Possessed at Ey West

During a holiday in Key West, Anne discovers mystical links to her past, centuries earlier

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Key West is a complex place. It has an unusual make-up ranging from the to-be-expected aggrieved people one finds in a backwater area, who think life goes on with them not getting their fair share (and often they're right, anyway), to a liberal non-judgmental counter-culture ambiance reminiscent of what one thinks San Francisco must have been like in the 1960s, tolerant of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, drunken revelers, and in general sexually kinky people such as yours truly.

It has its share of immigrants, too, ranging from the Caribbean islands to Eastern Europe, and giving Key West a bit of color and a cosmopolitan gloss. Not bad, for an island of only around 25,000 inhabitants.

The dominant themes of the island seem to be boating and more importantly, at least as it relates to me, however, the drinking culture, which has a long and important history. The drinking culture is especially pronounced around certain holidays such as Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's Day.

My BFF Mary and I went down to Key West for part of our Spring Break, which this year included St. Patrick's Day. Spring Break in Key West is not over the top raunchy like it is in some of the beach towns of the Florida East Coast, but it has its moments, and you can have a special time there. My time was special, indeed.

My full name is Anne de Chantraine. It's a French name, and as I found out in middle school, it's the exact name of a French woman who was strangled and burned at the stake for being a witch, in France, in the 17th century.

The real Anne de Chantraine was killed at the tender age of 19, for witchcraft no less, and at least according to Wikipedia, she was pretty. (Wikipedia says she was "very pretty," but how on Earth would Wikipedia know that?) Apparently, if I believe my parents, I am a direct descendant from her genetic line. I'm also currently 19, and

I have what is considered to be French good looks. That means a pretty face, a slim body, and small (A or on a good day B cup) boobs, as well as a kind of grace when I move

. I'm not conceited, I asked Mary to write that description for me, okay? Anyway, good for me, right?

Before you ask, yes, I cook French food. With a name like Anne de Chantraine, how could I not? It's expected of me. And yes, I have relatives in France, lots of them, and yes, I've frequently been to France, and yes, despite all that, I'm a third generation American, and I'm not at all French.

Also, I speak French fluently. My parents thought that would be important to learn. It was, too. Maybe most important it seems, at least to me, is that it seems all the men I know want a pseudo French girlfriend. In particular, they all want Anne de Chantraine to be their girlfriend. Yes, that has led to some awkward moments for me, and for the men fighting over me. I'm only one girl, after all, and the world is full of men. It's full of women, too, for that matter!

A lot of girls like a boyfriend on their arm at all times. It's a status thing, I guess. It's pure reassurance. They'll never be without a date for Valentine's day or a date for the prom. They exchange freedom for security, or at least that's the way it seems to me. Maybe too they don't like the rat race of finding a man to satisfy them when they have needs, you know? Having one built into the equation is comforting. Horny? Just cuddle up naked to your man in your bed and you'll inevitably get a rise out of him, so to speak, hee hee.

I'm not like that. I'm one girl who will not be possessed. Conquered, sure, I love being conquered and becoming another notch in a man's belt. Maybe a three-day fling with some sexy guy would be fun. Possessed, however, is another thing altogether. That's out. It's a fine line to hoe, and I guess I'm not that good at it. Broken hearts strew my landscape. I never intended to be one, nor do I want to be one, and I hate being one, but some men see me as a bitch. That hurts.

Mary and I formed a new strategy. Go someplace new (like Key West) and if we feel like it, we can get laid with no strings, right? No complications. No possession. We'll just be someone's conquête du jour, and if we like him enough, maybe we'll be his conquête de la semaine. If we don't feel like it, and we don't find a man who clicks, then we'll just have fun getting drunk and dancing. Win-win.

Our strategy worked great the first night. We got reasonably drunk, but not bad enough to be hungover the next day. Lots of men asked each of us to dance and we had fun. I noticed Mary got a little carried away with one guy, kissing him passionately while they danced slow, and his hands were all over her luscious little body, but that's as far as it went. As for me, well, after I saw what Mary had been up to, I ended up doing the same thing when some real hunk asked me to dance and put the moves on me. It was fun.

We managed to stay fully dressed the entire evening, even if there were some girls to whom modesty took a bit of a vacation, one could say. So, we felt good about ourselves, all virtuous by managing to have a good time without being too, too cheap. We rested well that night in our super fancy hotel, the Casa Marina (a Hilton Waldorf Astoria Hotel), and spent the next day sunning by the pool.

Most of the other people at the hotel were families with kids, or old people who could afford such a fancy place. Mary and I wanted to sunbathe topless, but it was just not a propitious place to bare our breasts. We wore skimpy bikinis which certainly piqued the interest of the fifty- or sixty-something men around us at the pool. This led to some happy giggling on our part.

Sitting close to us was a woman whose age, I would guess, was in her mid-forties. She was maybe twenty years older than us, but for someone her age, she had a great body, and she enjoyed showing it off a bit in an age-appropriate bikini. She would have been the hottest woman at the pool were it not for the presence of Mary and me, and it was easy to tell she resented our very existence. Nothing we could do. Such buzzkill people exist, and well, that's the way the world is made, isn't it? We learned her name was Carolyn.

One time I dove into the pool in a way that I knew would make my top slip off and bare my boobs. I pretended not to notice until Mary tapped my shoulder. I blushed and quickly covered up. The 'nipple slip' certainly did not go unnoticed by several of the men, however. Their eyes stayed on me constantly for the rest of our time at the pool. It was hard not to laugh!

"Look over at Carolyn!" Mary whispered to me.

"Ooh, bitch city," I said, as I saw the nasty glare of Carolyn's eyes right through her sunglasses. We both giggled a bit and then resumed swimming, or more precisely, splashing around.

That evening we returned to some of the same bars, and found some of the same men. The difference was that this particular day was St. Patrick's Day! We had on (green) clothes to party, and underneath we had specially dyed green bras and panties. You know, just in case?

We had some serious drinking to do in order to even try to catch up. A lot of the guys had been drinking all day and were by now (9 PM) fairly wasted. Mary went with blue Vodka martinis, and since I'm a Tequila girl, I went with Margaritas. Since we have money (you have to have money to stay at the Casa Marina!), I went with the "Cadillac Margarita." It was yummy. We each got a little tipsy, but compared to the others, both men and women, we were stone cold sober.

The usual suspects asked me to dance, and I was feeling no pain, dancing the night away, slapping away the occasional fresh hand, and as I drank more and more, I gradually let a few fresh hands get by my feeble defenses, but I made sure it led to nothing serious. I had a few boob grabs and some ass fondles, but nobody tried to undress me, thank goodness.

Then 'he' came to the bar. A mystery man. He wasn't tall, dark, or even handsome. There was something about him, though, a certain je ne sais quoi. He walked across the room, his posture ramrod straight. Maybe he was a marine, or something. No, his hair was too long, almost shoulder length. He walked straight for me. I have no idea why exactly, but I found him to be captivating.

Our eyes locked. Aren't men like him supposed to have startlingly blue eyes? He didn't. His eyes were sort of muddy brown. I felt as if I'd known him all my life, as if he were my non-existent brother. It was strange. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

As he got closer to me, I felt his presence in my head. Okay, this was now very strange. I never hallucinate, and yet here I was: drunk at a bar in Key West, hallucinating that some strange man could read the thoughts in my head. What was in all those margaritas, anyway? I mean, besides green food dye, of course.

I ran a test. I formed a sentence in my mind: 'Hey stranger! If you're inside my head, tell me the number 12 in plain voice. If you do, I'll kiss you.' I knew enough about men to know the look in his eyes meant he wanted my body, and he would be hard pressed to refuse a free kiss. The free gropes that go with a free kiss were implicit. I'm not going to explicitly offer him free gropes, after all. A girl has to have some pride, some self-respect, right?

This strange, fascinating man approached me. I stood my ground. He came right up to me, invading my personal space. He leaned into my ear and whispered, "Twelve. Kiss me." True to my unspoken word, I kissed him. We kissed, our mouths open, our tongues became acquainted, and I felt him probing, roaming around inside my head. I was remembering things I had long forgotten. It was if my memories were all in a big pot and he was stirring the pot, turning over fresh memories to expose old ones.

It wasn't all mental, either. His hands took their own appropriate liberties, verifying in some detail that his kiss had made my nipples hard. (I have long nipples, especially when they're hard.) There were sparks between us. I had never fallen for a man so quickly, so superficially, before. This was definitely a first for me!

"Why do you hate Kyle?" he asked me. "Your name is lovely, you know, Anne de Chantraine. I'm pleased finally to meet you. I'm Gerard Encausse, at your service." I didn't ask how he knew my name. After he had said the word 'twelve' to me, I was beyond being flummoxed.

I also didn't know how he knew about Kyle! If he knew Kyle, then maybe ... and maybe he did? Well, if he did know Kyle, then he also might know why I hate Kyle A. Jones. I'm not sure what the A stands for. Asshole? Abomination? Anathema? Atrocious? I could go on, and on, and on...I let his reference to Kyle A. Jones simply disappear, as I hoped Kyle A. Jones would, too.

"Gerard Encausse was the name of Papus, a wizard of France and Russia of the 19th century," I said. I knew a lot of shit about witches and wizards. It was part curiosity, and part self-defense from those who teased me due to my name.

"Very good," Gerard Encausse said. "Please call me Jerry."

"Forgive me, Jerry, but you're freaking me out. You're in my head, reading my thoughts and memories. That's not normal, you know," I said. I didn't add, I just thought, 'why are you making me wet?'

"You can tell that I'm reading your mind? Do you know what that means? No? Well, it's important, I can tell you that! Oh yes, and by the way, it's nice I'm making you wet," Jerry said.

"Get the fuck out of my head!" I said, concentrating in order to keep myself from screaming.

Jerry just looked at me, smiling both beguilingly and cryptically.

"Goodbye, Jerry," I said. "I don't associate with men who can read my mind. My thoughts are my own. They're private."

"And X rated at time, it seems," Jerry said, smiling maliciously. Obviously, Jerry must have uncovered one of my memories of my better times with Kyle, now long gone and buried.

"Have a nice life." I turned my back on Jerry and walked away. I found the guy whose hands had explored my body through my clothes the previous night, and I danced the night away with him. I studiously avoided Jerry, even if he was constantly in my thoughts, and since he continued to read my mind, he knew it, too! The normal, non-mind-reading guy's name was the more banal Jim Seversen, He was a nice, ordinary man. No special, supernatural powers! Good for him.

Mary had found her potential mate for the night, a stud named George something. Holt, maybe? It doesn't matter. Mary and I introduced the two men, and the four of us danced the night away, even if I could not seem to get the memory of Jerry out of my head. We bar hopped a bit with our two men and then came the end of the evening.

Dare we take them back to the Casa Marina? We were sharing one double bed, and how would the logistics of that work out? If we let each man take us home individually, however, we would lose the security of being together, and what would we do if either Jim or George turned out to be a super creep? I was sure neither one was an ax murderer. Ax murderers were, after all, fairly rare. There was a large gap between nice guy and ax murderer, however. Date rape comes to mind. These are the classic worries, and we had them, even drunk as skunks that we were.

I whispered to Mary. She stepped back, looking at me to make sure I was sane, then she looked lost in thought, and then she gradually nodded her okay. We were near Mallory Square, but it was full of drunken revelers, vomiting green drinks onto the sidewalk, so we led the men over to the Truman Little White House, with its lush gardens. We found a modicum of privacy behind some plants, and then we began to kiss our respective men. Our intentions were clear, at least to the two men.

Mary is always faster than I am, and she had George's cock hanging out of his pants in no time at all, or so it seemed to me. She dropped to her knees and began to play with his cock, stroking it nicely, all while maintaining eye contact. I'm sure both George and Jim wanted her as their conquête du jour, she was being so very sexy!

George whispered something to her, and Mary removed her dress and then her bra, so that she was dressed only in her panties. Then came the big escalation as George's cock disappeared inside Mary's sweet and innocent appearing mouth, her lipstick clad lips gently and easily encompassing George's cock's considerable girth. Mary made yummy sounds as she sucked his cock and George replied with a manly groan of pleasure.

Jim seemed a bit shell shocked by what was happening, in broad moonlight (the moon was close to being full), what with Mary almost naked and sucking off George right in front of us. Recovering a bit, he looked at me, and I smiled weakly at him. Jim resumed kissing me, and as our tongues enjoyed each other's tongues, I felt him reaching for the zipper of my dress, finding it, and zipping it down.

I can take a hint, too, and anyway I was proud of my green bra and panties which I inevitably displayed as I carefully removed my expensive outfit. I'm a bit self-conscious about my breasts, since they're on the small side, so unlike Mary, whose boobs are enviably a big old C cup, I kept my bra on. Luckily, Jim did not seem to mind as I fished out his cock.

His cock had two nice qualities: it was nice and hard, even rock hard, and it was small, so that his entire schlong would fit in my mouth, and my inability to deep throat would not be an issue. A nice surprise was also that it was clean, and it smelled good. Okay, it smelled a little of Jim's urine, but what can you expect with a cock? Mostly it smelled of arousal, and I looked forward to my first taste of his pre-cum.

I lapped around the head as my hand stroked his cock, and I remembered to look up at Jim's face as I pleasured him. He smiled down at me, as he leaned against a palm tree. I always find palm trees exotic, as we northerners tend to do, and sucking off a strange man as he leans against a palm tree was not one of my fantasies, but dammit, it should have been!

After my tongue played with Jim's cock's purple mushroom crown for a while, and my hand stroked his stem, I finally tasted his pre-cum. After all the green margaritas I had consumed, Jim's salty pre-cum tasted refreshing. I looked forward to my 'protein drink' of the evening. I now began to suck his cock in earnest, and Jim groaned loudly in response. I shushed him; there were people milling about, not too far away!

Jim's back slid down against the palm tree and soon he was sitting on the ground as I sucked his cock. This made things awkward so I pulled down his pants. My panties were now easily within reach of his long arms, and quick as the devil he had pushed them down and his hands were going to town with my most intimate area as my mouth caressed, enveloped, and lovingly sucked his own.

If any passersby had noticed us going at it, not even half dressed, over in the bushes, they would have seen an explicit sexual scene, and two luscious young women pleasuring their men. That idea shamed me and aroused me simultaneously. I don't actually know, however, if anyone did see us.

Jim had one finger inside me and I guess the nerve endings on his finger told his brain I was good and wet inside my love canal. Jim began to pump his finger inside me and - perhaps unwittingly? - his nicely coated wet finger also touched my clitoris with each upstroke. It was my turn to groan. In response, I increased my mouth's suction on Jim's delicious cock. I was proud of my fellatio talents, and I was using all of my little tricks at this point.

Jim's head lolled back and I knew the end was near. His finger was slowing down inside my snatch, and his cock was oozing a little more pre-cum. I removed my mouth and pumped his cock with my hand until the inevitable Seversen Geyser opened up, and his cum made a beautiful arc as it shot out of his penis and quickly succumbed to gravity, landing on the fallen fronds of a palm tree.

Jim and I then kissed. We both knew the evening had ended with his geyser eruption. Suddenly our big comfortable

Queen-sized bed back at the Casa Marina beckoned to me. I looked over to Mary and my BFF, the slut, was about to give her body completely to George, as he poised his cock at her entrance. They were negotiating her surrender when I intervened, saying our Lyft ride was here.

It's always advisable to don your clothes before getting into a Lyft.

Mary quickly rose and giggling, we made our way to the street just as the Toyota Camry pulled up beside us. We were still bare above the waist, exposing our breasts, as we waved down the Lyft driver. George, pulling up his pants as he came, and Jim, both rushed over to kiss us goodnight, as the amused Lyft Driver looked on via his mirrors.

"Will we see you tomorrow, girls?" George asked, with a charming anxiety in his voice.

"Maybe," I said, and we both smiled at the two men, and blew them kisses as the Lyft drove away.

Mary and I apologized as we entered the Lyft topless ad quickly donned our bras, and then I wiggled into my dress, with Mary zipping me up. Then I helped Mary to dress as well. The Lyft driver was watching us in his rear-view mirror and clearly enjoying the show. He looked highly amused.

Mary and I slept late and just made the cutoff for breakfast. We had planned to go to the famous breakfast/brunch place Blue Heaven, but neither of us could deal with the scene we would inevitably find there. I wanted to see the famous sign: "$1 for a shower; $2 to watch." Nevertheless, instead we caught a late breakfast at the hotel and resumed our tanning and reading, as we lay out poolside, clad in our bikinis.

I felt a strange feeling in my head, and I knew, I just knew, that Jerry was somewhere close by. I sat up and looked around and I saw him, lying out poolside too, but across the pool from me. So Jerry too was staying at the Casa Marina? Why not? The hotel after all had 310 rooms. He would only need one of them, just like Mary and me.