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A broken man, an innocent injured girl, a time for healing.
A twisted story of loss, control, humiliation, healing and strangely enough, romance.
This is an entry for the 2015 Summer Lovin' Contest. It's been in my unfinished pile since 2012, and I finally manage to complete it. I hope you enjoy the story. It's another one of my 'unusual' tales, dealing with what in other situations might be a fetish, with elements of non-consent, although it comes about in a round-about way.
It could be categorized many ways, but because of the principal activity, I've gone ahead and listed it as fetish.
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"
I should have let him fuck me,
" Amy thought, the last of her strength fading. She was on her back, struggling to stay afloat, her throat parched, the fierce Caribbean sun scalding her exposed face.
She thought about the events of the night before. Getting drunk for the first time, trying to fit in, necking on the diving platform with Rafe, their feet splashing in the water.
It had been exciting. Even now she could feel his hands on her bare breasts, his mouth pressed against hers. When Rafe grabbed her hand and pressed it against his hardness, she'd felt fear, excitement, disgust, desire. He'd pulled her down, laying on the teak platform at the back of the boat, tugging at her bikini bottoms.
YOLO. She wanted to be cool. Be included. But she wasn't ready for what he wanted. She was a virgin, a good girl, finally ready to stretch her boundaries. Be kissed, touched. Feel like a woman. The last summer before college on a barefoot cruise with a couple of dozen of her exclusive private school friends seemed like the time to spread her wings. Just not that far.
Rafe had held her down, climbing on top of her. "No, Rafe," she moaned, trying to make herself heard over the loud party music and the rumble of the engines. "No!"
"Don't be such a fuckin' tease," he'd growled, pulling the tie on the side of her bikini bottom, and yanking it free, leaving her naked. He'd reached between her legs, touching her. She'd shuddered, embarrassed that she was wet and excited.
"Stop! Don't do this, please," she begged. "I ... I'll scream."
He pushed the top of her body over the edge of the platform, her hair dragging in the water as they motored through the night. The wake splashed over her face, his hand around her neck, squeezing.
"Lie still and enjoy it, Ames. You'll thank me afterward." He shifted, straddling her thighs, trying to press his hard meat against her. She twisted, fighting, her mouth and nose sprayed with the salty water, choking her.
Rafe forced his leg between her thighs, using his free hand to press her knee outward. She clawed at the hand holding her throat, working her other leg free. Amy kicked out, connecting, proud for a moment, before she slipped under the water, tumbling in the dark murkiness, struggling for the surface. After an eternity, she broke free of the water's warm embrace, gasping. She tried to yell, but the boat's wake dunked her, her mouth filling with water. She coughed it up, panicking.
Surrounded by nothing but disorienting darkness. Fear surged within her as she searched for the boat. She kicked upward, turning jerkily. Behind her to the left, the lights of the boat were fading in the distance. She screamed for help. Screamed and screamed, shouting, yelling, praying someone would hear her, anyone. The sounds of Bob Marley singing about love, echoing across the surface, destroyed her.
She had no idea how long she'd been swimming, mostly floating, desperately straining to keep her head up. She knew she wouldn't be able to last much longer.
What if she'd handled it differently? Not struggled. She wouldn't be a virgin forever. She could have let Rafe be her first. She'd be on the boat now, in his arms, laughing, joking along with all the others. No longer the last virgin on the trip. One of the gang.
I should have let him fuck me.
* * *
Amy let the water carry her along, on her back, no longer swimming, all of her energy spent keeping her head up, breathing. Her vision was a blur, lips cracked and painful. She was dizzy. She wanted to take a mouthful of water and swallow, anything to stop the agonizing thirst. Amy knew that one sip could be the end. Would that be so bad? She was so tired, aching, hungry, thirsty. It would be so easy to slip under the surface. She felt something bump against her foot, and kicked away hard, terrified of what was in the water with her. She wasn't ready to give up yet.
Another hard bump and she turned on her side, kicking fearfully. Water swept over her face. She gasped, struggling to stay upright and another wave of water buried her. She rolled with it, scraping her knee. She fought to the surface, taking a huge desperate breath, and felt sand underneath her feet.
She crawled forward on trembling arms, tumbled by a wave, digging her fingers into the rough sand, pushing up and forward, the water impelling her toward the shore. Crawling out of the frothy surf, she managed to escape the tide surge, before she let the weight of her own body force her down. She was alive.
* * *
Amy woke, the sun low on the horizon. Every inch of her body hurt. She rolled onto her back, and almost screamed from the pain. She had to get up. Find water. Find cover. Find help.
Her face was in shade. She squinted, her eyes unable to focus, dry and blinded by the vicious sun. She could make out a shape. Lifting her head, her swollen tongue tried to ask for help, but only a rasping gasp came out. She felt a hard poke in her side.
"Get off my beach," she heard in a deep baritone. The poke became a blow. The man was kicking her. He dug his toes under her side and pushed, flipping her over toward the water edge.
"Leave. You're trespassing," he growled. His voice sounded rough, the words tentative, as if he wasn't used to speaking.
"Please," she cried. Even her ears detected little more than a grunt.
He kicked her harder, and she rolled over twice down the steep beach, catching herself before she slid back in to her certain death.
He stood over her, one leg on each side of her body. "If I see you again, I'll shoot you." She looked up and saw what had to be a rifle barrel pointed at her head.
She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.
* * *
Fucking kids,
Hunter thought.
No fucking respect.
He hoped he'd put the fear of God into the brat. Skinny-dipping and sunning on his beach. He scanned the sea, trying to spot her boat. Had to be one of those damn rich kid outings. Every other month it seemed he had to chase some damn bunch of punks off his property. Why the fuck were they suddenly showing up? For two years, he saw maybe one boat in a month, always at a distance. Now it was two or three times a week. At least most had the good sense not to come too close, the reefs and submerged atolls a danger for anyone stupid enough to hazard them.
He turned his back on her, avoiding the view of her nakedness. He didn't need that. Fucking immoral little sluts, all of them. Rutting on his property. She'd slink off like the good little skank she was. Probably be opening her legs to some acned teenager, laughing at him before the night was through.
* * *
It was almost dark. Amy was so weak she could only crawl, following the footsteps in the sand. She stopped when she had to, slithering forward when she could.
Keep moving,
she thought.
Water, he has to have water.
There was wood under her fingers. Spaced boards. Some kind of walkway. It hurt her body even worse than the sand, tearing at her sore breasts, grinding the sand into her knees. Nothing like the pain of her parched throat. Amy wriggled forward, and felt moisture. Water. Water! She brought her fingers to her mouth, tasting it. It was hot, but it was sweet. No salt. She struggled forward and felt it against her arm. One last push and her face was laying in it. Shallow, only a couple of inches deep and sandy on the bottom. She didn't care. She sipped carefully, coughing, then drank more. It was the most wonderful thing she'd ever tasted. She drank deeply, accidentally inhaling the water through her nose, gagging. She rolled onto her back so she could breath, ignoring the physical pain, the water caressing the back of her head.
She took several slow breaths, feeling a little strength return to her limbs. She turned back over and drank more carefully, bringing her trembling hands up and washing her face. She had no idea how long she was there, but she felt peaceful. She was going to live. There was fresh water. Food. People. Not everyone had to be as coarse as that first stranger.
Amy noticed she was at the foot of some stairs. She could almost see again, her vision slowly returning. It was still difficult, but no longer impossible. She crawled up the steps, counting them. Six. Six steps and she was on a wooden deck. A building. Lights.
On her hands and knees she approached the door. Blue. It was painted blue. She leaned against it. She reached up and pushed her hair back out of her face. She lifted her fist, and hammered on the door with the last of her fading strength.
* * *
Hunter heard the noise again. He got up from his desk, and walked to the door. Opening it, he found that same damn girl, obviously drunk, falling into his house.
He reached down and grabbed her by her long blonde hair, making a fist and pulling her upright. She was so drunk she barely reacted. Fucking slut. "I warned you," he growled. "Crawl back to your fuck-buddies, you little whore. I'm not buying any of it."
"Help," she whispered.
"Right. Party a little too rough for you? Not my concern. Get off my porch. Get off my island. Next time I see you, you won't like it." He threw her off his doorstep and slammed the door.
Amy didn't know how her desiccated body was able to dredge up enough moisture for tears.
* * *
Hunter looked out, and she was laying there. Shaking. So God damn stupid. She was badly sunburned, not even enough brains to wear sunscreen. Her friends would probably find her soon.
As he was turning off his lights, he opened the blinds and she was still there. Naked. On his porch. No effort to cover herself.
How much did the little slut drink? Drugs maybe. Probably. Little ecstasy for the high. She'd pay for it in the morning.
He couldn't believe his own actions when he went to his kitchen. He threw some fruit and bread on a plate. A tall glass of water. Tylenol. He went outside and put it by her head. He went back in and returned with an old blanket and tossed it over her.
Fuck. I'm getting soft. Whore will probably steal the blanket.
He closed the door and locked it. Didn't need her breaking in and stealing anything else.
* * *
