoa, Mom, you're a fuckin' smoke show--hot date tonight?" she asks jokingly. Scooping Finley out of Bob's hands, giving her a sweet kiss on the head.

"Just the girls," Amelia pulls her into a quick hug, lips brushing her cheek. "Love you. Help Bob with Finley tonight--Lydia's bailing, and he's useless."

Bea smiles. "I'll keep an eye on them."

"And don't wait up. I'll probably be out late... and drunk."

"Don't drink and drive."

"I'm taking an Uber. 'God, Mom, get off my back,'" Amelia says in a tone mocking the attitude normally reserved for her from her daughters. They both laugh.

Amelia struts out, heels sinking into the lawn, yanking down her rising dress--thighs rub together, a soft friction she hates.

She walks away from the house, down the sidewalk. Her cellphone in her hand buzzes with a text message notification. She stops to read it. Smiling to herself just as headlights flare around the corner, getting closer and closer to reveal Connor's Camaro...

She opens the door to Connor saying "You're fuckin' unreal," yanking her in--her dress, once again, riding up--white thong peeking out--her ass in sharp focus--a lush, rounded expanse that fills the seat next to him, the fabric of her dress riding up to reveal its plush contours. The exposed thong digs into the crease where her thighs meet that generous backside, framing its heft with a teasing string, the flesh quivering as he squeezes it, a ripe peach begging to be devoured despite her self-doubt.

--

It started last fall, after Bea went back to Ole Miss. Connor would stop by to check on everyone. Lydia at school and Bob at work. He said he had nothing going on and wanted to see if Amelia needed any help with Finley--he's always so good with her. He stuck around for a while, they talked over coffee. Weeks stretch--him lingering, Amelia trading baggy tees for clingy tops, making any excuse to brush past him.

One night, he stayed late. Bob having fallen asleep on the couch while an episode of Game of Thrones played in the background, Lydia at her friend Jamie's. It built slow--his hands found her thigh as the episode concluded, at first comforting--warm, hesitant--slowly rubbing up and down her tight black leggings--Bob snoring a few feet away from them.

Their eyes locked, a silent spark, acknowledging without any words the feeling deep in the pit of both of their stomachs. And just like that they found themselves tiptoeing up the stairs, careful not to wake Bob, but an erotic hunger dragging them as quick as they could. In Amelia's room--him peeling her leggings down, his lips on her thighs, kissing them like they aren't flawed, her fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue traced her, hot and reverent, making her feel alive again. Making her come harder than she ever has before. Cuming on the same bed she shared with her husband. Her daughters boyfriend now buried between her legs.

It went on throughout the year--his car, her bed, the garage, his bed--Connor fucks Amelia like she isn't some sagging has-been. He makes her feel wanted. He makes her feel sexy. It isn't something they planned, but once it started, there was no going back. Lustful and dangerous. It never ended, even when Bea got back from school.

--

Now, the Camaro growls down Highway 90, headlights slicing through the muggy Mississippi night, the Gulf a dark shimmer beyond the pines. The radio humming low, Connor's hands grip the wheel, his blond hair whipping from the open window.

Amelia shifts in the passenger seat, satin whispering against leather. She smirks, catching his sidelong glance taking in her body. "Eyes on the road," she teases, voice husky, leaning closer, her perfume tickling his nose, her fingers dancing along his thigh, nails grazing the denim seam, pausing just shy of his bulge. His jaw tightens, hips shifting, denim stretching as he hardens from the magnetic pull of her touch.

"I don't want you getting a ticket." She laughs--low, throaty--unbuckling her seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet car. She slides closer, over the center console, her tits brushing against his arm through the satin, nipples peeking out like promises.

She grins, wicked, her hand hovering over his fly, teasing the zipper. "You better drive steady," she says, popping the button on his jeans--slowly dragging the metal zipper down. Her breath hot on his ear, chestnut curls spilling onto his shoulder as she unzips him completely, savoring the rasp of the zipper, freeing his cock: it's thick and veined, a solid seven inches of rigid flesh that pulse with youthful vigor, slapping his thigh with a wet smack upon it's freedom.

The shaft, girthy enough to stretch her grip as she wraps her fingers around it. Head flaring wide, a deep pink crown glistening with pre-cum. Unlike Bob's modest, softer offering--worn down by years and routine--Connor's is a weapon of desire, unyielding and insistent.

Her tongue flicks out, tasting the tip--salty, sharp--and he groans, hands flexing on the wheel as she hovers over his cock, lips brushing the tip, lightly kissing it, making him squirm. "Please, Mel."

Her lips stretch wide to accommodate his girth as she takes him into her mouth. The car swerving slightly--correcting it fast, breath ragged, her moans vibrating against him, wet and needy.

She pulls off with a pop, spit stringing from her lips, still attached to his hard cock, grinning up at him--"God I love the way you taste."

"Fuck Mel!" He groans with the agony of his full balls. "You're... you're mean." Despite the desire he just smiles. Shaking his head. Knowing that was only the beginning.

Connor's apartment sits ten minutes away--a dingy one-bedroom above a vape shop. The Camaro's engine ticking off in the parking lot as Connor and Amelia stumble up the rickety stairs to his dingy one-bedroom.

Her scarlet number clinging to her curves--satin molding her breasts, their unbound swell shifting, her ass swaying, a lush expanse quivering with each step.

His hand grazes her hip, possessive, urgent, as he fumbles the key into the lock, the faint buzz of the shop below vibrating through the floorboards.

Inside, all mismatched furniture and frameless movie posters--the faint musk of weed fills the space, the floor buzzing faintly from the shop below-- the door barely shutting before they turn into a hurricane. His hands cup her face, rough calluses scraping her cheeks, his mouth crashing into hers--her nails digging into his neck as she melts, clawing his shirt up, revealing the sweat-slick plane of his chest. They kiss like animals--her tongue tracing his teeth.

He spanks her--crack sharp, her yelp melting to a moan--as her dress pools red on the floor, left bare in just her white thong that she wears just for him.

His breath heaving as he steps back, eyes raking her bare form--

Her beautiful heavy breasts, hanging free, nipples hard like a jolly rancher, begging to be sucked--lush, slightly asymmetrical globes that bounce free, tan lines from last summer tracing their curves, dusky areolas with small braille like bumps, growing in the cool air. Her white thong damp with want--thighs sticky with humidity and the promise of more.

"Fuck, Amelia," he mutters, voice rough with hunger, her name a real thing slipping out--not "Mrs. J" like he forces himself to say around her family. She shivers at it, a thrill rippling down her spine, her hazel eyes glassy with the weight of being seen.

He hesitates, Bea's laugh flashing in his mind--high and pure from earlier tonight--but it's drowned out by the vision standing in front of him. Vulnerable and exposed. Completely his.

"Fuck," he excitedly squeals as he slowly peels off her thong, kissing the salty curve of her hip. He doesn't care about the flaws, she tells herself, clinging to his lust, her breath hitching as his lips linger, teasing the soft flesh, his stubble scraping a slow burn across her skin. His hunger a mirror where she's not just a tired mom, but a storm he can't resist.

They stumble to the couch, a tangle of limbs and heat, but she's in control now--straddling him as they fall, the scratch of the worn fabric biting her knees. His hands grip her hips, guiding her, his breath ragged as he watches--her chestnut hair wild, cascading over her shoulders, catching the faint light; her hazel eyes glassy with lust, locked on his. She hovers over him, teasing, her pussy brushing his jeans, damp heat seeping through as she grinds slow circles, dragging out his torment. "You're mine tonight," she murmurs, her fingers threading his blond hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his head tipping back, exposing his throat--she leans in, lips brushing his pulse.

Then he flips her onto her back, the couch creaking under them, its worn springs digging into her spine, and she laughs--throaty, reckless, daring him to take her.

He takes her fast and hard--yanking his jeans down, his cock springs free--thick, veined, his seven inches pulsing with need, the head glistening as reaches out for her. Her nails rake his back as he slides her panties off, tossing them aside, and settles between her legs, his breath hot against her inner thigh. She's bare, glistening, her patch of pubic hair a dark tease above her slick folds, and he groans, "Goddamn, Mel," his voice a prayer as he teases her first--head brushing her clit, slow circles that make her hips buck, her nails digging into the couch, gasping, "Fuck, yes."

Their feelings flood the moment--her need to be wanted, his addiction to her storm. His tongue tracing her, tasting her sweat and heat, dragging slow and deliberate across her clit, flicking until her thighs tremble. She clutches his hair, guiding him, her moans bouncing off the peeling walls--"Connor, don't stop"--and he doesn't, burying his face deeper, her scent overwhelming, her taste a drug he can't quit.

They switch it up--doggy, her ass jiggling as he spanks her again, the crack louder, her cry sharper; 69, her pussy in his face, his tongue buried deep, her mouth stretching around his cock, sucking slow, teasing the head until he curses; reverse cowgirl, her hips grinding like a stripper, her ass bouncing, his hands gripping her waist, watching her take him; missionary, eyes locked, tender and slow, his weight pinning her down, hands framing her face.

Their breath mingles, sweat slicks their skin, and she tightens her legs, pulling him deeper, he moves with a fierce yet gentle rhythm--hard thrusts softening into rolls of his hips, lips brushing her ear, murmuring her name like a confession. Her body yielding to his angles, a collision of youth and aged longing that's sexier for its desperation. His forehead presses to hers, his cock filling her completely, stretching her with every thrust, her walls clenching as she nears the edge. The room fades--the chipped paint, unframed posters, the hum of the AC, the distant thump of bass from below.

It's just them, skin on skin, her curves a canvas for his hands, his hunger a mirror for her need.

She comes first, a soft cry escaping her sweet lips--high and raw, her thighs clamping around him, her pussy pulsing as waves crash through her, leaving her shuddering, slick and spent. He follows, shuddering against her, his groan muffled into her neck, hot and sudden, spilling into her with a final, deep thrust that makes her gasp again, clinging to him.

For a moment, they stay still--panting, entwined--a perfect, fragile bubble of their forbidden world.

Afterwards, she sprawls out, lying flat on her stomach, panting, sweat pooling in the dips and curves of her back. He traces his fingers across her ass, lightly tickling her, caressing the inward curves that turn into her crack. She traces a faint scar on his chest--"skateboarding accident when I was young--hurt like hell, but all pain eventually fades I guess." He tells her. She brushes it with her lips, a quiet moment.

"When I die, I wanna be buried in this" he says changing the subject, squeezing her right ass cheek with the entirety of his hand. She laughs, "You're so weird. I don't know... It's kind of big. And the cellulite--"

But he cuts her off as he dives back in--kissing her thighs, licking her slow--his tongue drags across her thick cheeks and straight toward the hole in-between. His hunger silencing her doubts--her moans bounce off peeling walls, raw and unashamed.

--

During the drive back, the Camaro stays quiet. Amelia stares out the window as though focusing on something she's never notice before. "I wish I had met you first," she whispers.

He grips her hand, "Mel, come on. Don't do that. You know... what we have is special. It's forbidden and tragic... It's romantic. It's sexy." He takes a beat to think about what he wants to say next. Amelia clings onto the space between his next words. "It's what we have to have for the time being."

She nods, lips swollen, heart bruised. But understanding. Something inside her hates what she's doing to her daughter. But the other part selfishly doesn't want to give this up.

Bea's so young, so perfect

, she thinks, flashing back to Bob ignoring her at a party a few weeks ago, his eyes praying on the much younger women, in much skimpier clothing--

tight skin, no stretch marks--she doesn't deserve him. I hate her for it. I'm a worn shell, but Connor wants me. That's enough.

The car eventually pulls back up close to the house, but far away enough to avoid suspicion. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says as he goes in for a kiss--

"Wait." she breathes, pulling back, her shifting gaze glinting. She shifts, hiking her dress higher, revealing once again, the white thong--soaked from the night's release--a trophy of her hunger.

"For you," she purrs, slipping it off, the damp fabric brushing his thigh as she presses it into his hand. A charged touch, her smirk daring him to keep it. "Keep it safe--Bea's nosy."